With the passage of time and rotation of the earth the sunlight begins to angle overhead and fall unimpeded through the ravaged roof of the machine room. I have wandered out of here twice, but am called back by the lure of the ever changing play of light and shadow that the other building cannot hope to compete with. The third time I enter this room is also the first time I see it with full direct sunlight. Up above me glittery spider webs refract the light and even while I delight in the sight I fervently hope that their creators stay where they are.
At first I cannot decide at first if the strong light is helping or harming my attempts here, and when asked Tabula Rasa replies in the negative. I pause and consider for a moment, then I see this.
Nihilism is not seeing the open door for the darkness that is behind it.
Stepping in closer to take in the details.
I smile fondly at the name Frick, remembering a dear friend who has passed on too soon. This is the only place I’ve seen this name out of the context of her name.
Valves where everywhere, early automation wasn’t very automated and required many people to keep it running smoothly.
I’ve never seen one of these outside of an old cartoon, I was a little surprised that they actually existed as part of real machinery,
My first impression upon entering the power plant of Armour was that I needed to be very cautious about the placement of my feet.
My second impression was that this place was wonderland of light and shadow.
Above my head was a massive coal hopper, and beyond was a room that had been fully invaded by the creeping green forest that surrounds it.
Then I looked up.
A steampunk garden of brick, brass and steel
Industry, the likes of which licked those Commies but good!
Sundial terrarium at noon.
On one’s approach, the vast, rotting campus of the Armour plant seems a lost Shangri-La. The twin smokestacks are the guiding beacon, the buildings themselves being lost from view in the foliage. When the factory walls finally loom into view, crowded with trees and mad with ivy, the entire edifice seems like a ship lost in storm, slowly being dragged under by the verdant waves.
From inside, one is a witness to a shipwreck, albeit one unfolding in glacial, almost epochal, time, though no less sure of its final destruction for its torpor.
“…I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.”
H.P. Lovecraft, Ex Oblivione