Manual

I have only a few memories of my home before it was remodeled the first time. Back when the kitchen was painted completely yellow with a large black wood stove in the corner. I’m not sure how much this memory has been distorted by time, but the imprint that I have is good enough for me to call truth. I recall my body being quite heavy, and unresponsive, as I was fixed into my high-chair. I remember the light coming through the window seemed a bit too bright, and I remember feeling sleepy, or stoned, or otherwise curious and carefree as children are. And I remember the little black radio with the long antena, perched on the windowsill. It’s dark outline very distinguishable against the much-too-bright light streaming in. The song playing was Tennesee Flat Top Box, by Johnny Cash, and my father was nearby in a tight white work shirt. The room smelled of bacon…

It’s strange to remember my father in that moment, for he must have been nearly my own age, and while the time that’s passed since then could be percieved as a significant ammount of years, it can also percieve it as nothing more than a blink. How much longer, I wonder, until I blink again, and find myself in his shoes… old, hard, and weary… alone in my old age. But I’m sliding off topic here…

My grandfather was an old fashioned traveling salesman, and quite good at his job… this thanks to his great memory for names and phone numbers, and his charasmatic and sociable demeanor. He spent most of his time on the road, hopping from motel room to motel room. When I was fifteen or so, he invited me along on his final trip. Not a buisness trip, but one last time around his old route for old time’s sake, and to visit old friends. It was a week long adventure, upon which I stayed in several motel rooms and stranger’s guest rooms. The only thing that really stands out in my memory concerning that trip was his clock… when we arrived at our first motel in Sault Ste. Marie, Canada, I was qutie dissapointed with the dilapidated old building that we pulled up to. Apparently gramps was a regular there since 1958 and from the look of the building I was not in the least bit surprised. After we got situated in the room, just before turning on the TV and vegging out for a bit before bed, my grandfather unbuckled his vintage beige leather briefcase and pulled out a small hinged box. He flipped the latch, and opened it to reveal an old and outdated wind-it-yourself alarm clock. He wound it up, set the time by the digital clock on the bedside table, and set the old clock’s alarm for 6am sharp. I asked him why he used it, instead of just pushing a few buttons on the digital clock.

"I’ve traveled with this clock for over 40 years.. sometimes I’d have trouble staying awake at night, so I’d pull over, set the alarm for an hour or two, and take a little nap… also, I can’t stand waking up to that god awfull beep!-beep!-beep! or the blaring radio.. this little thing has a loud, but not terribly unpleasent ring, like an old bell telephone. I’ve also learned that you can’t trust technology… if the power goes out on you and you have to be somewhere in the morning, you’re screwed.."

I’ve always clung to things that are able to stand alone, and function without any kind of fuel… be it electricity, gasoline, etc. Putting faith into mecha that requires such isn’t exactly unwise, but there always exists a chance that it will fail to do it’s part for reasons unknown. There is something cozy, and secure, about maintining a "back up" option at all times. An oar in the jett boat. A bike strapped to the car. A book of matches next to the flash light. A magnifying glass next to the book of matches. It is a very strange and wayward feeling traveling alone, especially if you’re traveling with everything that you own… personal security is difficult to obtian while hurtling yourself into the dark unknown, and there’s something amazingly comforting about knowing that should all systems that you depend on without understanding them fail you, you have stashed away the means to manufacture a solution with the most basic of ingreediants. I fear, however, that I’m sliding off topic once again…

There was a documentary just on concerning the 60s, featuring many technicolor clips of young hippies in all their bearded, unkempt, tie-dye glory… with nothing but the most basic of ingreediants– drugs, music, and physical affection. I studied every young and eager face I saw through the technicolor window to 1970, and wondered how many of them simply blinked their eyes and found themselves in 2007; alone, fatigued, and parentless, in a world that no longer wants them. A world of children; addicted and dependent on products of systems and machinery that they don’t understand…