YD6~14 Journey Crafting Duro Industries' Labyrinth

Vitrine of Consciousness, Synopsis:
Aetheria's personification of consciousness' 10-year odyssey, until birth, "You Are My Sunshine." Her first two years of her life. at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated in dramatic circumstances. her susceptible persistent Intensive Care Unit respiratory and neurologic problems volatilized – Sunshine’s mother departed from home taking her daughter with. Through the author's lifetime of notes, readers are drawn into a realm where personal psychic experiences beginning as a three-month-old newborn. As the author learns to write, the narrative unfolds the hybrid of the mind navigating the dichotomy between dark matter and radiant light, ultimately revealing a world seen through the captivating prism of neon plasma -- in other words, a maze of crystalline transparency.

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Website: Flash Memoir Chronicle Chapter 14:

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I’m driving the Western Bypass on Wednesday advanced morning trickle of traffic, until with executive privileges, coast turning with sight on the parked tail of cars on the gritty apron fronting Duro Industries’ administrative strip building halt in front of residential windows. With the ignition key tweak, I step from behind the door, with sight across the apron, a pair of meranti doors. I step across the threshold with the door leaf swing, clearing the shadowing walk-up. I step across the hallway with a glimpse at the telephonist women framed in the portrait hatches. 

I grasped the reticent door leaf, with shifting eyesight, as a hydraulic pressure swinging back to reveal a dimly lit ante-room. In a few strides, closing behind as my eyesight traversed a right glazed partitioned room to a system engineer standing among mainframe computers. From the man bearing a spectral language with his stance, I glimpse I diverted without consciousness, taking a light reflecting an abandoned IBM Personal Computer on a small wooden desk with a matching chair. While I’m heading to an abruptly drawn to a central H-steel column. I diverted from Shandoo, Hilton’s trusted assistant, standing preoccupied with a clerk behind a desk surrounded by filing cabinets. Search by a weird by-gone pool of ghostly bookkeepers, dipping quills into inkwell, hunched over open accounting ledgers. lofted yellowed fluorescent tubes expanding with a flush shady ceiling. a gloom sandwiched chill atmosphere.

I wove through desks right a diagonal course, right scanning the margin glass topped wainscot-panel partitioned offices to flash wood-laminated doors. I headed for the inviting doorway light, to figuring Hilton Rogoff’s hunched silhouette against the window. I neared to arouse his spectacles from an intense reading the crawl of printed digits, his gaze leaping the near desk littered with papers. Upon spotting me in the doorway, Hilton, with a decisive, telling gaze. ‘_Let me get this over with._’ He rose to his feet, restless and jittery in his small stature, to contour from behind his desktop cluttered with papers. I stepped back, on his way out, in a friendly tone says. “Come!” He weaved through vacant desks toward my earlier entryway, to pause in the niche, dropping a gaze onto the IBM PC, stating, “Here you are...”

As Hilton sweeps his gaze from my workplace, returning to his department, I pulled the chair, to release the backrest, and reach far back along the CPU box flank to the rear. Flick the switch, I observed the blue screen’s autoexec.bat text streaming lines, booting, pondering, “What’s on your mind?“ When offside, up walks the old man Eidelstein. He paused with an open shirt collar and a prominent belly, as if he instructed the reception to announce my arrival. He said, “Come, I’ll show you...”

I rose from my chair, following the footsteps of the old-man Eidelstein, lending me the door pressure to close behind. Passed by the paired women earphones’ headband in their hairs, talking with the hatch windows’ glaze their minds. At the end of hallway’s wing, Eidelstein’s eyes in anticipation behind the door. He cranks the door lever, strides past the swinging back door. I catch the door to the middle aisle through ghostly clerks to desks in the logistic hall. Eidelstein shears off, turning left away from a few figures engrossed by a desk and tall filing cabinets at the far street window corner. He approached a double pressed metal door frame, egressed by the painted doors to a shadowy courtyard, off right an expansion offered shelter to a former driveway, scattered massive riffled edges on steel coils—Tobianski’s signature, acquitted at insurance auctions of damaged goods. 

