Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Lampost is more than a distant cousin to a flagpole, even tho they both appear to be fashioned in the same factory, this one residing East of Long Island, sandwiched between Huntingdon, Stony Brook, the sea, Fire Isle-Idealand, Conecticut-yr Own Keys West to the south, as well as being located in such that sunny days, humid heat, and adverse conditions never stop flagpole production, amounts to an ingenious setting for discussions appurtaining to the physics of Birth and the ontology of Objects. Although Lamposts are birthed here, beneath hot tin wwarehouse roof, between Albanian welder, Caribbean foreman, night watching rivetters sat side by side for lunch or otherwise... as you do just outside of New York never really see this forge weald of molten wonder, you may not realise that flagpoles and lamposts are forged in the same place, and peppered as we are throughout L.A, lit up as the sky is from our shenanigeans, the flagpoles are our roots, our master crafsmen, perhaps even our Kings and Queens in relation to us (merely, alas, a lampost, nothing more... but also, perhaps crucially, nothing less either). And although it is perhaps too tempting to the mind to forge a tale about a lampost that becomes a flagpole over the course of a life--like some fairy horse in the amusement park, daily filled with gaiety, pput out to turf in some lone garden, surrounded by lawn, miserable as in a book I once read. No, that would be too simple and old a metaphor for the sense of it. But then, how to ever begin without recognisance of the letters, FLG and LMP, if after all, for all the insignias of all nations, the flagpole bears that which is noblest, even if it bears also that which is almost ended. In the daily life of the flagpole factory, people and characters come and go of course. All are interesting, but depending when we meet and by meet I mean talk and discuss the day's events made into a hue by necessitas. For instance, the construction of the Liberty Pole. Now there was a scene that fought off all contenders as a wedding for its sheer magnificance; the forging done so as to extend to the fullest our humble capacity out here in the yard of talk to weather the inclements and heat out of its near paralleling surtures, the keenest, finest pole you ever did see. Every nation has them; has us, to be more specific. And this factory, but one place where the fine distinction between flagpole and lampost is played out. After all, we are not daily making flagpoles for Caesars, or small island Jets, or significant events of Other kind, signifying noble gestures. No. Much of our daily milling is lamposts. Hundred of them, by the thousand...which you may think means a quick process? But you would be wrong. The heating ovens are loaded by human hands, and these hands are often wobbly with woes and can be equally wobbly with enthusiasm. We watch our heats carefully. We are bundled down slopes, and arms and rivets are attached to us, also heated. The Albanian, with his wife and two children and hunched back straddles the pole placed over haunces of timber, garage door, locksmith shed, sweat dripping like bills from the tax office routed into our silvery hides. Such processes create vast similarities between us, as as many imperfections, viral encodings and replications of thoughts from human handling we carry with us wherever we are, posted, planted, roped and hauled up to sheer vertical in our own peculiar ontology of cement, we watch, daily, now endeared to with and feared as like we have eyes, also embedded now. My cousin out at Point Reyes stands proud beside the Lighthouse, bearing all manner of noble, colourful flags. Another, ina fishing village in Nanavut, bears only brush and keys which are always always frozen. Ah yes, there are many of houses we pass by on our way to and from this Long Island forge of ours, springing to life, sometimes, under the coils of Tesla and the hymns of Whitman, bearing in our metal fillings, and our heatings, enscryptions from archeology, mud banks off Georgia, pond weed from Roanoke all crawl around our generic footings. Our ubiquitous presence, the thing which is most withdrawn from us in our presence. Somehow our numbers have made us invisible, rendering the subtle topology of levels absent from our factory floor. However, in Lamposts and in Flagpoles both, there is trust, a familiar presence that has allured us to you. A genuine affection, a bond (witness the flyers, the wallpaste and brushes we have been dressed with); the dna our concrete foundations have absorbed from the pissings and vomit. Puddles splashing playfully at our hideas; the puzzles of the underground, such a mystery to you, all revealed as open surgery, the rivulets of the forms that carry-ether from us to you. We, experiencing, no less than the nobility of our Master-flagpoles by proxy and no less warmth or information from the sun than the most loftiest of all Flagpoles. The one that carries most inscriptions. (Well, there are several, some of which I will not patronize to assume are or are not known. The crest of the boat bearing a lifeform. The noble steel-grey suit marking Dag Hammarskjold's grave. Any number bearing the half masten, the mid-rizzen, semaphores, metonyms and literal code across waters, seen by eyes, appealed to as Ears, appointed to appear absolutely, vertically upward, pinpointed upon that mysterious illusion where all of our parallel lines curve and meet and cross to that Other vertex-pole.) We never speak of these things on the factory floor of course, hummed out by whispers of this days gossip, often alluded to but never included in the workings through of a domestic between men. It is written assent and agreement is only implied as necessity when the ontology is forgotten. Lamposts and flagpoles have their roots in nation, in fire, in human sight, yes. But we also have our origins elsewhere, in language, in code, in the light which makes us have a being--but which is not completely necessary for the Flagpole to have its Being, that you would think is enough to prioritize us... and yet it cannot be so. We are just Lamposts, bearing light along the way. We don't have jealousy. We aren't hoping to be forged into a boat, or ground down into scrapheaps or cars. We prefer not to die, of course. We like light, yes. But Flagpoles bear something more important. And with that very sleight doctrinal difference now extrapolated from within my exterior, i can say and must :" Hats off to flagpoles yes, But I speak from just a simple Point of view of Lampost, And though I'd rather talk of totem -poles rather than my lofty Forbears place in all of this, I will and can speak of both. The Lampost recognises the Factory is for Flagpoles First, lights secondary. But the wires, the roots, the terms, the routes round the planet, the roads and underground subways, the men who change the wires, the women who chase the men who change the wires, beneath us all, in us all, on this factory floor, the information's second highway is shared knowledge, lampost toflagpole, lwnroad to Carhill Dale. And, as I can think of many a location where Mssrs Lampslot and Flagpole share a very hospitable and pleasant location and view, onturf that's seen it all, I'll disguise not my enthusiasm for that or any other story, nor shall I let the common knowledge of the whereabouts of this factory location on Long Island' be argument for the case that some Lamposts elsewhere are forged in grander locations than mine: nor will I allow that our eventual destination constitutes any hierarchy between us. That is to be worked out between flagpoles and their flags. (A subject which definitely constitutes worthy cause for a secondary blogpost of the nose from The Lampost--for which, this Lampost has been making a case.) But as a case is being made, the special case of a Lampost needing a case must sound absurd. What possibly could be the reason for a special case for a Lampost? A flagpole, yes... in some cases, nothing less than velvet and a strong metal box will do; but a Lampost is transported roughshod, a few batters high up, who sees them? But childish marks to a skuffed knee. Our pov is democratic. However, such a day its been that the very special news hitting the factory floor today is the commission for a set of Lamposts, and a Flagpole to keep the Lampost of Buckingham company, shall be forged in our humble abode of Long Island (the Sald Land) not far from where Walt Whitman used to live...to destinations unknown, possibly a field in Hampshire, or a quiet West Scilly island islet. Not since the birthing of Liberty Pole has the factory floor been so trod upon with hubris and news, delights, plans and foghorn calls to action. 'Argh mateys. Lets be on and do what we do best." More news tomorrow.
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