Iron Wrought, the blacksmith furnished
Hammer blows formed soft iron bars
A twist of tongs
A curl is formed
The smith’s sweat sizzles on the hot metal as he labors over the forge. His hands cramp and his arms grow weary, bit still he hammers down. Blow after blow he dispenses
Untill finally his piece is finished, and into the brine it is thrust, singing, sizzling and steaming as it becomes entrapped in it’s final form. The iron hardens, and becomes a solid mass.
This iron now stands, enameled in years of paint, entrenched on the borders on an estate. Constantly guarding, in solidarity, the lavish wealth beyond it’s ornamented bars.
Somehow, the spirit of the smith is guarding too, his watchful gaze and careful eye meticulously observing every event that transpires beyond the border he described so many years ago. The salt of his sweat and the iron in his veins made him one with the border he had so carefully designed. I wonder if he is watching still as I carefully examine the seams and joints, tenons and rivets which bind together, to this day, the bars standing before me.
This house represents, for me, a longing and waiting, for someone to come along and pour their heart into it. Sadly, it will most likely continue to decay, eventually to be condemned, and torn down.
I have been reflecting on my transition lately. I still have no idea what I am doing, but I’m doing it to the best of my ability. That is all I ever can do, and I hope to always maintain that level of commitment in whatever I do.
Words, at once, consist of both truth and falsehood. Words on their own, have meaning and truth. As soon as they are strung together in language, they become a network of lies, things that mean other things, and are not as they first appear. Words can reveal many things which are not there, just as they can obscure things which are there. Lines too consist of Truth and falshood. They can describe things that exist as well as things imagined. They can reveal patterns and structure just as they can cover up the truth of a thing. What are things if they are not described by either lines or words. How can we know something exists if we cannot desceibe it in some way? Can anything truely exist without its description? Conversely, does anything truely exist if it can be described, since any description contains some falshood.
I’m not normally one for holiday spirit, but I very much enjoy the changing seasons. I love waking up early on a morning when it has been snowing all night. When the air is still, and big snowflakes are falling silently to the ground, there is a pronounced peaceful quality in the air, and I cant help but smile to myself and think about how wonderful this season is.
And on the few breaks between classes and homework, he ate his depressing lunch, It wasn’t really a lunch at all, it was more of a series of increasingly more painful exercises of abusive nutrition. Not that there was and real danger of nourishment, not of the body at least. It was the oppressive lack of any good taste whatsoever. To make matters worse, in an act of self deprecation, he ate it in order from most interesting to least, saving the worst, cold, dry, gluten-free stuffing with no gravy, for last. It was the icing, or lack thereof on the proverbial dry, crumbly, unsweetened, cake.
The city of Sophronia is made up of two half-cities. In one there is the great roller coaster with its steep humps, the carousel with its chain spokes, the Ferris wheel of spinning cages, the death ride with its crouched motorcyclists, the big top with the clump of trapezes hanging in the middle. The other half city is of stone and marble and cement, with the bank, the factories, the places, the slaughterhouse, the school, and all the rest. One of the half-cities is permanent, the other is temporary, and when the period of its sojourn is over, they uproot it, dismantle it, and take it off, transplanting it to the vacant lots of another half-city.
And so every year the day comes when the workmen remove the marble pediments, lower the stone walls, the cement pylons, take down the ministry, the monument, the docks, the petroleum refinery, the hospital, load them on trailers, to follow from stand to stand their annual itinerary. Here remains the half-Sophronia of the shooting galleries and the carousels, the shout suspended from the cart of the headlong roller coaster, and it begins to count the months, the days it must wait before the caravan returns and a complete life can begin again.
– Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities