Inspired by The Engine
A Piece by Poet Bryan Price
CREATIVE MUSINGS ON THE ZEN OF MOTORCYCLE MAITENANCE:
The machine facilitates. Sometimes it oppresses. There is no escaping its sphere of influence. There is finality in its form.
I have some thoughts on the subject. Extracted from a collegiate experience with a novel I read and tried to adapt into a screenplay. It was a time of ideas. Primordial origins. Spastic interpretations. It set the ethics, or more accurately, reflected the ethics that began with the push, the slap and the bright lights that sent me spinning when I came into this world. From there, who knows what the fuck happened.
But this is not about me. I digress.
This novel and the way that I read it might not be the way others read it but something was extracted and a seed was planted. The gymnastics that followed galvanized my thinking into a basic idea I fell in love with. With love, I started to run.
It is as follows:
In the production of certain mechanisms, say a barbeque, there is an industry that produces it. A line of a certain order dedicated to support a maximum productivity. Something of ease. A method. An interchangeability. A map. An order that kills the uncertainty associated with those “what now’s”, “how do I’s”, and “what the fucks.” All good questions to ask in the pursuit of this final destination. The All Mighty Barbeque. The Destined Form.
This is silly. I know.
In this book, the protagonist worked as a technical writer to make ends meet after the geniuses of mental health electrocuted the shit out of his mind. This wage securing, post electricity exploit opened his eyes to the reality of the creation of the manual the assembler holds in their hands.
On assignment, he went to a factory to learn how something was assembled to write about it. He soon discovered that the person chosen to educate the writer was generally the most expendable resource in the factory. The village idiot, one might say.
So when it looks like that thing of intent has beaten you and is scattered into a million pieces all over the floor, one should remember this. It would be a good thing to keep in mind.
Blame it on the village idiot. That dick.
I admit this moniker varies from where you stand. The point is that there are a million different ways to assemble a thing: an end that is specific and clear.
When one defers to the village idiot, the experience is often maddening. Twisted guts. Throwing things around. Saying, “fucking shit” and “god damnit” and kicking the dog for wanting some love as you wrestle with the floor.
This, in essence would be an experience missing the divining rod of truth. An emotional sweet spot taking shelter in the shadows. A wraith. An advocate. A companion. An idea. The protagonist of this novel called this “Quality”.
Quality is something that is solely dependent on the guts, imagination, and creativity of the assembler and the agreement he or she finds in the unity of what is thought, felt and done. It comes with an integrity to one’s true nature. A spot, when hit, is euphoric and invincible in its existence. An irrevocable knowing. A brush up against that sweet stroke of the whore named Universal. A thing of an infinite geometry composed of gin.
I say it again . . . Quality: It is the emotional wealth that leads to an end.
As for the machine, itself, it is moved by the engine. The engine is the fury. The power. The heart that completes the engineering. The absolute center supporting the whole thing.
For many creatures reliant on this machine of motion, there are many states one may find. There is hell. There is purgatory. And there is joy. Anyone who knows anything about anything knows that it is most likely a sliding scale of all three.
To find one’s way, one must find agreement between the head, heart and the actions one takes. Those articulations that propel the golden sentence. A line that comes when one knows that there is another way to assemble the machine if one is so inclined to that myth. An anthem drawn from freedom. An independence from the resources. The manual. The security. The black line. The ruler. The librarian grabbing your shoulder, telling you “no way”, “no how”, “not you.”
I am the trumpet of a strange sound. I say, “Rebellion”. “Anarchy”. “Battering rams”. “Declare our love for Judas”. SET THE VIRGINS FREE!!!
There is a mindfulness that occurs with this magnificent state. This type of mindfulness may not be for everyone. That’s okay. I know that there are other minds in other states. I have no gripe with you. I am still me. You are still you. A handshake for you as you take that slow boat down the stream.
As for this thing. This engine and the machine that depends on it. One must know that it is a heart that is at its best when born a of a certain faith and vision. A dream to facilitate the nurturing and encouragement of the best attributes of those who aspire to assemble: a certain kind of creature. A thing of fangs. A hunter. A beast. A rocket. A wizard who practices alchemy. A kitchen appliance knight who ventures to slay the mill.
It is a poem for that tree that is falling. A sound whose time has come.
- Brian Price
