Retired American Muscle

posted in: Art | 0

With time an abundant resource, I can now focus on random developments that happen to insert themselves in my daily waiting routine. Recently, one such development thrust me into the magical world of nuts, bolts, and junk yards in the American Northwest.




Come to think of it, I’ve always had a fascination with moving parts, but never had a reason to pursue it. The only taste I got was the occasional visit to the car repair shop, where the mechanic threw words at me that seemed to carry with them the life-essence of my magically functioning vehicle. Clearly something was wrong with those parts he was mentioning, otherwise we wouldn’t have been talking about them. A mystical malady came over my machine every year that needed blood-letting of black sludge to be kept in check. Then my car started suffering from a chronic type of thirst that required me to keep adding thick golden liquid to the motor block, about a pint a week. They said it was burning it, or maybe leaking it, but they never figured out through where. In the process they replaced seals, pans, rings, pipes, and ties, and making me feel like the mother of a sick child in a hospital hallway… I had to let that one go… In the end, that car will end up resting on blocks in a very similar junk yard as the one I visited last week.














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