Curio Vignettes 01 Coercion
“Safe.
Within the horizon of a curved boundary, everything is brass, steel, nickel. Air and shadows. The busyness of Paris fades, growing as distant as space, reality replaced by the movement of gears, the snap of springs. The rhythm and flow of the Métro, of walk signs and traffic lights—all are gone, and I’m lost in the tick and pivot of cogs.
The only wrongs to confront are those of rust, dust, wear or warp. I solve them with tweezers, oil, a jeweler’s monocle, a can of compressed air. I wand...er the dark geometry of my watches and music boxes for entire afternoons, entire appearances of the sun, until— I jump when the alarm goes off, as I always do. And as always, I catch the monocle when it falls from my eye and press the knob of the clock to still the hammer assaulting its bells. The brass polish has left grit under my nails and a headache between my eyes from the fumes I hadn’t noticed until now.
Outside my windows, the sunset is ripening. The pigeons have tucked their heads beneath their wings, seeming ripened themselves, soft and round with sleep.MoreLess
Within the horizon of a curved boundary, everything is brass, steel, nickel. Air and shadows. The busyness of Paris fades, growing as distant as space, reality replaced by the movement of gears, the snap of springs. The rhythm and flow of the Métro, of walk signs and traffic lights—all are gone, and I’m lost in the tick and pivot of cogs.
The only wrongs to confront are those of rust, dust, wear or warp. I solve them with tweezers, oil, a jeweler’s monocle, a can of compressed air. I wand...er the dark geometry of my watches and music boxes for entire afternoons, entire appearances of the sun, until— I jump when the alarm goes off, as I always do. And as always, I catch the monocle when it falls from my eye and press the knob of the clock to still the hammer assaulting its bells. The brass polish has left grit under my nails and a headache between my eyes from the fumes I hadn’t noticed until now.
Outside my windows, the sunset is ripening. The pigeons have tucked their heads beneath their wings, seeming ripened themselves, soft and round with sleep.MoreLess
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