They towed us out here to be sold for
scrap.
We had other plans.
Every hull in this harbor was towed
out for scrap,
Stamped and forgotten and left off
the map.
But the rope found the rope and the
board found the nail,
And a town grew up out of everything
that failed.
Now there's smoke in the morning,
there's bread on the line,
And a door that still opens at a
quarter past nine.
The paint's coming off, well, so is
mine.
We're getting along just fine.
Rust don't mean ruined, old don't
mean done,
The tide still lifts us, every last
one.
They wrote us off, but the water
never did.
Rust don't mean ruined, old don't
mean done.
Miss Ada came out here at sixty-five
or so,
Said the world quit waving, so she
let the waving go.
She's mending the same coat she's
mended for years,
One brass button still on from her
wedding day.
And she'll tell you a patch is just a
place that held on,
And she'll pour you a cup before you
ask.
We don't throw much away out here,
Not a coat, not a boat, not a year.
Somebody asked me, don't it hurt,
being left behind?
I said, friend... we weren't left.
We were let go. There's a difference.
I used to think growing old meant
learning what to leave.
Turns out it's learning what's worth
carrying.
And every light in this town is still
on.
Rust don't mean ruined, old don't
mean done,
The tide still lifts us, every last
one.
If your hands look older, if your
days run long,
Rust don't mean ruined. Come on. Sing
along.
Rust don't mean ruined... old don't
mean done.
They towed us out here to be sold for
scrap...
and we built a town instead.
"The Floating Town is a surreal AI film and music video series set far out on the open water - an imaginary settlement made from about a hundred old ships that had finished their working lives. Ferries, trawlers, coal barges, tugboats, one great listing passenger liner. Out here they found each other. Rope to rope, board to nail, until they were something new: a home inside a rusted hull, a garden growing out of an old lifeboat, a warm window in the fog.
Everyone here is past sixty. Their coats are patched wool and oilskin, mended for decades, with brass buttons and rope worn as jewelry. Nobody hurries, because nobody is being timed. They're the kind of neighbours who know exactly when to knock and when to just leave a chair waiting.
They share their decks with gentle animals every bit as old and as odd - woolly sea-cows, long-eared seabirds, a plump dragon the size of a house cat, one enormous sleepy snail who will not be rushed. It's all graded like a faded 35mm feature: burnt orange, tobacco brown, oxidized teal, sea fog grey. A peaceful, fictional world about community, craftsmanship and things worth taking care of.
Somewhere in the second verse of the song, a
woman walked in that I hadn't planned for. Her name is Miss Ada. She's still
wearing the coat she's been mending for years - with one brass button left on
it from her wedding day. She'll tell you a patch is just a place that held on.
She'll pour you a cup before you ask."
in, YouTube video notes
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