Drive Past Hell

A look at human adaptability and the idea of beauty.

On the second day we drove past hell.

There was no devil torturing sinners. It was not the hell you refer to when bored out of your skull, the kind where your brain rots out of inactivity. It was not slimy and full unspeakable horrors; neither did it sport the clicking of many-legged creatures in total darkness. It was violent, full of fire and brimstone, and it had been tamed.

It was built on a base of blackened iron, silouetted by orange lights. There were towers of it, wreathed in smoke and crowned by fire. It was horrible and wonderful, all at the same time. It was corruption: of the elements, of nature, of life. Powerful it was, and not of this world. I gaped.

"It's a refinery," he said when I asked what it was, "You'll see many more between here and San Antonio." Still I stared out at that alien monstrosity, and thought, What beauty! What sort of being exists there, I wonder.

From my other side, she said, "Crazy isn't it? I couldn't take my eyes off the first one that I saw either. Still, I've seen so many that I've gotten used to them. It's just another refinery now."

Just another refinery? I thought, No; Just another hell.