The old man, Eidelstein, strides across the breezeway into the shadows of the darkened iron industrial open-air shelter. We approach a native machinist’s handing a sheet's tongue on a wind-off reel’s silver metal steel coil, who squares up to the imposing hydraulic press. The machinist’s boot presses on the pedal, which ensued a concrete floor rumble. He retrieves wobbling between his hands a 2032 millimeters long blade. Handed to an assistant on standby, a machinist himself, carrying the wobbly blade, slotted the next bulging black machine’s jig—clack—rumble, retrieving the jagged blade’s ends, punched for a mitered end.

Machinists in blue overalls, from other jigged press, passing blades among themselves—clack—thump, as the black monsters punch along the blades’ length three buffer rubber holes, a middle lock latch, near the extremes hinge slots. A time and motion, as machinists’ hands proceed with blades piling up alongside black monster of a table agape. From spread hands, he fed and hold, to foot while pressing a bend. Forms the doorjamb, replace on the press, bend again, flip, with another fold forming a door rebate, with the architrave collar.

The man in blue, at hands a slender jamb, which he carries toward racks. Stack upright on the floor, labeled with the most popular dimensions of 114 width by 2032 in height. The jambs widespread along the shed’s darkened (IBR) Inverted Box Rib sheet metal cladding, the variations to the least common afar.

The old-man Eidelstein turns ambling to pauses, at natives in blues a bar to an old fashion monstrous press which snaps mitered ends shortening the feeding bar. Window frames and sashes’ element short lengths falling off stacked on the floor. He leads on with a pause by welders adorned wear, thick leather aprons, long thick gloves, heavy boots, and a hood, in cabins’ to dreary welding vinyl curtain frying flash burn—But what explains, “On-site service.” A man’s hands knock and twist sashes to fine closing before glazing — With a welder paired juxtaposed mitered rail and stile bar, ends culminate in a jig forge white heat smelting butt. Exiting the shed, alongside overhead doors and windows suspended on a trolley conveyor chain veering in the courtyard. But right across approached the middle-aged flabby crooked dispatch manager, walking the driveway riffling at hand delivery notes. With Eidelstein, I walked down the driveway behind the dispatch manager, leaving the flatbed horse and trailer Mercedes in the driveway. As he left, a few natives toil along the elevated loading platform to enter and exit the series of warehouse doors. In the shadows’ shine, leaning back stacked door frames and windows against the rear party wall.

The dispatch manager turns the corner away from the facing paired workshop’s rolled up doors. He steps alongside the suspended conveying doors and windows, to disappear behind the dark factory shed’s corner. I emerged, with Eidelstein turning the corner. While he paces, a gnawing patience at ending the tour, with the dispatch manager disappearing a distance short of a security guard at the gateway to the street. While my eyesight lags across the two-way broad driveway, a chief mechanic wax and holds conversing, with long stride from the vacant right repair bay’s shadows lingering a native assistant. Behind me they across the broad concrete yard’s turning circle suitable for horse and trailer to the courtyard's depth. Head toward a few Mercedes stripped to the cabin, undercarriages to remain in part wheeled to salvage Mercedes truck spare parts. 

Mr. Eidelstein marches alongside a silver built-in-cupboard frame suspended from the aerial chain. By a sharp turn, leading doors and windows short of a projecting dispatch office’s plastered and white painted wall. Across the driveway, a figure appears from behind a parked Mercedes truck’s muzzle. The driver heads away from a flatbed caged a load of red oxide doorframes, to disappear. While I’m captured by the red oxide tub, as stalagmites red oxide hooks, dip the silver frames to move and drown along the chain to rise proud in a red hue, dripping dry, to vanish around the corner to the courtyard between the factory shed and the warehouse.

