Timeslices E-Book

Oswald Wieser

• Herausgeber: Smart Grass UG
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 196

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The novel tells of the encounter with the pioneers of bamboo bicycle construction, at the end of the 19th century in Austria, through a journey through time. The journey into virtual reality is made possible by artificial intelligence. The framework is a research project called Metaverse+. Rigorously researched, historical facts are woven into a narrative that makes clear the motivations and emotions of the pioneers. Behind this, however, there is always the question of what the retrospective experience of past events means for the time travelers.

Leseprobe

Cover graphic based on a poster design by Josef Maria Auchentaller

 ISBN 978-3-9826179-1-6

All rights reserved. Without prior written permission of the publisher this publication or any part of it may not be translated to other languages or reproduced and transmitted in any form or by any mechanical or electronical means (including photocopying, recording, microcopy) or stores on a data carrier or a computer system.

© 2024 by Smart Grass UG , D-68723 Schwetzingen

Correction status as of 05.03.2024

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality …

Bohemian Rhapsody

Queen

Content

An auto-fictional journey through time by a contemporary bamboo bicycle builder to the pioneers of bamboo bicycle construction in the Austrian monarchy at the end of the 19th century. In this novel, historical facts are mixed with the fiction of a journey through time, the vehicle of which is a virtual world. The common thread is the search for experiences and ideas that are still relevant to bamboo bicycle construction today.

The design of a bamboo bicycle that combines these experiences gradually emerges.

Visits to bicycle shops, cycling schools, bamboo bicycle factories and clubhouses shed light on the past, artificial intelligence helps to organise these journeys through time, and digital design and production methods bring ideas back to life.

This raises the question of what effects the verifiability of the past has on our lives in the present.

1

I looked down at my unfamiliar clothes, which were brand new and yet looked worn, the rough trousers, the sturdy brown leather shoes, the coarse shirt under the braces.

What I was wearing was a far cry from my usual everyday clothes. I had disguised myself, my outfit was a disguise, and I tried to see from the faces of the other patrons in the taproom whether it had already been blown.

I got the clothes from the Museum of Clothing and Costume in Vienna. There was a mannequin there with exactly the same clothes and a sign at her feet that read "Handwerksbursche aus Kärnten, Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts".

Now I was right there, in Austria, in Carinthia, in Klagenfurt, in the Lamm inn. I hadn't left the mannequin naked in Vienna. What I wore on my body was an identical copy, adapted to my dress size.

However, I didn't even attempt to imitate a Carinthian craftsman. My aim was to remain below the threshold of perception and slip through as an unsuspicious stranger and silent observer. I had already managed to order a glass of beer. The waitress placed it on the table with a friendly smile. She didn't ask any questions about where I was from, why or where I was going. I had passed the first test. I took a sip and put the glass down. My hand was still holding it, ready to take another sip. The foam circled on the surface and dissolved bubble by bubble. Nothing happened, none of the other guests were watching me. My panic could actually subside a little by now, I thought.

The pub was still quiet in the afternoon. I looked around. A few men had their heads buried in the pages of newspapers, only two were chatting at one table. Their topic was the new bicycle regulations that the city of Klagenfurt had adopted and which had come into force a few days ago. The two were in agreement. They felt vindicated. With the new cycling regulations, cyclists had become fully-fledged road users. The mood towards cyclists had already changed noticeably in just a few days.

Cyclists were now a force to be reckoned with and could invoke the statutes of the new regulations. This feeling not only fuelled the mood of the two interlocutors. From my newspaper research, I knew that it had spread throughout the city in the circles of friends of technical innovation. This was certainly truer in this pub than anywhere else.

I wanted to leave my first trip to Klagenfurt in 1896 with this one beer. It had inexplicably worked, but my stamina was now exhausted. If I could now make an inconspicuous exit from the taproom, I could initiate my return.

In my trouser pocket were the Kronen and Heller with which I could pay for my beer. They had been created in the same way as my clothes, k. und k. conforming clones of a private coin collection. The price of a glass of beer was written on a chalkboard. I studied my coins and worked out the amount. There was no tip, and the gentleman in a fine suit two tables away hadn't given one either.

I greeted him kindly and left the pub. Dusk had fallen and I looked for a dark corner of the house. Excitedly, I drummed the return code I had practised a thousand times with my fingertips against the wall of a house.

2

The small white cabin hasn't changed since I left. I had already changed again and was lying on the couch. There was only a chair next to it and a monitor on the wall. I involuntarily felt for my arms and hands, which felt the same here as they had in Austria about one hundred and twenty-five years ago. I couldn't tell which of the two worlds I was more real in-what was original and what was copy.

