BUILDINGS

A funny and annoying thing kept happening: whenever I walked up to the front of a building it would grow. So much so that I would be tempted to walk away that instance, unable now to say what I had intended to say.


From afar the building would be well enough maintained. Well turned out and fully presentable. But when it came to any kind of close interaction with it then that was a different story. I would be met by a row of railings, hard and monotonous. Glass that I could either stare at or bump into. Vertical grey terrain that I could not begin to scale.


So I would be offered up into the guts of the thing through a rotating system that churned the inside out and the outside in like a great milk-shake whipper. I would be shuttled down narrow shoots into odd pockets of vacant space. Then on through more shoots into little moving packages where I would be wrapped up and sealed with a rubber edged metal door and taken up or down, down or up as the numbers in rows described. All along these passages I would pass other little canon balls similar to myself until I wondered if it were not just more glass again that I might bump into. Yet if it were so than glass can talk for on either side of the glass the words, “Excuse me” would ring out and so I never did find out what bumping into one of those bundles would feel like for we evaded the question.

Then finally the day would run out and the distance would grow again between me and the building, the building and me. Then I would sit once again in my plot with the little building resting on the palm of my hand wondering and thinking about the way that titchy thing would grow to encompass me once again tomorrow.