“Firefuck! Firefuck!” I yelled as it floated by with floral wreaths, slowly, somewhere in Tacoma, as a young boy. This outcry did not trouble me but my mother flushed red like the side panels of the machine I had pointed out. Ladder hung on the sides, men in small cabs and yellow uniforms, hats like conquistadors, enormous powerful hoses to dowse the greatest of fires and keep us safe from burning while we sleep. I thought of heroes though never got into comics or television at the depth of many children of my generation. It’s new! It’s great! Everyone is talking of it! No. I was a boy and I loved building empires with lego’s and cheering trains on as they passed. I sat on green lawns and squinted to the skies to form animals out of clouds. Half built a tree fort. The tree has since grown and the platform is no longer flat due to disproportionate growth between branches.
Machines amazed me. They were isolated incidents. Networks of gears and steam that communicated through cogs and spinning wheels to accomplish a task. Demolish a building. Carry boxcars and hitch hikers across nations. Send people into space. Dowse fires and all. There were parade floats that filled my imagination with wild crime fighting tasks or the impossible scenarios in which I dreamed physically into my empires. The architecture of a child who made his fake lawn blue. It never was about emulating the machines or the nature I saw. I wanted to create my own machine for a heroic task, some closed, self-contained system that would extract kittens safely from branches, or trace around clouds and name scientific terms for their make and model, or the ability for a child to get a cloud down on tracing paper to create monsters or animals out of them, cloud tracing paradigms, musical delirium, it was always about experimentation, and then the physicality within my self that suddenly became sterile and nervous as I grew older. I wish to return to the first time I said “fuck!” without knowing what I was saying whatsoever! On my mother’s shoulders at the april parade. The flowers and streamers. a whole roadside crowd turned and laughed and I smiled, mother blushed. these are golden moments, all of them. the simple creation to develop the child mind into that of an adult should never stop. hence this. this simultaneous idea and creation forum of stream of conscious writing.
it is a machine and an invention and inevitably unique and you should do it too because it makes you heroic to your future self