Friday, July 29, 2016


I used to call it the industrial corridor. As much as it changes, or though many years and even decades come and roll over it and about it,- there is some proverbial heart of the matter that remains the same. The long stretches of road, wide and slightly vexatious for the barrels, the oil, the often broken curbing. Tow trucks like vultures wait, or wide shipping bay doors. Old motors, their casings tattered, scarred, one proudly yellow, red, blue, - every other color. There are even fields, and of course cables, hydro and phone lines. These come through from far away, announce themselves like a forever spider’s web, and then continue further to the impossibly labyrinthine innards of the easterly city. The men, - from every country on earth imaginable- . Welders, machinists, drivers, motor repairmen, detailers, all the rest, all the various tasks, callings, vocations. Some of the windows are new whilst others grime covered. There was once a bakery there, and the bakery turned into a place that made truck parts, and the truck parts place has since turned into a transport company. It’s the same sky, - blue, at times overcast. In the middle winter the snow covers the wood, shingles, metal, gratings, streets, buses, old lost or discarded washers, nuts, bolts, pieces of wire, housings, casts, strangely shaped trucks, tires, and the broken bricks and pieces of glass. On the insides- lunchrooms, lockers, oil, shelves, drill presses, lathes, testing pits, chains, hoppers, copper, steel, gaskets, wrench, welding rod, glove, hose, pipe, ohms counter, hydraulics, galvanized plate, painting booth, tanks, chalk, drums, ties, lights, sand, grease, keys, boxes, boards, banter, memory, other other other other other...There is a creek, a small one in width but it runs the entire corridor much like the wires in the air. A lady used to live there, - an aged one with a cart, and the foreman used to bring her out water and tell her to stop drinking from the chemical creek because she would become ill. It’s not known when or how she one day stopped coming around. In my imagination I once thought of her as a benevolent witch of the corridor, - casting spells at the nightime, a sort of odd guardian or gatekeeper to those streets and the lands beyond. In the bright day, so many years later, the creek and its discarded pallets, the feral plants and flowers that grow through cracks in the cement and whose ancestors live somehow always, - are still there. It could be 1982 or 1993 or even 1975 or almost anything. Wire and sky, creek and brick, curb and window and other- all not bound really by time. As real as it all is, it also seems astral, ephemeral, dreamlike, vaguely mystical, and apart. I used to call it the industrial corridor. I suppose that is as good a name as any.


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