Pipes
Sick, so overwhelmingly sick. Fever and chills, then the tacky, clammy damp on my pillow as the fever broke and I couldn't get cooled off fast enough. Back and forth, all night long, over and over. The deep ache in my bones and my muscles, the incredible feeling of heaviness, just wanting to lie down, close my eyes and sleep, but my mind racing, revved by the temperature swings, fighting its own struggle with the sickness.
And it was pipes. It was a schematic, a little drawing the size of a deck of cards on an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper (unruled). As I watched, it became translucent, a lucite and plexiglass schematic of interconnected pipes. It was an Escher drawing, the pipes connected in impossible angles and combinations, overlapping across so many dimensions that I couldn't keep track.
And then it was the size of a postage stamp, and I had to bring the paper close to see what I was doing.
And somehow I was forced to describe this system. I had to describe it technically, in complete detail. I had to codify directions and flow, flow rates, diameters and circumfrences, pipe bore, pressure variations. I had to measure run and flow, flow rate, minimums and maximums, and any variations. I had to measure angles, and changes in direction, across all of the dimensions I could observe. And the thing kept changing, always changing. Now it was almost the size of the paper on which it lived. I could watch it move and shift as I held the paper, pulsating, bigger and then smaller.
And I had to produce charts. Hundreds of graphs and charts showing every possible kind of measurement describing the cursed system. Every measurement had to be compared to every other one graphically, with one or two shown variables. Then all of them, the different combinations. It was a book in itself, just the goddamn graphics to describe this thing that never stopped changing. I had no place to start, no point of reference, because nothing was ever static long enough to measure it and begin the process or definining and describing. I owed answers to someone, and someone would be expecting my work, but there was no one to ask, no one to give me any help, just the pressing, heavy feeling of being under a deadline, being under an oppressive need to start, just so I could finish. The mental and physical stress were getting to me.
And all through this, some term, "CV" as constant in every theorem, in every formula. It was some kind of analytical code that was constant to every part of the system, the CV factor or rate or constant. I had no idea what it was, which only added to my dread and fear of failure.
And I was so tired, so incredibly tired. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and just sleep. I wanted so badly to just walk away from it, to drop it and never have to deal with it again, to leave the pulsating, endlessly internally generating knot of twisted pipes and tubes behind me. I wanted to free myself of thoughts of it, the kind of oppressive thoughts that carried actual weight, that made me feel as if the anguish would never end.
And throughout it all, I knew I was trying to sleep. I was sick, feverish, miserable, and I knew that I just needed to quiet my mind and my body, sleep peacefully, and recuperation would go that much faster. Even with that knowledge in my sleep-consciousness, I still couldn't wipe fucking "CV" from my mind, nor the recurring vision of the transluscent pipes, slowly sprouting more bends and runs, pushing more pipes forward and backward, always changing, never sitting still long enough to answer any of the questions put to me.
And it was pipes. It was a schematic, a little drawing the size of a deck of cards on an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper (unruled). As I watched, it became translucent, a lucite and plexiglass schematic of interconnected pipes. It was an Escher drawing, the pipes connected in impossible angles and combinations, overlapping across so many dimensions that I couldn't keep track.
And then it was the size of a postage stamp, and I had to bring the paper close to see what I was doing.
And somehow I was forced to describe this system. I had to describe it technically, in complete detail. I had to codify directions and flow, flow rates, diameters and circumfrences, pipe bore, pressure variations. I had to measure run and flow, flow rate, minimums and maximums, and any variations. I had to measure angles, and changes in direction, across all of the dimensions I could observe. And the thing kept changing, always changing. Now it was almost the size of the paper on which it lived. I could watch it move and shift as I held the paper, pulsating, bigger and then smaller.
And I had to produce charts. Hundreds of graphs and charts showing every possible kind of measurement describing the cursed system. Every measurement had to be compared to every other one graphically, with one or two shown variables. Then all of them, the different combinations. It was a book in itself, just the goddamn graphics to describe this thing that never stopped changing. I had no place to start, no point of reference, because nothing was ever static long enough to measure it and begin the process or definining and describing. I owed answers to someone, and someone would be expecting my work, but there was no one to ask, no one to give me any help, just the pressing, heavy feeling of being under a deadline, being under an oppressive need to start, just so I could finish. The mental and physical stress were getting to me.
And all through this, some term, "CV" as constant in every theorem, in every formula. It was some kind of analytical code that was constant to every part of the system, the CV factor or rate or constant. I had no idea what it was, which only added to my dread and fear of failure.
And I was so tired, so incredibly tired. All I wanted to do was close my eyes and just sleep. I wanted so badly to just walk away from it, to drop it and never have to deal with it again, to leave the pulsating, endlessly internally generating knot of twisted pipes and tubes behind me. I wanted to free myself of thoughts of it, the kind of oppressive thoughts that carried actual weight, that made me feel as if the anguish would never end.
And throughout it all, I knew I was trying to sleep. I was sick, feverish, miserable, and I knew that I just needed to quiet my mind and my body, sleep peacefully, and recuperation would go that much faster. Even with that knowledge in my sleep-consciousness, I still couldn't wipe fucking "CV" from my mind, nor the recurring vision of the transluscent pipes, slowly sprouting more bends and runs, pushing more pipes forward and backward, always changing, never sitting still long enough to answer any of the questions put to me.
posted by Scrumpox at 9:09 AM
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