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I never understood the “why” behind peeling a potato; undressing the roasted freckles  to leave squirting milky skin strips to decompose in a kitchen pipe, while the bare white naked potato flesh exposes the censored universe we were never supposed to indulge in the first place;

At least not before tasting its roots first. 

For the purpose of this meal, there are oven baked skin potatoes, and for the main course

an elevator. 

The only great invention of our time: The elevator; dressed with twenty one buttons down caging a bronze rhombus vest that with the call of a belt,

and a stubborn “open sesame”

swallows overdressed fishermen that sell  bonds to fish banks, and spits them a couple downwards floors up due to their indigestible arrogant blue sweat. Under their mad beaver hats and algae filled crocodile suitcases these fisherman net gills with unlucky salt shakers and tune out the bluesy hums of the elevator. All suspended somewhere in a brief second with no location the packed sardines afraid of a sneezed hold their breaths inside the bronze vest. 

You see, this elevator behind closed doors could be both in the negatives and the positives at the same time; at the lobby or the basement or chasing cloud tails with cigarette butts all at once. The horizontal stagnation but vertical omnipresence allowed for inertia under its opposing definitions to coexist; the elevator was a forever moving, forever still object at the same time. From the top view the elevator would always remain at rest, but from the side view the elevator would always remain in motion. 

Definitions for inertia also claim that objects continue their movement/stillness until a force acts upon that object.  I've never believed in forces; forces are just tangible perspectives, and this is why the elevator is the only great invention of our time. Its invention purpose, to help flimsy lazy rubber fins to reach new heights, is a default for its actual purpose of an oxymoronic embodiment. 

They not only defy  time, but also space. There is a reason why elevators have mirrors, they can create an endless universe reflected on the confinement of twenty squared feet. The small packed space stretches to all directions in endless frames of repetition. It can create a sustainable population with just one sole individual. 

Elevators are the line that connects point A with point B. Elevators are never a destination; they are the journey. No one has purposefully planned a trip with the objective of seeing an elevator, they are automatically dismissed as an object of function rather than experience. We use elevators in the same way we use potato peelers, peeling waiting for the object to undress doors revealing a sight appealing more tasteful stimuli. However, this common misconception is wrong. Elevators should be categorized with cars, crueships, airplanes, or sailboats. They are not a tool, they are a chariot. They are the closest thing we have to a time machine, taking us back to fringe lace dresses and jazz spilling martinis only to open the door into a shark tank with suits. 

This capsule that blocks phone signal forces eyes to browse out their screens and stare at the blissful ketchup stain in your patent leather shoes. Ketchup from greasy thin sliced street french fries. The eyes staring at the floor because lifting your head up would entitle you to talk about the weather. So one much rather stare at the ketchup ink blot that resembles the red sea. The lucky sea that's red seen by the unlucky blood that's blue. 

The other strangers in the fish tank, stuck with you holding your breath, are just passer-bys, cordial head nods. It takes too much energy to actually invest in more than a head nod or half lip smile in an elevator because its brief temporary existence is underrated by brevity. Morphing energy from a russet potato to light doesn’t happen often. Shoulder to shoulder everyone might as well engage in deep silence.

Dessert is over. Mashed, fried, oven baked. Buried underground. Born underground. Whipped with salt. Censored in a pipe. Swimming in a fish tank. Up and down.

So we can continue to peel potatoes, cut the crust of our sandwiches, eat elevators and use planes as spoons.  

We insist on peeling the universe leaving it all foggy and cloudy, and letting the sink garbage disposal to swallow the stars. Constellations never connected, disposed and shredded. 

Stories usually go from point A to point B, but sometimes the best part of an unorthodox tale is chasing tails in an elevator ride. 

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