Was there even a copy? All that was certain was that my consciousness, my sensory impressions were only ever here or there. What my Carinthian craftsman's body was doing right now while I was waiting here on the couch, or what my local body was experiencing while I was travelling into the past, was completely unclear to me. I had expected that the first experience of time travel would clarify many of the unimaginable things. The opposite was the case. Nothing fitted together, everything had shifted. Disorientation and chaos.

Jacob's smiling face appeared on the screen. Jacob was, in his own words, my travelling companion. Over time, I had learnt that he was a neurophysiologist and AI expert rolled into one. Both wrapped up in a charisma that made everything seem light and friendly. He had given himself the title of travelling companion. He had the ability to put everything in a positive light. Without him, I would hardly have taken on the risk of this project. Every time his description of things sounded too much like a perfect world and I emphasised the risks, he was able to respond to my concerns in a well-founded manner. Sound knowledge and boundless optimism, I had stuck to that glue line.

"WB, man," embedded in a beaming grin, that was all that came from his lips. He let his economical greeting sink in for a few moments, then I understood. Welcome Back, WB, had been the standard greeting for an avatar in all of the many virtual worlds for years. The difference was that a person controlled their virtual ego from the outside, whereas in my case the difference between the real world and the virtual world, between my body here and the body in the past, which felt just as real, could not be clearly separated.

I urgently wanted to discuss this with Jacob, but not now. Now I needed the four walls that had undeniably been my reality for many years.

3

I woke up feeling neither shattered nor did a dream echo flit through my memories. My thoughts began to gather around two centres of gravity as the day progressed. Where had I actually been and what had happened to my local self while I was away? I would need Jacob to answer this question. The second question: what was it about the Klagenfurt cycling regulations that had put visitors to the Lamm restaurant in such high spirits?

That was the easier question. I sat down at my computer and began to search the online archives for the Klagenfurt Cycling Regulations. After a short time, I found a facsimile of the Klagenfurt magistrate's announcement. The deputy mayor Dr v. Metnitz had signed the cycling regulations on 23 June 1896. This was the document that put Klagenfurt's cyclists in high spirits. From today's perspective, it was a mixture of many sensible and some curious provisions. In the hierarchy of road users, cyclists now occupied the lowest rank, having previously been unable to claim any rank at all. The joy about this was great despite passages such as

"Cycling on pavements, footpaths and bridleways or gardens is prohibited."

"When encountering carriages, riders, etc., the cyclist must observe the horses and, if they become suspicious or the coachman signals that there is a risk of being spooked, dismount immediately and, if possible, withdraw the vehicle from the horses' view."

"During funeral processions, military processions, church or other ceremonial processions, cycling through the streets affected by the procession is prohibited. Postal carriages, fire brigade carriages and carriages engaged in public road spraying must be completely avoided; if necessary, the cyclist must dismount."

4

On the way to my meeting with Jacob, I thought about how I could make my concerns about the time travel project clear to him. I was determined to prevent my questions from being ground to dust by his boundless optimism and expertise. Until my first trip, my own curiosity had kept my concerns at bay. Now I was determined to go again only when I knew more about the aims of the project and the objectives of the company behind it.

This was not going to be an easy endeavour. Jacob was a master at giving a conversation the direction he wanted to steer it in. But now I had a trump card. I had travelled back in time. Despite all his composure, I was sure that he would burn up inside if I put him on the spot. This was my chance.

At first, everything was like many of our previous meetings. We got coffee and strolled to a small table with a parasol in the corner of the roof terrace. He took his time and then asked, as briefly and bluntly as possible, "So, how was it?" "I don't really know," I said evasively. "One moment I was in our white starting cabin, and the next I was standing in front of the entrance to the Lamm restaurant in my craftsman's disguise."

Jacob nodded, and before he could ask any more questions, I beat him to it. "Did you keep an eye on me on my lounger in the start cabin the whole time? Was my body there while I ordered a beer in Klagenfurt?" Jacob didn't answer straight away. He looked at me for a moment, sensing that a lot would depend on his answer. Finally, he shook his head slightly. "No, you weren't there. The bed was empty. Until you came back."

That pulled the rug out from under my feet. I stared at Jacob in disbelief. I had expected that my body could be scanned and that every fibre, every molecule could be turned into information. But I couldn't imagine that the Metaverse+ project, as it was codenamed, could also transform thoughts, feelings and memories. What I did find unimaginable and threatening was the thought of having disappeared from my previously real world for the duration of my absence. I had no idea what had happened to my body and how it had finally returned.

"It worked," Jacob said. "It worked perfectly smoothly, and the most important question is what you were able to bring with you."

I tried to summarise what I had understood: "Is the mission of Metaverse+ to send information agents like me on time travel and thus to digitise, understand or influence the past retrospectively and the future in advance?"

