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.

Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or,

what age group of the reader, the
gender, in a sentence your opinion.
Thank You!

Flash Memoir chronicle Chapter

14:

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_.’