There was a dog food factory in Marion, Ohio, and Dad and I went there to balance their giant grinder that was used to grind the flesh and bone of horses for dog food. It was a giant heavy steel machine, a ten foot in diameter steel pocket watch shaped machine with a greasy steel grate in front of it and steel steps leading up to it, where Dad stood like the Sistine Chapel painting by Michalangelo, the one where the rapturous muscled man reaches out to heaven to touch God with his fingertips. This is not an unreasonable scene to conger as the giant steel blades whir, out of balance and vibrating the concrete floor where I stood observing as Dad stood on the greasy grate, leaning slightly forward into the wind and roar of the raging blades just inches away, holding out the flickering strobe light that flashed in microsecond bursts of light on the spinning blades, and froze them in front of our eyes, creating an errie and enticing sensation and an that alluring desire to reach out and touch the blades that seemed to be in frozen motion.
It would be safe, our senses told us, it would be safe to touch the solid steel that shone before us in the raging din. So slow so freeze frame slow, so distinct and 3D so frozen in the strobe light was the motion of the giant blades, the frozen chopper in the deceptive strobe, which hid the vicious spinning movement. This movement of the giant rotating blades, these steel cutters designed to grind up bone into meal in nothing flat, the motion of the heavy steel blades spinning at a thousand revolutions a minute, was completely frozen by the strobe light Dad held, tricking our eyes, and making the dangerous seem safe, daring you to touch, daring you to reach your hand out and touch the frozen blades, daring you to feel the solid heavy piece of steel, cold against your pink fingers, daring you to reach that hand out right now to touch the solid piece of steel. All the while your mind is calm, your mind does not detect the raging of the movement, the blurring speed, the roar of the motor incongruously loud as you see the frozen spin of the cold flashing steel of the blades designed to crush horse bones, designed to chop the flesh and hair and sinew of the dead horses in the dog food plant in Marion Ohio.
And there stands Dad, leaning forward into the dinny roar, as if suspended merely by the solid sound of heavy steel slashing air, spinning up a blur at thousands of revolutions per minute, and the wind in his face from the ten foot diameter blades cutting through the air right in front of his face, him leaning forward, feet spaced apart for support, aiming the flashing strobe like some space man's laser ray, shining it on the whirling steel as he poses statute-like, ready, receptive, the eye that sees everything and nothing in the flash of the strobe which now freezes the wild winding steel, and displays the motionless blades as thought they were rock still, belying the roar and the wind off the blades that tells the bare naked truth about their dangerous spin. And there stands Dad, he himself all frozen too in a tai chi stance. It seems almost as if some larger thing was shining a big old strobe on everything, as if some giant stood above us, and shining a strobe on me and Dad and the dog food factory and Marion, Ohio, and the farms and fields around it, shining the flashing strobe so that all movement is frozen, all is flashing one-step-at-a-time, silent movie-like, herky jerky slow motion, until the phase is dialed in until the exact phase rate is calculated and the motion is completely frozen, completely stopped, and will not go another step. Dad is being frozen in the motion of freezing, I am being frozen in the process of seeing Dad being frozen in the motion of freezing.
Just then, Dad throws the switch, the din comes down, the sound whines down, the blade is unlocked from its frozen motion, we see it spin, and gradually slow down as Dad turns from the spinning steel and leans over to lay down the strobe, and steps down the steel grate steps as the sound goes down down down, and the spinning stops, and I can hear the sound of Dad's steps on the steel grate as he walks down them and looks over at me, and smiles.
Outside, the loading dock scene is gray and cold. I notice the bent trash barrels, the darkened brick walls, the concrete floor. Through the big garage door, I see the inside of the massive factory, high ceiling, with big steel ducts, and water pipes and wiring off into infinity. I peer into the gloomy cave of the factory, the scene behind the grinding machine. Guys walk here and there back and forth in stained white uniforms, mixtures of grease and blood on white shirts and white pants, and they wear white baseball caps that say the name of the dog food that they make, and the place smells like grease and blood and rotting meat, and I stand on the loading dock, just looking around, just hanging around and waiting, while Dad has gone to talk to somebody about how he’s fixed the vibration in their grinding machine.
It would be safe, our senses told us, it would be safe to touch the solid steel that shone before us in the raging din. So slow so freeze frame slow, so distinct and 3D so frozen in the strobe light was the motion of the giant blades, the frozen chopper in the deceptive strobe, which hid the vicious spinning movement. This movement of the giant rotating blades, these steel cutters designed to grind up bone into meal in nothing flat, the motion of the heavy steel blades spinning at a thousand revolutions a minute, was completely frozen by the strobe light Dad held, tricking our eyes, and making the dangerous seem safe, daring you to touch, daring you to reach your hand out and touch the frozen blades, daring you to feel the solid heavy piece of steel, cold against your pink fingers, daring you to reach that hand out right now to touch the solid piece of steel. All the while your mind is calm, your mind does not detect the raging of the movement, the blurring speed, the roar of the motor incongruously loud as you see the frozen spin of the cold flashing steel of the blades designed to crush horse bones, designed to chop the flesh and hair and sinew of the dead horses in the dog food plant in Marion Ohio.
And there stands Dad, leaning forward into the dinny roar, as if suspended merely by the solid sound of heavy steel slashing air, spinning up a blur at thousands of revolutions per minute, and the wind in his face from the ten foot diameter blades cutting through the air right in front of his face, him leaning forward, feet spaced apart for support, aiming the flashing strobe like some space man's laser ray, shining it on the whirling steel as he poses statute-like, ready, receptive, the eye that sees everything and nothing in the flash of the strobe which now freezes the wild winding steel, and displays the motionless blades as thought they were rock still, belying the roar and the wind off the blades that tells the bare naked truth about their dangerous spin. And there stands Dad, he himself all frozen too in a tai chi stance. It seems almost as if some larger thing was shining a big old strobe on everything, as if some giant stood above us, and shining a strobe on me and Dad and the dog food factory and Marion, Ohio, and the farms and fields around it, shining the flashing strobe so that all movement is frozen, all is flashing one-step-at-a-time, silent movie-like, herky jerky slow motion, until the phase is dialed in until the exact phase rate is calculated and the motion is completely frozen, completely stopped, and will not go another step. Dad is being frozen in the motion of freezing, I am being frozen in the process of seeing Dad being frozen in the motion of freezing.
Just then, Dad throws the switch, the din comes down, the sound whines down, the blade is unlocked from its frozen motion, we see it spin, and gradually slow down as Dad turns from the spinning steel and leans over to lay down the strobe, and steps down the steel grate steps as the sound goes down down down, and the spinning stops, and I can hear the sound of Dad's steps on the steel grate as he walks down them and looks over at me, and smiles.
Outside, the loading dock scene is gray and cold. I notice the bent trash barrels, the darkened brick walls, the concrete floor. Through the big garage door, I see the inside of the massive factory, high ceiling, with big steel ducts, and water pipes and wiring off into infinity. I peer into the gloomy cave of the factory, the scene behind the grinding machine. Guys walk here and there back and forth in stained white uniforms, mixtures of grease and blood on white shirts and white pants, and they wear white baseball caps that say the name of the dog food that they make, and the place smells like grease and blood and rotting meat, and I stand on the loading dock, just looking around, just hanging around and waiting, while Dad has gone to talk to somebody about how he’s fixed the vibration in their grinding machine.