Jacob didn't give me an answer.

5

The next few days were largely uneventful. I was given plenty of time and nobody pressurised me to write a detailed report of my experiences. However, I and everyone else were fully aware that we had only scratched the surface of the possibilities with my first trip. Nobody wanted to jeopardise that. Initially, I was happy to be left alone with my thoughts. My confidentiality agreement forbade me from talking to outsiders about the project. I could only make a decision by talking to Jacob or on my own. It was obvious what his arguments would lead to. He wouldn't push me, but would try to stabilise my mental corset so that my curiosity could get the upper hand. There was no stopping him.

Even before my next conversation with him, the scenes and events that I knew had played a decisive role in the development of the Ferlach bamboo bicycle came flooding back. They began to change my mind. Each of these events had a sign round its neck: "You could have been there!".

My previous research on the Internet and in the Carinthian Provincial Archives in Klagenfurt had always centred around three people: Karl Breuer, Franz Grundner and Otto Lemisch. If one of the three had been missing, nothing would have come of the bamboo bicycle from Lake Wörthersee. All three of them were equally enthusiastic about the idea. But that seemed to be the end of their common ground. Their family backgrounds, their education, their characters and their goals in life were completely different.

Franz Grundner's sewing machine and bicycle shops in Wienergasse, Otto Lemisch's birthplace on Neuer Platz and the gallantry shop where Karl Breuer worked were just a stone's throw away from each other. On my next visit to Carinthia, I was keen to check my image of the three.

I sent Jacob a short message with the coordinates of the Lindwurm in the centre of the new square as the destination of my next time travel. I didn't explain why I wanted to make a second trip to Klagenfurt. He didn't ask, but I could see his grin.

6

I arrived in Klagenfurt in the early afternoon. To my surprise, I came face to face with the colossal stone sculpture of the Lindwurm. For a moment, I was at a loss for an explanation, until it dawned on me that the six-tonne stone colossus had moved several times over the centuries that it had been standing here on the new square. In future, I would have to choose my destinations more carefully. I couldn't imagine if I had landed inside the stone colossus instead of next to it, unable to move my fingers and unable to trigger my retrieval.

I bought a copy of the Klagenfurt newspaper and checked the publication date, 27 May 1896. From my research I knew that on page 1099 there was a report on the granting of a patent to Karl Breuer and Franz Grundner. I read the article again to be sure of the text for my discussions.

"(Patent grant.) We are told that on 16 April this year, the Imperial and Royal Ministry of Trade granted a patent to Karl Bräuer and Franz Grundner, mechanics in Klagenfurt, for a newly invented bicycle made of bamboo cane. The bicycle, which has a very pleasing appearance, is made entirely of bamboo. The tubes are attached to each other by a very ingenious connection. The lightness is such that it probably surpasses all existing bicycles. Further advantages are that the bike can be thoroughly dismantled, so that any layman can take it apart and repair it himself, and in an emergency individual parts can be replaced by other wooden poles, so that the repair costs of the frame are completely eliminated. The rider can also unscrew the bike himself and modify it into any desired shape. As bamboo has a naturally beautiful and indestructible enamel, there are no enamelling costs. This plant also has the good property of not absorbing moisture, is elastic and can therefore never be bent like tubular steel. The load-bearing capacity, which has been sufficiently tested, is excellent, even if one considers that all heavy lorries are also bolted together from wood, so any doubt about the durability of the connection seems unfounded. As the production of these bicycles is much quicker and easier, the price is naturally also lower, and these bicycles are therefore more accessible to a large section of the population. This makes the invention all the more valuable and the inventors are truly to be congratulated."

I folded the newspaper so that the article remained visible. That was my bait, with which I set off on the short walk from Neuer Platz to Göss'sches Palais on Alter Platz.

7

Through the archway of the palace, I reached the rear building. Karl Breuer's salesroom was up a flight of stairs and was also his workshop. The door was open and I was already a step inside when he first stood up at his work table and then got up. He looked at me for a moment and didn't seem to recognise a customer for a gallantry merchant behind my workman's outfit. It was only my Baden colouring that made this impression recede behind his curiosity. I greeted him and introduced myself. The thought that my surname was of Austrian origin really appealed to me at that moment. "I'd like a straw hat, one with a brim that shades your neck and throat." He nodded and turned to a row of boxes on a board on the wall. His appearance was perfectly in keeping with the image of a milliner in appearance and dress.