Through paired “ND11F” window frames with side sashes, Mr. Eidelstein steps over the French doors’ threshold, sighing. “_’Here is your job. . ._’ Declaring. “There you are...” He heads straight, leaning right, while in the left corner the dispatch manager dropped off loading papers, fixated on me, exits behind. Left the driver leans on the dispatch counter athwart the room, eyeing a clerk invoicing, in a pool of desks to clerks. 

While across the middle aisle, in the room's rear, a clerk talks a handset speaker cup to his ear, the microphone to his jaw, with the horn attachment hooked on his collarbone. A pen in hand. He riffles an order book, fingers spider crawl, removing carbon papers to slip in between the next pristine pages. Ready to distribute the original, and distribute carbon copy through the administration, and proceed to manufacturing. 

While a dispatch clerk processes delivery notes to accompany the waiting driver on his delivery, Mr. Eidelstein turns away. He strides outside, turns up the driveway. Short of approaching the street, he ascends the perron to a side door niche in the corner. I’m left to catch the door, Mr. Eidelstein distancing along an offside glass partition, to disappear. 

Around the corner, I’m facing the backrest at an angle, catch up as the old-man Eidelstein edges by the coffee table, lowering himself sprawling arms. Hands lay on the matching wide plush couch sides cushions, telling. ‘_Not next to me!_’ But facing his executive suite, walls framed the man’s hobby, pictured with a piper. Meet his glazed eyes, as he figured, in front of the glazed partition, the passageway buffer blurs the sky over the factory sheds’ roof filtering light.  

With an eye, Mr. Eidelstein nods. ‘_Take a seat._’ I’m reticent, with a flashback to my apprenticeship days — With my father, de P’pa, seated in a grandfather chair. While my employer, Mr. Haas, returned from a far corner of the fireplace’s build-in-desk, to present around a box of Cuban cigars. Father doesn’t smoke, but I obliged, picking a cigar. Mr. Haas, the Cuban cigars, to lower himself in the nearby lounge chair, talks to father, but eyed me, smoking, saying. “You’ll never become a Master Builder.” Unfazed. ‘_As if I care. I’ve done two years!_’ The thought of three more years under his foreman, “Oom Jan” was inconceivable. Dizziness overcomes me, but maintained my composure, until shaking hands glade to step outdoors, gulp in fresh air.

Mr. Eidelstein talks, while I’m seated on the edge of the chair. In mind the egress door in the corner of my left eye, to the endless corridor. After his discourse, explaining the sales clerks’ need for a user-friendly order process, he excuses me.

I returned to the niche, contemplating the earlier text scrawled booting, reasoning. ‘_IBM PC! What have you got in your belly?_’ I pull the chair and sit, my fingers type at the “MS-DOS C:\” Prompt entering, “SQL. Enter.” To initiate Oracle’s database and spreadsheet, I alternated glances with the help file reading and testing. A slender figure, appears from behind the door leaf, hailing. “I’m closing up. ‘_You have to leave now._’ Hurried me to my feet, with a swift exit from Oracle, switched off the IBM PC, turning away, mapping my course outdoor to drive across the city to Knowles’ house.

I’m arriving at Duro Industries, settle by the niche IBM PC. Boot text afresh. My mind’s overnight transition from the sentient shadows—The dawn of my soul from the umbra into the penumbra, raising Helios’s aura’s teasing algorithm permeating to interface my refreshed brain. Reveals overnight further the previous day’s Oracle’s database and spreadsheet. My mind decrypt the matrix, about to reveal a blueprint panned, shoveled, organizing in depth my memory. 

With the Oracle Database’s spreadsheet layout on screen. Keying the least common door frame, of government specifications used in the Whitfield School construction, initiated a trial-and-error cell entry row for the input form, to toggle for an outcome between the spreadsheet and the database—.

Like an ethereal peacock’s coif’s smoking plume through my sleep, to a spectral branching canopy in cubism, alchemical Atomium’s 8 peripheral sphere—.

An arboreal rooting brain clasp, with Hydra soul of the central sphere, tentacles at will worming  connecting pipes reach peripheral spheres’s remote minds—.

