Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Start Me Up
I stepped out into the blinding sunlight, squinting as my eyes readjusted from the yellow fluorescent lights that coloured the interior of the manufacturing plant.
As I walked past the storage yard and delivery bays, I left behind me the insistent rumble of machines running with the torque of a thousand horses; the banshee-like squeal of sintered tungsten carbide plowing through hardened steel at a faster rate than it should; the high-pitched whirring of diamond grinding wheels not unlike that of a dentist’s drill accompanied by a shower of sparks; the acrid smell of gaseous byproducts from bacteria feasting on vegetable-oil derived machining coolants; the ringing of a hammer being mercilessly brought to bear upon wrought metal.
My trusty dustcoat, once a proud hue of navy blue but now spotted with oil and grease stains and other non-descript patches, lay draped over my chair for the last time bereft of the pens, steel rule, safety glasses, ear plugs and assortments of scribbled paper that were regular occupants of its pockets.
Those were sounds, sights and smells that I had become accustomed to over the months and strangely, that working environment held more appeal for me than a sanitised cubicle in a Shenton Way office. But when the time came for a choice to be made, pen was put to paper and the deal was done.
After 15 minutes as the lone occupant of a dilapidated busstop in the middle of industrial heartland, the bus finally pulled up and I got on. As I put on my earphones, a familiar guitar riff brought forth a song that struck home loud and clear.
“Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singin’ songs about the South land
I miss Alabama once again and I think it’s a sin”
Those words were sung in 1974 about a distant land of which I knew little, but the intent behind them resonated with mine.
I know where I want to go and I’m heading there.
As I walked past the storage yard and delivery bays, I left behind me the insistent rumble of machines running with the torque of a thousand horses; the banshee-like squeal of sintered tungsten carbide plowing through hardened steel at a faster rate than it should; the high-pitched whirring of diamond grinding wheels not unlike that of a dentist’s drill accompanied by a shower of sparks; the acrid smell of gaseous byproducts from bacteria feasting on vegetable-oil derived machining coolants; the ringing of a hammer being mercilessly brought to bear upon wrought metal.
My trusty dustcoat, once a proud hue of navy blue but now spotted with oil and grease stains and other non-descript patches, lay draped over my chair for the last time bereft of the pens, steel rule, safety glasses, ear plugs and assortments of scribbled paper that were regular occupants of its pockets.
Those were sounds, sights and smells that I had become accustomed to over the months and strangely, that working environment held more appeal for me than a sanitised cubicle in a Shenton Way office. But when the time came for a choice to be made, pen was put to paper and the deal was done.
After 15 minutes as the lone occupant of a dilapidated busstop in the middle of industrial heartland, the bus finally pulled up and I got on. As I put on my earphones, a familiar guitar riff brought forth a song that struck home loud and clear.
“Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin
Singin’ songs about the South land
I miss Alabama once again and I think it’s a sin”
Those words were sung in 1974 about a distant land of which I knew little, but the intent behind them resonated with mine.
I know where I want to go and I’m heading there.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 8:53 pm 
