Fallen Ladders of Necessity
Parallel lines are supposed to meet at infinity. Or never. But these touchy feely parallel lines keep falling into each other’s arms. It’s not love, but necessity. The screaming, kicking metallic clang of necessity. It’s necessity wound tightly inside electric-powered engines.
These steel lines have their stomachs sucked in at the points of their necessary embrace. Like Roman tens with not enough leg space. Trains change tracks at these points of not enough space.
Trains never leave these tracks. But the tracks don’t go anywhere. They just look like they’re travelling.
They seem to move with you if you’re looking down at them from train doors and windows. Far, in the parallel distant, they are as stationary as their makers intended them to be.
These tracks are clasped on to ribs of hardy wood with twisted eight-shaped claws. The wooden ribs in turn are nailed to foundations of cement and broken rocks. Trains unlike cars don’t run on air-filled rubber. Trains run on discs of steel that become invisible with speed. At these times the steel discs are just flashes of coloured wind. It’s as if there’s nothing else but coloured wind between the trains and the tracks.
Sometimes at high speed and on sudden braking the steel-on-steel friction produces fireworks that scream and enter people’s heads like cold ice picks.
These tracks are actually fallen ladders, forced flat on the ground by the force of necessity. They don’t go anywhere. They just give the impression of movement.
Tracks are very confusing because within their bracketed space they hold many contradictions. Of necessary meetings between fallen ladders made possible by twisting the principles of infinity. All in an effort to make things move.
These steel lines have their stomachs sucked in at the points of their necessary embrace. Like Roman tens with not enough leg space. Trains change tracks at these points of not enough space.
Trains never leave these tracks. But the tracks don’t go anywhere. They just look like they’re travelling.
They seem to move with you if you’re looking down at them from train doors and windows. Far, in the parallel distant, they are as stationary as their makers intended them to be.
These tracks are clasped on to ribs of hardy wood with twisted eight-shaped claws. The wooden ribs in turn are nailed to foundations of cement and broken rocks. Trains unlike cars don’t run on air-filled rubber. Trains run on discs of steel that become invisible with speed. At these times the steel discs are just flashes of coloured wind. It’s as if there’s nothing else but coloured wind between the trains and the tracks.
Sometimes at high speed and on sudden braking the steel-on-steel friction produces fireworks that scream and enter people’s heads like cold ice picks.
These tracks are actually fallen ladders, forced flat on the ground by the force of necessity. They don’t go anywhere. They just give the impression of movement.
Tracks are very confusing because within their bracketed space they hold many contradictions. Of necessary meetings between fallen ladders made possible by twisting the principles of infinity. All in an effort to make things move.
The difference between parallel lines and tracks as I see it is immense. Both are ramrod straight and in complete opposition. But parallel lines have infinity wedged between them, tracks have bars connecting them at every step. Like ladders, the two opposing lines have a mid-rib that holds them together so they go the distance together. Moving and static.
ReplyDeleteFrom a hundred galaxies away, infinitely together.
From nose up and personal, they're constantly vibrating with the impact of train wheels, bustling with the weight of life that is held together by their continous join.
Parallel lines are empty. Void.
Trains are not fallen ladders in my world. They're the DNA of life.
You make staying stuck sound so sweet, that people need a parallel track firmly in place to realise that in the far distance nothing moves. But life is made up of so many infinitesimal motions. The eenrgy that makes blood cells puump blood. From the outer surface of thick epidermis your body seems static. But through the microscope you discover how much frenetic activity is generated within a seeming static.
And that every particle, every minute cell in the universe is meant to move.
Motion is what made the universe.
Motion may also finally kill it.
That is the romance of life.
The beginning and end is unimportant. Travelling is EVERYTHING.
It's all about the motion between two static points.
By itself, static is devoid of meaning.