Death of a Fastener
Today I found a rusty wood screw in the street. I suppose this is not odd in and of itself; the streets are littered with rusty, bent, displaced fasteners of all kinds. This is hardly the first one I've picked up. Everything has its story though. Here was this one, all alone, one of millions or billions or perhaps even trillions, all cast, machined, cut or worked in the same image, the same vision of use and necessity. Here was this one, shipped about the world in lots, stored in bins and boxes by category, size, use, in transit, in warehouse, on display, on the job, sitting straight and ready through electrically lit nights and roof-darkened days just waiting to be put to use, just waiting to be put in the place that would be its own. Here was this one that had been purposefully set in place, that for days or weeks or months or years had devoted its whole self to the stolid, faithful work of holding its little part of the world together. And here was this one that had finally been torn loose, pulled out and thrown away, after the things it held together no longer belonged, after the place it held up had outlived itself as a location of interest or meaning. And then here was this one, now trash, left to corrode in the street, left to dissolve in bitter red oxides, to harbor deadly microbes, to flatten car tires and noisily clatter underfoot, no place, no purpose, no use.
Here was this one, the embodiment of its own use, its own purpose, left to continue a work no longer wanted, left on the hard concrete only to fasten itself painfully to bare feet or inconveniently to rubber tires, imprisoned by its own shape, as destined for obsolescence as it had been for use.
Usually when I find rusty screws or nails, I take them with me until I find an isolated patch of bare ground, and then push them deep into the dirt, where hopefully they can stay until the last of their bodies oxidize and dissolve among the minerals in the soil. This is just one of my odd ways of paying respects to the things I encounter day by day. I like to see them put to rest.
Today, though, I carried the screw with me a short way, one hand working my clumsy, primitive wooden cyborg-leg, and one hand carrying my bag, and its teeth dug into my hand as I went. Finally, when I reached a trash receptacle, I just threw it away.
I don't know how I feel about this. It certainly has a long way still to travel.
Here was this one, the embodiment of its own use, its own purpose, left to continue a work no longer wanted, left on the hard concrete only to fasten itself painfully to bare feet or inconveniently to rubber tires, imprisoned by its own shape, as destined for obsolescence as it had been for use.
Usually when I find rusty screws or nails, I take them with me until I find an isolated patch of bare ground, and then push them deep into the dirt, where hopefully they can stay until the last of their bodies oxidize and dissolve among the minerals in the soil. This is just one of my odd ways of paying respects to the things I encounter day by day. I like to see them put to rest.
Today, though, I carried the screw with me a short way, one hand working my clumsy, primitive wooden cyborg-leg, and one hand carrying my bag, and its teeth dug into my hand as I went. Finally, when I reached a trash receptacle, I just threw it away.
I don't know how I feel about this. It certainly has a long way still to travel.