EVONTE
1920’s...1926. I am an Industrial weapon for qualifiers seeking new developing chains that spin and cut. Into my gears move in conjunction with the centrifugal force pulling the handle from outside the mechanical body; causing a reaction of inertia to close the gap between the handle bar and a rocket chain. My parts on the outer cover are unmoved by the surrounding environmental changes; pieces just plop there like plate tectonics gluing inwards like children sliding towards the center of a good book underneath a warm campfire. Venturing form the vast spans of assembly isles to the most tedious of packaging with one miss step leading to a fatal miss carriage; but for will to be recognized as the greatest output, I am this centuries’ arthropod of productivity.
When I plunge, the rising of the saw and nose should meet the wood at a critical angle. As my small teeth jag right into the crooked wood, A kickback should emerge sending a smash of wispy ash and sharp hail knifes as refined as a butcher man’s craft, caught in the blend of a puff of sawdust against the forestry owner’s, lumberjack’s lens caps or scraping cheek scars. When I size up, my owner should utilize me in a way that scouts and plans ahead for danger zones and retreat paths before felling a tree in a certain direction. Considering all the factors in which the tree bends and the forces that tire its’ emaciated branches, falling heavily if not in its’ desired local then where the ground raises a trampoline of shadows clutching its’ natural pathway avoiding other trees and obstacles along the tumble.
When I’m felling, there should be three clear distinctive cuts, each being at precise angles with a faint background image overlapping the footsteps it takes in order to step forward and control the swing of the cut. My owner shows content whenever a tool is freeing; makes me feel like a true salvager for every badly fallen trees that have somehow twisted their roots when engaging in awkward conversation. The methods at which trees communicate just kept digressing out from within the margins as the tangles of their skinny branches transforms into a labyrinth.
Limbing and Bucking were the cutting and filing, the excess branches off the log into sections; solutions that allowed for easier speech signals to go between trees so words could be rephrasing and expressed in a brand new discussion. When I am brushing and slashing, I’m clearing away all the floating debris whom distorts my gears, my motor, and my pride. I am so excellent, these fools can’t best me as my chain raises, goanna go toward the threshold of even higher plains and do whatever my master expects of me.
There was an old cabin house present among the small community of domiciles. This cabin‘s outer frame matched the autumn fragrance with the combining expressions of wet damp wood inside the crevices of howling wind hydroplaning across the veins of puddle’s surface outside the cabin’s perimeters. In fact it had a next door enclosure nestled close towards the cabin, the supporting walls resembling bird straws, twigs leaves and sticks farming a proper bird’s nest, only with a garage. Being next door from my owner felt indescribable, all the seasons’ sublimity was being avoided in this hollow cage. The shutters thwarted profoundly towards the ground, a mutual conflicting emotion from being separated from even the sun’s ultra valiant rays; hit the ground like a sweating heart thump tying me down in a dimension from the present.
Why do I feel so worn… doesn’t my engine still run , aren’t my teeth and chain still useful, don’t my gears still pull their opposite weights, isn’t my rear handle and guard still in contact with my protective shell rusting in the darkness. My fuel filled? If it’s so, then not natural resource, but it is feeding something greater, an emotion of loathing. Each one of my teeth wanted to lash out. They’re millipedes legs branching off the edge of frizzles forcing back a wave of feelers across the corridor’s pelt, grasping dust balls following up the seasons’ walls like tangy reverberations from the saws’ engine. I am violent, hungry machine laying wasted in shackles. The owner must have saw me decaying, the first gas powered, two cylinder, water cooled, marine type motor set. In A competition I could cut through ten –foot logs in four point five minutes. Must have exalted at the opportunity to purchase a 1972 modern mobile gas powered tools that can run on a small engine. Additionally an upgraded self- cleaning or electronically ignited featured version.
