These are particularly deep throes of Thingisim I am currently in. Thingism being, as we have said before in our discussions here on the internets, the life management theory that helps you when existence has become stale, dull, flat and drab, when nothing moves or inspires, when all the songs are old and all the TV shows can’t wake you up. At a time like this, what will raise your soul from this hole?
Narcotics can do the trick, but they are illegal and I cannot recommend that you all go out and smoke marijuana, now that we have government monitoring websites, so let us disregard the ganja and talk about Thingism.
What will raise your soul? Things will: New shiny cool shit from shops. Buy an item—a toy, an electronic device like a new android phone (fuck apple) or something like that — and bring it into your life. Let its virgin gleam shine into your darkness and rejuvenate everything.
Usually it’s a phone, MP3 player, computer or suchlike.
But this season of thingism I am jonesing for a new bike.
It began like this. We moved house, from Le Mans of almost two years, to a place that was just across the road in the same area but was a whole different world.
While Le Mans was among the people, with kiosks up the length of the road and stalls selling vegetables and a bodaboda trawling the paths every twelve feet and raggedy children playing football with buveera, and most of all, the distance to the road easily walkable, this new crib is in a way more bourgeois spot. All we have here are walled apartment clusters with Rav 4s and yuppies. There are no stalls selling any vegetable of any sort and not a single kiosk. As for bodas, that will be ONE and you have to wait like hours before you see him, and that is because someone in the green gate has called him to deliver a pizza to them and he is now on his way back.
So a gentleman like myself who cooks and buys splash, what am I to do? I don’t order pizza. The thought struck me that a mountain bike would be of tremendous use around here, if only I had one. If I needed tomatoes, yoghurt or a haircut, I could just sit astride this contraption and cycle like a cool kid up to the road.
Then thingism struck. Maybe it was the hot dry spell, maybe it was my IBS, but suddenly life lost lustre, meaning and point. Everything paled to grey. I was stuck in doldrums. I needed a thing. And that thing would be this bike.
I can’t buy it yet because the dealer, Victor Paul Kaggwa, is in Gulu with Solomon King making robots, but I dream about it every day. I dream about sailing over the bumps and gulleys of that road, I dream of dexterously shifting the gears, I dream of soaring down hills, I dream of freedom.
I swear if I get this bike and then find that I am too lazy to ride it I will be… Nah. I’ll just go buy something else. I don’t earn feathers.