The shortest chapter in the book. Here it is in its entirety. A glowing paean to the glories of Moderan man's Stronghold.
THE STRONGHOLD
The Stronghold - under its steel roof hangs all that we are meant. It is a place that corners off the mind, new-metal mind. Some days I tour my Stronghold and that is all I will do, just gloating on the power that I own and the indestructible presence that it and I comprise. From the top down she is wonder, fixed in steel-concrete and new-metal steel. She is protection. She is threat. She is "don't tread on me" but "I definitely WILL tread on you!" You cannot trust a Stronghold unless you are in it and it is yours. Then you can trust a Stronghold. The tours will be enjoyable then, from the top down, from the bottom up.
As you perhaps do not know, my Stronghold is walled cylinders tipped with cones, the tops of which stick far far up toward where heaven is not, nor ever was, although once thought to be, yes, strongly thought to be! Atop the tips my flags stack up like challenges, like chins stuck out, like threats, like braggadocio, like accomplishments. They are all these. And more. They are the coal black pennons emblazoned with the glowing-glinting-gleaming number 10. And sometimes, in a manufactured wind, when they all fly and flap it is a show!
Other than the glowing-glinting-gleaming number 10 there is on the pennons one decoration and one only, a cruel, big-bladed war hammer in shrieking orange. It is a tool to pound the world down and, while pounding, slice it.
Comments
Post a Comment