Didn’t I not display an impressive amount of destructive force in our past events, dismantling tall thick bark off their growth spurs and thus, driving their useless pride away; infusing its’ sap into my metal belt while stacks of carbon monoxide exudes from your breath every time we work effortlessly together without drifting cords trailing behind me in my wake. Faster, more portable, heavier and just as strong and consumes less of a dent on my owner’s wallet compared to a 1972 electro –chain saw. I may be intimidating to new users filling up my gas, pouring gasoline into a single power instrument for connoisseurs accustomed to the artificial electronic variations and the trinkets that’s famous for consuming minds. My owner is no inexperienced operator for mastering the good deal of upper body strength and practice pose; knowing instinctively well to drawback the hot blade in the middle of the job. Draining the remaining oil supplies, cool down before proceeding, let it cool down again for storage prepares with a cover topping in well ventilated areas, placed upright so that petrol vapors left don’t leak from the oil reservoirs. I am positioned this way in such my teeth cannot cause a clattering ambience among the shiftless night…so you see I have a lot of options.
Then wha…The shutters opened without silence latching to the two point corners up on the ceiling. It almost appeared as if the owner’s lips were trying to express the words, “pipe down”, yet instead readied my throttle while pulling the cord handle halfway in time with the full gear on, visor helmet and caps in all, taking me down a mid-flight walkway beyond the cabin’s perimeters. Had it finally stopped raining? My owner parked me near a railroad track, fertilizing a humungous tree that shifted my attention span slightly peeking up towards nature’s sky scraper. Soft voices of wisdom could be heard climbing into my inner workings, churning my sub script gears to obey my owner’s command. The tree of wisdom must be fell down in accordance to my master’s wishes. The feeling of wisdom withheld answers and being a known supporter of the modern saws for getting the job done right were opaquely bias claims. It stood at the fork of North and South Street atop of a cliff acting as a dividend between the saw’s choices. In anger, the chain rips slitting the hilt of the plant’s throat claiming that it has thousands of vocals always connecting toward the hilt alongside immeasurable treasure within its ‘roots, pots of pervaded soles and sacs. In salty words, peppery, peach cream, a drive and a jolt, a palatable punch, sapidity, a smack, suggestions with a tang, a wallop with a zest and a zing and a savor.
Words covered in intoxicating coaxes’, without any exact meaning wisdom consumes them all and denounces them as sedatives, alleviating poor judgment. It amplifies its’ whole being as one collage of tasty truths amidst even more words to overpower the chain’s sharp intentions. Brief silence after the tree’s speech all that was heard was the obnoxious clanking sound of the teeth, rolling its pointy edges into a fast pitch, clashing reverbs for feuds, leaving the atmosphere to catch with praise and kneels to bombard this pain in the ignoramus plant together with strength two folds; inheriting the power passed along by a pair of muzzles for hands washing the tide along lumber strips surrounding the giant figure in the light. As painful as sorrow’s past lurking, each gasp of puffy mouths breathes out distorting aches processing the need for a more developed mechanical revolution. I could have felt the winds’ ashes softly approaching catharsis for one of plants' foreshadowing deforestation.
Below, tears sags across my equipment, glimmering with oppressive motorized rust aches. Above, clouds elapse like the refracted rays similar in analogy, blocking my little gape of hope; a’ last this tree simply cannot fell full heartily by my sickle and chain, though only a slither was cut; awoke the “Paper of Light”. In industrial times, my modern cousins mock me for being behind the times, they claim my gears be out of rhythm and off track. They sass me where they’ are just firing off their razors… The Paper of light closed inside on the felling crunchy roar of the gassy saw analogous to animals advancing over predators before their last jet of air. It worded duplication into a trillion forms in order to serve humanity a slice of communication for generations to come. Chainsaws control overpopulating plants and animals by clearing room for plants to recollect, regrow, thus providing humanity with enough shelters with an additional flex power, intimidating our creatures to clear out. We’re two manifestations not perceived by recognition because we are originality…
Similar to the infusion of coco cola and Poland water. That is original. Because they’re both different substances accepted through our eyes, being separate entities that are mixed fudge cakes whom share a blend of flavorful unoriginality inside our mass productive economy. We both suit the earth physically and mentally… yet what the 1926 saw didn’t encounter was being the world whom procreated the developing chains saws after it. We do unconventional things, but technology only has one goal…