My grit-spackled palms cup this little crennulated beauty I spot peeking out of the sand ripples like a monster-shy swaddled toddler.
Extracted, I see it:
Networked nematode encrustations adorned with lank emerald fur, igneous violets shocked through with creamy seams.
Weighty, organic, mysterious.
Its hiding hole silently backfills with dirt-brown sandy slop. Into the bucket it goes, with others. My footprints abstract as the tide pulls them apart.
Later, I draw them from the machine. Hard edges knocked clean. Marine adornments razed smooth. Textural and geometric monocultures.
Market day will be profitable.
What is it about modern life that all things seem to have had their quirkiness, their rude edges, knocked off? My oldest daughter hates Teslas, for instance. Not for the reason you think, but rather that they are so bland to look at compared to, say, a ‘68 Chevy Impala.
Growing up in the UK, so many of the buildings owe their intrigue and sense of fun to the Victorians. Even your average terrace house boasts more personality than the utilitarian melancholy of some of the buildings I find in Helsinki today. From Jugend to useless!
Anyway, this thought popped back into my head when discussed on the podcast I was listening to on my morning walk. Is modernity a rock tumbler? Make things safe, mass market, reproducable, form over function, instead of imbuing them with the essence of what they are? For skyscrapers, think lofty - for drainpipes, think unclean waters (gargoyles).
I want more intrigue and interest in the things I interact with - more play, more interplay.
