Time and shops, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the hiss of the compression tools, the piston’ing of the air compressor, the waiting for the sounds, the whooshing of the blow torch, the falling of cut metal, the musical of machines and humans building away, working on the sounds.
The ability to just sit and listen takes me to the abstract, back to where I started. I sit on the floor with my camera recording, taking in the noise. The small descriptions, the random sounds of engines at play.
The washing of hands, the cooling down of parts, the quenching of the metal to the liquid.
The search for speed, the search for in put, the search for feeling.
The looking for social acceptance, the parellel effort of being different. These moments of recognition. The bonding of ritual practices, the sharing of esoteric dialog. The closed culture, the unsaid barreriers to entry, the said barriers to entry.
From the revving, the burn outs, the loud music. To the roll racers silent meets, where the name of the game is to be low key, incognito. Where the tricksters lay. Where the borderlands of meat and machine morph into super creatures with solid ritualistic sounds and markings that blur past in the darkness of night.
The bending of time, when forced perspective is your realities. The lights glow in the night, the breaths of each car and driver calculated, in song, ready to play.
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