the grand factory Hicham Bensassi Outside the gates a crowd had formed around a uniformed figure, scattered hands raged across the yard pointing blender
with sharpened fingers, any which way he could get a reaction from his newly made audience. His right eye had a sort of slant that made people fix their gaze on his left, this was a trick he had learnt from his old days in the cells, allowing him to process their meters in his head while holding up a rap,
these were bad times, or so they thought, wrapped up in their mathematic depression. Inside angry bees were pounding at the light bulbs, one by one filling in on electric wheelchairs, corresponding buzz switches plagued the space with random machine belches, clockwork hangovers, monday love. Olli was in hour three of ten, his need for time keeping was now minimal, he focused on the machine parts, motor, belt, circuit… screw tip of rod to top clip, repeat, The factory was a tower block, a man made brick finger shooting towards the sun, Sixty floors of monotony, with a central lift, never stopping and windows had long been scrapped. Boss man was prowling, like a time fiend through the aisles, talking to a headless voice on his grey phone “Take out the tax and you get ten years of missing information, yeah but there’s so many six week attachment plans”. His voice melted into skwarks of metal, conveyor belt rhythms and sleepy clunks of precision, Olli stared at him as he passed, analysing his posture, his accent, obvious bragging like a good knodent, a term invented by the workers for the mindless know it alls that spent their days punching buttons pretending to be “running the place”, the lights dimmed, ready for the afternoon tannoy announcement, the machinery ground to a trudging slow speed operation, “All second floor machine attendants, will now be needed for part four of the aptitude examination, please report to floor twenty seven. All other attendants may continue” Complaints with tiny electrics, missing with foolish water, and the attendant booths: isolated dark grey mini cabins sank backward, visible space outside booth: small rectangular section for the attendant to reach the present object on the belt, allowing the attendant the allotted time to complete process like the ones in the pictures, for a moment of immobility, until the next component is dragged into view. Equipped with water dispenses and slots for lunch trays to be placed through at the specified time up in the gutters, leviathanic hymns and faint scattering heights, a trip to the toilet permitted every two hours, Olli had been there a year next Tuesday, Performing in antiques, the last Tuesday he planned to spend there naked in hundreds, back to the cold fruitless bursts of the burning funnels… Screw tip of rod to top clip, repeat… Monday screamed back with a slap. 20x20 magazine | page 8
Published on Dec 15, 2010
20x20 magazine is a square platform for writings, visuals and cross-bred projects. These are sample pages from issue two of 20x20 magazine,...