Today, at the top of the escalator leaving Metro Center in DC, I found the perfectly horrific intersection between nature and the imposed mechanical world of humans.
A single red rose petal was floating delicately on the edge of the teeth of the disappearing escalator steps. If you haven't noticed, there are grooves in the steps that you ride up on and there are teeth that are supposed to make the transition from exposed step to the receding underground step smooth so nobody (and nobody's scarf) gets eaten by the escalator demons. The rose petal was sitting on top of the teeth with the steps crawling steadily by millimeters away and threatening. It was uncomfortable, a feeling I have had a few times recently in my complicated little life. The petal was perhaps a moment or week from being caught or kicked and stuffed into the grinding mechanism meant to keep our big feet out, and the little feet of such delicate objects treated with disdain. It is a matter of scale, like building sized bulldozers moving mountains with the little ant of a person in the cockpit.
Of course, the petal was likely from a rose picked and processed at some factory farm, sprayed, handled and packaged for our consumption. I try not to be too skeptical or cynical, but the fact (such as it is) is that we manage too much.
Good luck petal at the crux of the intersection of nature and human unkind.
A single red rose petal was floating delicately on the edge of the teeth of the disappearing escalator steps. If you haven't noticed, there are grooves in the steps that you ride up on and there are teeth that are supposed to make the transition from exposed step to the receding underground step smooth so nobody (and nobody's scarf) gets eaten by the escalator demons. The rose petal was sitting on top of the teeth with the steps crawling steadily by millimeters away and threatening. It was uncomfortable, a feeling I have had a few times recently in my complicated little life. The petal was perhaps a moment or week from being caught or kicked and stuffed into the grinding mechanism meant to keep our big feet out, and the little feet of such delicate objects treated with disdain. It is a matter of scale, like building sized bulldozers moving mountains with the little ant of a person in the cockpit.
Of course, the petal was likely from a rose picked and processed at some factory farm, sprayed, handled and packaged for our consumption. I try not to be too skeptical or cynical, but the fact (such as it is) is that we manage too much.
Good luck petal at the crux of the intersection of nature and human unkind.
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