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The
City on the Edge of Forever
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Free
Write on White
Yee Haw! Free write on white! Free free free dreamy
free!
Damn the punctuation, full speed ahead… What is white and
why?
White is wonderful. Crisp, clean, cool… not the groovy cool
(although
it Is groovy) but the other kind of cool, the Cold Cool.
White is
fluffy frost hanging from the pipes like an inverted Martian forest of
ferns. A maze of never-ending, never repeating crystals that
defy
gravity and boggle the mind with their empty
density. White
is the fridge. Not your fridge, your fridge is hell to one
like
me.
Not the fridge at Culinary, either… oh, they Think it’s Big, they Think
it’s groovy… but what do They know? They are food freeks… not
Frost
Freeks. You don’t walk into My fridge, you Drive into my
fridge…
you drive into my fridge and get lost. Three floors of frozen
space,
twelve holding rooms, six blast freezers, four shelf freezers, and
let’s
not forget the cubby hole, Bait Boys personal holding for his private
stash
of goodies. When the whine of the line starts to wear on your
nerves,
or the clunk of the compressors coupled with the clang of the cannery
causes
your cranium to crack, when the roar of the Rayovacs and the boom of
the
Badders start to bring you down, then comes the time to take the ‘vader
up to the third floor and delve into twelve, park your butt on a pallet
of nice white boxes and let the thick bright white inverted forest of
crisp
clean crystals muffle the hustle and bustle of the factory… White Noise
crashes against White frost and is tangled, snared, then snuffed out…
perhaps
causing one lone snowflake to break loose and drift lazily through the
still air to join the ranks of it’s comrades on the floor… watching the
flake fizzle, flatten, form into slick sheets of ice…the silence in
twelve
is louder then the roar and rumble of the factory. There is
no
time
in frozen space, life becomes eternal when white is your world, when
the
only light is a bare bulb hanging from a wire, when the only season is
“cold” it’s impossible to tell if you’ve been sitting there five
minutes
or five years… I lost a lifetime in twelve. White is
life.
And while sitting there, in frozen silence, you begin to feel the death
all around you. Three million pounds of dead bodies boxed and
racked
and stacked all around you, above you, below you, in the box you are
sitting
on. White is death. Cool clean quiet
death. White is
your sweat as it freezes to your face, white is the icicles at the
corners
of your eyes, white is the tears that never hit the ground, you try to
cry for the death surrounding you, but the white won’t let you… White
is
holding. White is waiting. White is what screams
the
loudest
when blood is splattered across it. White was my world for
ten
years.
White was my life. White is what helped make me who I am
today.
White was our best friend, and our worst enemy. White is that
chunk
of ice that’s stuck in the belt and gums up the whole works.
White
is what keeps our fresh fish fresh. White’s the GOOD
box.
White
is the paper of my paycheck. White is my sheets at the end of
the
day that never ends… |
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