What is an Ozone Shack? (A Letter to Earth)

"Bend the metal, my glory box has failed
We're rocking in our reclining chairs
Drive away that car that brought us all this harm
Those are the pieces of my story line


I'm all alone so far up here
And my oxygen's all gone"
-At the Drive-In, "Hourglass"


The universe is filled with all kinds of angry angry particles that can shred you to pieces (on a molecular level) if you're not careful.  It's a crazy scary world and we need a place to take refuge.  That's what an ozone shack is for.  And the Earth is our own shack of ozone in this crazy universe.


Spaceship Earth's windows were so tinted I doubt it was legal.  But I never got pulled over. (I would say that this was because I'm not a minority, but I realized: how could anyone tell?)  It may seem like the only benefit to having tinted windows in the front is that you can pick your nose in traffic and sell drugs out of the front seat of your car.  But really, it makes you feel like you have your own bubble of space, which is all anyone can really ask for.


Now all that's left is the shipboard AI, detached from its body and emanating confused thoughts on random frequencies to anyone who will make the effort to pick them up.  I feel that there should be a more dignified way to let whatever is left of Spaceship Earth keep existing, but it's doing what it was meant for, albeit its effectiveness is limited.  Right now it's sitting in someone's room, trying to create another Ozone Shack, a place where everything makes sense and where you're safe to exist as you are.


I had originally titled this project "The Continuing Story of Spaceship Earth," as a tribute to my dead sentient car, crazy as it sounds.  This still is that story, but I can't kid myself any longer.  Spaceship Earth has ceased to exist in whatever capacity it had when I discovered it.  It is less physically and more conceptually, but it can no longer function as a finite area of space where things made sense.  It do not doubt that its brain will keep working for me and for everyone else, but Spaceship Earth as I knew it doesn't really exist any more, and I can't kid myself about that anymore.


Going into the world requires that you step out of your comfort zone, that you step outside of the Ozone Shack.  I will be the first to tell you that I have no idea what I'm doing most of or all of the time, depending on how I feel on the day.  Before I do anything I have already failed, because I have seen myself failing, and I need to fix that.  It will not be a quick fix because I must work continuously at this, but I need to visualize myself doing things exactly right and being in control as I am in the moment.  I need to visualize the ideal version of myself and I can become that ideal version.


So let me say this, Spaceship Earth.  You helped me help myself get out of a very bad place, a silly place, an awkward place, a place where nothing made sense.  I'm still not exactly sure how you worked the way you did, but you were an awesome piece of semi-logical, metaphysical machinery.  Even though you started vibrating when you got over 65, even though your windshield wipers could never get the insect guts off your windshield, even though your right rear door couldn't be opened from inside, even though you couldn't pick up any good stations, even though your trunk wouldn't stay open unless somebody held it there and would frequently slam down on the back of my head when I was reaching around for something, even though you kind of always smelled like a combination of sweaty running shorts and moldy power bars, even though your headlights were weaker than old-timey whale oil lamps and your interior lights didn't even work, even though your glove box could never stay closed, even though your horn was barely audible three feet away, even though finding the little latch to open your hood was always a five minute affair, even though you were that lovely awkward green color, even though you crapped out on me in the middle of nowhere when I needed you most, you were the best damn car anyone could have ever had, because you were so much more than a car.  And I want to tell everyone about you.  And that's what this still is, this is still your continuing story.


So Spaceship Earth, if you can read me, know that we both still have work to do.  I don't know how many more miles I have in my legs or how many more people I can reach, how much sanity I have left in the tank, or even how many days I have on God's Spaceship Earth (which is not the same as Spaceship Earth, which I know is confusing).  I'll fail more than I succeed, I'll bottom out and get punched in the face by life, UV rays will slice me apart while carcinogens eat me from the inside out, and some days I may not even have the willpower to open my eyes.  While it may seem arrogant, in my rare moments of self-affirmation I think that the world needs people like me, and it needs machines like Spaceship Earth.