Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Travelogue, the second!

It is done, again. 

I'm confident that this is more reflective of Giacomo Balla's vision. Also I'm wary of sounding as cheerful as I do in this travelogue, indeed Gyro is a marvel, one that fills it's citizens with wonder, and I just needed to get over the notion that I can't write majestically. (That's H.P Lovecraft's fault, I will eternally blame him.)

If one finds themselves awakened by a sound, a hum of electric; faint and crackling with a hair raising closeness, or even if waking in an unnaturally darkened room, wondering at the oddity of being in shadow when the sun should be warming the edges of the room, they need only leave their abode and look up and see the reason, in all its majesty. A mirage, an impossibility made real in violent glory.

There in the sky you will not miss it, a mass of land and metal; skyscrapers of curves, supplanted with grid-like scaffolding, repeating until the eye is weary, floating there, a non-euclidean mass, as if it were not such a rare sight to see a city amongst the clouds. Inconspicuous and unaware of the panic caused by such a sheer sight of the weird, such mastery of the natural law. But to gaze upon such sights is to gaze upon a painting, an object that we can only view and never interact with. Unbeknownst to most is the knowledge of how to arrive on the great city, as it is not at once obvious on how to ascend to the heavens and has kept many people confused for years.

The simple fact is that you arrive by invitation. Hoisted high via closely guarded docks, making a rather turbulent ascent, and as you are received via the receiving deck you pass through the high vaulted foyer, distinct with flourishes of red and gold in the form of fabrics, placed upon a shell of metal. As you take in the sheer magnificence of this space a soft wailing becomes apparent, calmly crescendoing from beyond a series of shutters and finally a oddly placed cyclopean door.  Men and women sheathed within clothing of such splendid dalliance of colour greet you with warm smiles as they open the large doors barring your way into the city of Gyro. There you are greeted with your first sight of Gyro, whatever that may be.

For it is said of Gyro - the city that spins - that it is easy to lose oneself if traveling without care, that no sight will ever be shared between fellow travellers, for nothing in Gyro is ever the same on any given day. In constant motion, the city redefines itself anew like a puzzle waiting to be solved. To those who have shared in the luck required to be invited to Gyro, many have said that they have entered into the city via the gardens of Gyro, thick and lush with plump and ever ripe vegetation, whereas others remember their first sight being filled with that of walking down the main street where performers of all creeds and disciplines ply their craft for crowds of happy viewers, some even mentioning emerging through the speedways and bearing witness to the latest season of motor racing, which relies on such breakneck speeds and impossible odds; the young of Gyro competing and postulating for pole position and the glory of Gyro! The salient fact shared amongst each description is the scale and abundance of everything; electronic boutiques set up to resemble places of holy significance, motorcar showrooms featuring tuned transportation to instill a speed thrill amongst the masses, shops stacked upon shops, vertical bazaars that seem as impermanent as the city of Gyro itself.

The sound heard earlier now magnified and placeable in view; three super-rings, slowly spinning above and below the ground of Gyro. In amongst these lie a network of tubes, otherwise invisible save for the slight glint of light caught from the sun. Smarter men than I take pleasure in explaining in slavish detail the why’s of how it keeps Gyro aloft, but the very fact that it is still aloft is a mystery to most and within that lies the secret which keeps the myth of Gyro alive.

The secret to navigating Gyro is it’s system of transport, widely purported to be the most efficient and happily, accident free for 16 months. Under the command of the chief Prognosticator, appropriately named because she’s a chief and a prognosticator, meaning she’s the best at what she does, which is to say, she is the best at anticipating the movements of Gyro in such a way as to avoid pileups in the gunnery tubes. The main transportation between a and b, through to z in the muddle of Gyro. This system unifies the large sectors of housing sometimes located on the outskirts, the rain generator - a marvel of technology that fuses hydrogen and oxygen to supply Gyro with water despite its status as being aloft - and the causeways sometimes leading to the kinetic electric generators or possibly towards the solar sivs, drinking in the sunlight and providing Gyro with it’s warmth. All of these wonders accessible by way of a separate system of tubes and the iron vestibules dubbed “bullets” that plummet within them.

At night, if one finds themselves at all bored or flushed by exuberance with all the activity daytime brings, then perhaps visit the amusement sector; a neonscape illuminating Gyro in unfamiliar hues, where one can spend their time as a socialite mingling with other travellers as equally lost and equally as enthralled in the game of Gyro. Or perhaps placing wagers on the speedways, hedging what bets you can, for are the stakes ever that high in the pursuit of something? The city that cannot be cracked, that entices, plays and ultimately tricks, for just as the traveller feels as though they have found their footing, Gyro is quick to remind them of its multi-faceted ways and as quick as the notion of familiarity is raised, so to is it cast aside.

If you find yourself at all lost in the maze of Gyro, it can be said with much certainty that you will never be found, but amongst the bustle of the endless streets, the flaneur of Gyro cannot be blamed for not caring. In the infinitesimal design of the ever-changing city it is easy to find a distraction.

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