In the behind-fence and beyond-screen lands and countries there are many, really many things, phenomena, places, ideas extremely interesting. Which might and even should be brought to Liberland. Which does not mean they can, since very often their parameters and features (so numerous I won't even try to list them) make such a simple transfer impossible. Unsimple (or non-simple) transfer probably could be successful, but unsimple (or non-simple) would consist in changing or renouncing some of those parameters and features, thus what would be transferred would be something different. As usually simplicity is irreplaceable, while any complication results in nothing good.
I used to travel a lot, really a lot, through behind-fence and beyond-screen countries and lands. It happened I travelled many times through a village, so boring and so ordinary and so similar to other places of that kind that I would never remember it. Well, just a dozen of absolutely normal, neither nice nor ugly, totally dull and unremarkable houses scattered along the road little bit winding in this place, since earlier it was running absolutely straight having a pine forest wall, even and tall, on one side (oh, it could be called also a palisade made of huge matches burning dark green and not so vividly), and on the other side a wall of forest too, pine wood too, most probably, but with far greater amount of bushes, less tall, more distant, as if tousled, separated with the railway. And it might be so that this very part of the route got stuck in my memory, all the more earlier (when travelling westward; later – when travelling eastward) one was passing a gigantic scrap yard, monstrous heap of rusty iron and metals of all possible kinds, higher even than the tallest trees of the forest beginning right after it. And when the forest was ending, then the houses appeared, and bends, and a junction with a narrow road which was diving under a railway bridge, and just there, right by this squat bridge, very grey and very unattractive, a board was standing, slightly tilted, more negligent than shoddy and sloppy, informing that somewhere nearby a OFWORDS SAWMILL was sited.
With almost no doubt this topographic description, quite rough, has not so much to do with the real topography of the place. The memory can be a distorting mirror where the terrain is being transformed endlessly, so the maps stored in our heads are the maps of mythical lands. Also the description of the houses reduced to a few adjectives only circling around the notion of ordinary-dull-unemarkable, so referring to a thing without any special features, is a description perfectly empty telling nothing, because ordinariness usually depends on a place – an ordinary cottage in a jungle looks much different than an ordinary cottage in a tundra. An attempt to compare the houses to field stones, even rough-hewn, or to setts, was given up – if the houses looked like that they would be extraordinary, of course provided that they had all characteristic features of such stones.
Fascinating!  A  s a w m i l l  o f  w o r d s !
And I have never been there! So many times I was passing by and I have never visited it. I have never turned left (or right) to leave the main road, I have never gone under the railway bridge to penetrate the forest – probably the forest, I don't know, I don't know where this narrow road was going to, at first the big embankment covered the view, then the dullest and ordinariest houses. I have never even stopped to read what was written on the board so faded out and dusty that its colour could hardly be defined as grey-blue or blue-grey.... and the letters? black? white? just dirty? . . . . . The fact the board was standing there not necessarily meant the sawmill was situated in vicinity – the information could only tell it was somewhere there, in the land around the board, but told nothing about the radius of the circle within which I should keep on searching, so it could be the whole behind-fence world, indeed....
I wonder why I didn't go there, why I didn't stop. Something hold me off, and it was bigger and more powerful than my fascination.... A long journey before me? With no doubt. If I left the main road to visit the OFWORDS SAWMILL I wouldn't reach my destiny on time. Maybe even I would never reach it. My whole life would change . . . . . . . And why would I have to change my life? A good reason to change one's life can always be found; to find such a change was not worth doing it can be one of them.... With no doubt the ugliness of the route was highly discouraging, however I would not be astonished if I found behind the screen of the forest vast terrains of extraordinary beauty – I would not be astonished, either, if I found these terrains, as well as the forest itself, as dull and ugly as the route, though they say every forest is beautiful, simply because trees can be but beautiful.... Nevertheless there was something depressing in this place (at least myself – maybe somebody else would be boosted), something that ordered not to stop, unless it was undeniably necessary, but to go, to try to sneak through, to avoid being sucked in and crashed by a huge whirl.... as if I myself was to be cut and hacked in this sawmill.

Well..... So what did they do in this sawmill? What did they do with words? Cut them, hack, plane?...What did their work look like? How was everything organised? For example, somebody like me is coming and bringing a few words (not necessarily combined in a phrase), or a few hundreds (not necessarily combined in a paragraph of a novel), or just one (let's say: LIBER), and says: could you, please, cut it? They ask: how thick would you like the pieces to be? We fix it. With a groove? We fix it, too. Planed both sides? We fix this, too, as well as the width and length. And having fixed all these parameters they set to work and after a while (which is long enough to drink something, or maybe even walk, walk around the sawmill for it is forbidden to enter it - or maybe even penetrate FOREST) I get:


                                               


I wonder how they did it. What machines do they have? Axes made of polished stones or laser saws? Do they split words using wooden wedges, or quantum blades? I wonder and I wonder and I don't wonder any more. Does it matter if they made it using guillotine or scissors? They cut them – that's all. And now I can play. Mix. Shuffle.


                                               


But it may also be not like that. Nobody brings them ready words which they have to cut, hack and plane (though they wouldn't refuse if anybody requested them), but they get only a raw material, and have to cut and hack and plane words out of it. What this raw material is? This is extremely interesting. What do they cut words from? And does it mean somewhere a wood of not-yet-words is growing? Or of what?

It's good there is no mine or foundry in a distant village called Ofwords..... But if I were to life somewhere outside Liberland, I would choose a village far less distant and called Invented – I've passed it hundreds times and I have never visited it. Am I afraid that entering it I will become just an Invention?


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