The Dream Factory: Stories from Port Desespoir, Michigan

Within the strip of wetlands between the landscape and builders' supply and our plant property were two dead trees: one a young elm we called Gracey, the other an older Red Maple we named George. The other motley group of trees seemed to thrive in their fractal way, but these majestic ones seemed to fall victim to the noise and hub-bub around them. The wetlands were struggling, too. It was a small area caged by a fence on the old railroad property.

I looked around for old photos and films. The technology exists to rebuild the site, to photo-shop the reality and to refurbish George and Gracey, if only we could retrieve enough detail: then we would have not the infinite detail of reality, but we could emulate it, we could make it Mobius on itself, build a Klein Bottle topological film out of it and make pretend that what we had was endless!

So I went over to the yard next door and talked to the manager, who had an office next to the truck scales where they weighed the trucks in empty and weighed them out loaded with mulch, top soil, and what ever else they sold there... see if they had any digital records and images of the trees. He had a beard and was husky... affable and busy. He said he look into it. I never heard back. People just don't care about rescuing the past from itself.

Last time I saw him, he was one of the poor slobs rushing to get out of the old Pantages Theater/Shopping Mall which had been apparently scheduled for demolition, but nobody had posted the notices... nobody had told anyone, so the old Victorian structure was coming down around their ears as they rushed down the staircase!
I saw a portly banker jump out a side window and grab onto the portico of the building next door. He swung himself up with surprising ease for a big guy with a gut. His morning coat was open and I could see his gold vest with $ signs.
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