Metaphysics at Gas Works Park in Seattle

This is the blog of Mark Wordsworm, the travelling worm. I’m a 25-year-old bookmark (I haven’t aged at all since I first wrote this introduction) and I proudly boast my own Hallmark serial number, 95 HBM 80-1. You’ll probably want to read all about me and my Travelling Companion (the TC).

Today’s travel notes

Me and the TC strolled down to Gas Works Park, on the banks of Lake Union in Seattle.

Crows cawing, swifts swooping, seaplanes buzzing overhead: Gas Works Park is a scene of calm and beauty with a touch of surreality. In the depths of the park, surrounded by giant tanks and cranks, we met a metaphysical mastermind and chatted about the intricate, delicate state of our currently accepted reality, bendable by artificial intelligence and by the super intelligence granted to some rare individuals.

The book I’m in

Never Go Back, by Robert Goddard. Two hapless RAF veterans find themselves mixed up in murder and mayhem, tied up in a nice bit of historical cold war skulduggery.

The photos

Me taking advantage of an abandoned bicycle for a quick pic on the approach to the park:

Geese abound on the grassy slopes. This cyclist took care to move slowly through the gaggle:

You can rely on a goose to have a good grasp on reality:

A bright bicycle is dwarfed by the tanks, staircases, platforms, and chimneys of the old gas works:

For 50 years, from 1906 to 1956, a coal gasification plant occupied this piece of land. The machinery was used to convert coal into gas, which the citizens of Seattle used to power their homes: lights, cooking, refrigeration, and heating.

Now much of the machinery is fenced off. Look closely at the photo below for another glimpse of me:

Entangled intricacies of piping and platforms:

People cavort beneath the pipes:

Graffiti has its say:

Some bits and bobs of the old gasification plant have been brightly painted and put on display:

While me and the TC were taking the above photo, we met the person who’d founded the Church of Craig.  He’d also hobnobbed with metaphysical geniuses at the centre of the universe (in Seattle that’s a real thing) and found the secret way into the fenced-off playground at the old gas works. The TC and me now belong to an elite group of twelve who know the entrance. To gain access, you have to suspend your belief in the commonly accepted reality.

Shadows stretch out from the giant tanks while Seattle basks in the summer sun:

A seaplane soars free:

That’s all for today, folks.

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