Friday, December 16, 2016

Perpetual Motion Machine - DDATHTL


Visualizing 24 hours of subway activity in New York City from Will Geary on Vimeo.

Cowboy Dave, or Big Fucking Stupid Dave as I called him behind his back, a year out of prison for trafficking cocaine claimed he would be rich and famous one day for inventing the first perpetual motion machine.  He said he had already built it in his head, and that seemed reasonable because there were obviously entire empires built in his head and they obscured any version of reality... but whatever, Dave.

Whatever.

I'd forgotten The Perpetual Motion Machine, even as I never fully forgot the current of fear that ran through the house then after he moved in and slowly took the place over room by room.  There was the half-built platform bed that rendered his bedroom unusable.  And why was it built for the twin bed mattress?  Why not buy a new mattress?  There was the 800 lb. oak desk that took over the former bar area.  There was the weight benches that took over the dining room.  There was Dave himself ensconced in the living room demanding that we all leave so he could sleep (since his bedroom was a tangle of scrap timber).  Mostly there was the fear of saying no to Dave.

Fear of physical harm still doesn't scare me, if that makes sense.  It's not that it's not there.  I simply don't really care.  It's something I'll deal with when I get to it.

Pain.

Pain is more of an emotional phenomenon, at least in my head.  It's what scares me and has always scared me.  Fear of more of it still keeps me up at night.  Physical pain is... well, it's just pain.  You deal with it.  You live with it.  Dave didn't scare me in that sense but there was always the buzz of anticipation.  It was never a case of if he was going to lose his shit but when.  When the rest of us dismantled his empire and carried it to the driveway we all went back in and went to our respective bedrooms, the only places he hadn't yet taken over, locked our doors and waited.  He came in late and kicked down each bedroom door.

What to do then?  Call the police, and we did, and they came.  Funny the discomfort I felt at having an outsider see just what a fucking wrecked filthhole our home was was worse than the fear of physical pain.  I squirm now when I remember their faces as they looked around the kitchen.

What does any of this have to do with the video?

Nothing at all.  You just never know what's going to trigger a memory.

No comments: