The Factory of Ideas has been run down a bit lately. Out to sea, it sat adrift, near dead stopped in a motionless ocean, waiting for some sense of life to be breathed back into its sails. The tanks had run dry awhile before, a stuck-gauge telling lies about its fullness. The skeleton crew was half-starved and beginning to side-eye each other as walking entrees.
And then a sudden lilt in the air, a shrillness, a cool breeze blew in, suggesting oncoming changes in climate. The Factory of Ideas lurched forward and began to move, but towards what respite from the mind’s starvation?
That destination is still unknown, and while that could be worrisome, instead it serves as a simple data point, unbound by speculation. I suppose it could be tethered by speculation, but why attempt to throw down anchors when still so far from the shore?
The maudlin month of August in its dying days took its toll, and September crept in, offering no cheerier prospects, nor solace from the sadness. When the winds tore through, some things were lost, mistakes were made, and some damage was done. For awhile, the factory idled, festering in the waking hell of its own wastes.
Now, sea sprinkled with debris, the dullness fades into the background, swallowed up by a horizon that rolls into the next, recursively. Through the art of landscapes, the picking of the mandolin, voices that soothe, and unsteady hands that draw and erase and draw and erase, imperfect but trying, the factory of ideas sails on. The gears which had weeks before ground into silence have been oiled by observing, wetted by wondering, inspired by art. Again, they churn, not quite where they stopped, but happily moving past that and into a new phase.
There is a strange rumbling in the lower deck of the factory. Much speculation from the crew on this matter, if it is something wrong within the engines, or perhaps some sort of creature stowed away and has mutated in the wastes of the ship’s bowels. Perhaps it is nothing but the figment of imagination, like a gurgling in the pit of the factory’s core. Perhaps it is nothing at all.
As the days shorten and the night favors attention from the stars, these questions will be answered. The spoils of the factory shall be revealed, all in due time. Or in another time. Perhaps even in another dimension. But probably not that. Probably.
Too weird? Didn’t read? August was brutish. September, eventually, seems to fare better. The tanks were dry but are being refilled, by art, by music, by literature. Revisions are ongoing, and without an end in sight, eventually there will be writing worth posting.