The Mephistophelean Manifesto

I really like the word derelict and I also tend to like things that are derelict.

I've found that I have an odd attraction to crumbling buildings, rotting houses and the rusted hulks that used to be Fords and Chevys. As a child I searched out junkyards and would spend hours and days just looking at old stuff.

As I was driving past a staved in and rusted trailer house the other day I was subject to a sort of epiphany about it all. My fascination stems not so much from the object but from the history behind the object.

At some point in time these relics were the very pinnacle of import to someone. Someone dreamed up the design, someone planned the manufacturing, someone advertised the product, someone sold it, someone loved it and bought it. How could it now be so unimportant as to rest by the roadside uncared for? What happened to all of those people who brought whatever it was to life? I love to look at the lines, the designs, the styles of things past and see how those motifs were echoed elsewhere. I love radios from the 20's, 30's and 40's. I love how the old diners and buildings looked just like those radios and how the design sensibilities permeated the culture of the time. Seeing these things discarded works just like a time machine for me though where I go in my mind is an idealized representation of what was.

Secondary to this I realized that the search for motivation is one root of my never tiring fascination for all that is derelict. I wonder why things are the way they are and my mind is ever cross referencing this tidbit to that one.

Today, as I wander through junkyards and crumbling buildings I know that I am like them. I am degenerating exactly as they are, my facade showing rust and age as theirs does. In the religion threads people are arguing whether someone toiled to make me or whether I'm a cosmic accident. It doesn't much matter to me to be honest. That's almost ironic, isn't it?