Karl Bräuer

It was easy to imagine him in a fashion shop, easier than in a bicycle shop. His jacket hung on a hanger, he wore sleeve protectors and even now he wore a tie with a pin while working on a felt hat. He came to me at the front of the room with two hat boxes and a tape measure. "I have two models here that might fit you. "If you don't mind...". He put his measuring tape around my head, read my head circumference and said again: "Yes, they should both fit." I had quickly found my favourite. Unfortunately, the price didn't match my outfit at all, so I weighed the two hats in my hands for a moment and then decided with a heavy heart in favour of the simpler and cheaper one. Karl Bräuer seemed to have expected this. Then he put the hat back in the box and began to close it with a ribbon. That was my moment. I pulled the newspaper out of my pocket and pointed to the article on the patent grant. "The patent for bamboo bicycles, is that you?" "Yes, I am ..." was his short reply, the simplicity of which was in stark contrast to the clear jolt in his demeanour. He looked me straight in the face with pride. From one moment to the next, I had gone from being the buyer of a cheap straw hat to the man of the day. This news item in the newspaper was very important to him. It began with the three words "They're writing to us" and I surmised that the first name of "they" was Karl.

I added: "The report is very interesting. Are there any bicycles made from bamboo yet? Have you built any yet?" He didn't answer directly, but talked about the discussions with Franz Grundner, which took a while until he was convinced of the idea of registering a privilege for Austria. "Once we had decided to do it, it became easier," he said, "Grundner focussed on the frame construction and the fork, and I did experiments to bend the bamboo, especially for the handlebars and then also for the rims. We then combined the two in the patent, hence his title Bicycle frame and bicycle rims made of bamboo cane." Then there was a short pause and a slight shrug of the shoulders. "He's currently building the first bicycles for the trade fair in Innsbruck over in his workshop in Wienergasse." His uninvolved tone tells me that he didn't have any cards to play.

8

The entrance to Wienergasse was only a few steps away. A coffee house on the corner of the old square took me in and an extension helped me ruminate on my impressions. Even the banal purchase of a straw hat had completely drained me. I found it very difficult to take a step back, to stay out of it completely, even though I already knew which way things were going to go. I knew that Karl Bräuer's influence on Franz Grundner was waning. In his own words, he had provided the impetus for the development of the Carinthian version of the bamboo bicycle. On the other hand, he had neither the financial means nor the craftsmanship to play a leading role in the realisation of this idea. Karl Bräuer was 39 years old when I met him. He came from Atzgersdorf near Vienna and had been living in Klagenfurt for several years. Three years earlier, he had made a decision about his future path in life and started an apprenticeship as a milliner in a gallantry shop. This was not necessarily a dowry for building bamboo bicycles, but the decision was made and it tugged at him. To anticipate a little: The bicycles Grundner was about to build were intended for the industrial exhibition in Innsbruck. The project was very successful and earned Franz Grundner an award at the trade fair. At the time I entered his shop, this was still several months in the future.

As difficult as it was for me, I now changed my plan. It seemed better to put some time between my visit to Karl Bräuer and my visit to Franz Grundner. This was a very difficult decision, as I had hoped to be able to take a look at the first prototypes of the bamboo bike from Lake Wörthersee.

9

Jacob was on the screen as usual. As always, tense, composed and smiling. This time it was me who urged him to discuss a few things straight away. He took a cup of coffee from the thermos flask and offered me one, which I declined. Without knowing whether the caffeine in my body had been involved in the time jump, I didn't want to spoil the memory of the extended one.

We went out onto the terrace of the institute and I tried to strike up a conversation with a question. "Do you think I will learn more during my short trips into Klagenfurt's past and my encounter with the pioneers of bamboo bicycle construction than I don't already know? Despite the gruelling intensity of the encounters and conversations, it seems to me that I am collecting nothing but illustrations for my pre-existing ideas. I can illustrate this with a small example. My impression of Karl Bräuer, which I gained from researching the archives in recent years, was that of a man who would be called "Ehrkäsig" in my native dialect." As expected, Jacob couldn't make any sense of it, so I had to explain. "Ehrkäsig is someone who wants all the glory for himself and doesn't begrudge anyone a morsel of it. In my conversation with Karl Bräuer, I found confirmation of this, but not only in my conversation, but also in other little things. In all official documents, in all newspaper articles, his name is spelt Bräuer, Bräuer with an ä. In the newspaper adverts he places or on the door sign of his shop, it says Karl Breuer, Breuer with an e. I can't say why that is, I've never noticed it before, but the moment I see it, I think it suits him perfectly to distance himself a little further from the image of brewing beer. Of course, that's a wild assumption and a bold insinuation towards him, but it fits in so easily with my idea of him." After a short pause, I added with a laugh: "It's actually quite fitting. I'm in Austria at the time of Freudian psychoanalysis. Perhaps I've already been infected, infected by Karl Breuer, who after all came from near Vienna."