Every morning I’m typing, “SQL.” flash oracle on screen, keying spreadsheet cells, my head thyme a distant sales office clerk, noting orders from callers. Fazed out a colloquial meaningful imperial-sized, drilled to mind since my apprenticeship, persisting on construction sites.

filling a grid track with a base code. Conduct testing, an adaptable language for the clerks in the sales office. A language is derived from the standard, but tailored to extend the rare sections of the pressed metal door frame. I engage in a colloquial form of coding phrases, rhyming. ‘_One-one-four — two-thirty_,’ Input “114” into the first cell, the predominant residential door frame, In the next cell the door width, “813,” then the height “2032” abbreviating the half-brick wall, plaster-on-both-sides, as “p2.” 

Eidelstein’s son paused by my shoulder, offering a few friendly words, saying. “Try it out… ‘_Tell me what you think of it?’_” He places Norton Utilities’ diskette on the corner of the desk, and proceeds toward the mess room. That evening, heading home, I bring the diskettes with me. When I install the user-friendly software, I sense my body manifests a warming rejoicing love. instead of err  MS-DOS commands jumbled my fingers’ typed letters, two windows, listed folders and files to manage by the menu. 

As I delve into the digitalization of the manufacturing process, after a stroll through the factory, with machinists, in my niche to sit facing the IBM PC screen, in the subsequent weeks, my fingers piano across the keyboard, “SQL “ The screen splash the Oracle database - tick, tick . . . - the hard drive head while flickering light. I code the door frame, “762” variant, “686,” considering the thinner metal gauge. Account for the half-brick wall, a-brick wide, to cavity-wall. From single-door, double-doors. Right-hand, or left, opening-in or -out door frames. One-side-brick, one-side_plaster, to add transom-lights. before I tackle window frames, I saved the files, a preemptive transfer onto the mainframe at integrating the invoicing and accounting process. 

I tackled the yard gates, build-in-cupboard frames, to transformer doors, coding a trail of codes that ends with each product’s price. By mid-morning, an eerie - ring, ring, ring - spread a chill from my spine. Wish to silence the ringing, taking a break from the screen, I grip the handset, to my surprise, Mr. Eidelstein’s voice saying. “Come over to my office!” I hang up the handset, rising from my chair, turn the corner of my desk, pull the hydraulic’s hesitant door, clearing the reception hallway. 

Veering right toward the opening, edging the corner to the narrow corridor. My eyesight navigating through transoms’ light fuzz daylight to the corridor. Midway, across the wall fuzzy stance of daylight, a doorway crack in my approach clears the office to a dour Tobianski. his figure dwarf behind an executive desk, illuminated by slender windows’ light between a pair of pillars. I stepped on, approaching the corridor’s end to an open door. I inched across the threshold clearing the office, offside left, in the dimmed depths, the old-man Eidelstein burly blinding with his desk, my presence catching his eyes. His gaze calls me in.

Returned to my desk, the dot matrix printer - ERRRNK...CHK-CHK...PRRRK - listing my work. I returned to Mr. Eidelstein, handing a neat stack of square continuous paper. Then spun away to coil back into my seat behind the IBM PC monitor. Until I’m breaking - Ring - ring - ring - Mr. Eidelstein called me back. I uncoiled, revert to approach his hefty antiqueish wooden desk, as he leans over a desk pad to the few stacked perforated paper — I saw red, childish likes of my elementary teacher’s corrections — with a welder’s scribbles margin over the black printed ink, and the extent of the blue-bar. Reworded, dwindling from the top, dribbling red ink a third down the page, abandoned rewriting the remaining door frames. 

The burly old-man glare — throwing the sheets of papers fluttering back in my face — contained being misunderstood, saying. “_’This is not user-friendly_!’ How can the sale staff read this?” I realized Eidelstein wasn’t open to hearing me out, I responded without voice. ‘_They’ll get used to codes upfront, a description wrapping up until printing out the invoice_.’