The Feral and the Factory

My usual desolated warehouse location was a tad overpopulated being a workday; I was used to the normal weekend abandonment where my friends and I could hang out for hours without interruption. All of my pictures of that place went down with my laptop's motherboard.
The Great Crash, when I learned to start backing my precious photos on a portable hardrive.

Last time, that place, it was nothing short of sweltering. Probably one of the hottest memories I own: our skin sticky and salty from ocean water, surrounded by nothing but hot, grey concrete reflecting an even hotter sun with a wisely selected steaming bucket of fried chicken for the lunch menu. But we enjoyed ourselves somehow; we went rummaging about like raccoons and found a crate of these massive, rusty crane hooks. I instantly fell in love and took one for my collection of Ugly Things. It must have been a sight to see pale teenagers hauling those magnificent hooks in bikinis, but the sight was fortunately unseen.

The lovely hook currently resides on a nub of a tree in back yard. I see it
everyday.

This day was sunny, typically "beautiful" by most standards, but cool. Despite the singing sunshine, the factory still managed a dismal loom in our approach. You must admire that, something that can actually loom in broad daylight.
I've heard the hills are alive with the sound of music; I know the empty horse stable by my house is alive with festering furniture and a cloud of insects; that chemical plants are alive with loud churning and rumbling; and even most deserted of factories are alive with some sort of abysmal echo; but this factory seemed to epitomize all abandonment.
It was hollow, and that’s it.

Trey looks like a runaway, like this is his palace. Sometimes, often times, I like to imagine children that grow up in these places. Sometimes primitive, wild things with clothes made of scrap metal and plastic. Is that strange, to fantasize about being one of them?

Fascinating creatures in glorious isolation.

Sara Cremer will be representing the minimalists...

And so I am now officially one of those bloggers, indulging in yet another trendy, electronic outlet of narcissism and probably already sounding pretentious and its only my first sentence.
My first post. This is intended to be read quickly and swiftly:

My name is Sara Cremer but I will be signing off as Ghost, because isn't that what we all are in cyber-space? I'm told the internet is a series of tubes. "Ghost" seemed even further suitable due to my pale skin and hair, someone once described me as "a shade of Casper," and I like ghosts. Kind of. I like the way is sounds, it even sounds like a ghost, like there's a slight translusence to the word itself. Ghhhhhosssst--see when I write it like that it looks like "shhhhhh" which makes it look and sound as if only to be whispered. Like a secret. What we do is secret.
Some words suit their definition so well.

Why did I start a blog? Because I have a surplus of words and if I don't let them
fall
off
my
tongue
I may explode. You should see me in class, I'm one of those annoying kids that always has something to say. Always.

Why is it called Static and Chandelier? I like static, the kind on the TV. And I like chandeliers, but I only have one, making it singular. It's made of plastic.
I selected the "Minima Black," do you like it? It's very classic (please emphasize the "k" sounds when reading "classic" in your head for full enjoyment).

I lied about this being my first post. I've made previous posts before, but not on here. On MySpace, which is also full of ghosts because everyone has moved to Facebook. And so the latest trend in humor is directed towards the obsolescence of MySpace and how everyone should just move to Facebook. What's Facebook?
Don't answer.
But whenever log onto MySpace to post a bulletin about how long it's been since the last time you were online, you should give me a bit of a visit.

We'll have some fun, you and I.