|fig. 087) est tempus fugit|
Fraxinus is a good hard wood at market but its leaves are wild. The ash almost always turns early in the autumn, surging bright and hot into the shorter cooler nights of fall. But the magic in them is gone. Instead, they're drunk on the juice of summer's lily and fern, scattered by the squirrels and the breast heavy log nymphs, the trees are slack and thin with hangover. The house sits behind the wreck of these wobble drunks, peeking through. It's tossed eves are banging in the long winds off the lake. The garage is also poor in purpose and execution, the less I say of it the better.
There's rotting wood, ratty with bird shit and worm stuff that's descending into the busy grass out in front. The doors are gone and all of the windows are broke. The smaller rocks, the good throwing stones are inside with ache of the mildew that's spreading over the high birch paint along the withering walls. "You should come with me," Nancy steps out of the stairwell as I walk in through the back. "But be careful not to break those, the almost dry parts are the most fragile."
I love this song, "Who's the fat sack of almost limp dicks, blue eyed funny little bunny knows. Underneath the diplomat hat on the fat of his head, he's running for the money little bunny. The suit that he's wearing matches the sign that you're carrying, love love me do. The hand that he's holding is the one that's wet and it's golden. It's shaped like a hand that's gonna squish you."
Soft as a robot, beside the door there's a tiny amplifier. It's leaking AM signals out up into the living room and out to space. The workshop is cool and damp, it's like heavy laundry left on basement concrete. There are metal cabinets and tables everywhere. Tall angular stools lean into the heavy pink light. Most of the tools have been broken. Many of their little motors got crusty and brown from grinding shellac into dust and lead into slick hot lumps, so they stopped. Now they sit in tangles beside the remainders of a greasy and flightless bird that's been taxidermied by a drunk hand.
"It wasn't supposed to start like this," that's right, a simple gag for the laughs. "A place to float a yawn. A quiet night in May."
"Uuhh... Curators? Artists? I can't think about it."
"Nope, just the fundraising team that got hold of it. There wasn't a Jacket, white or otherwise among them, O' the irony that sings least is not less."
"Let me guess, they were helping. The UmperKunst love to help."
"Yeah, that'll leave you rattled with the beer shits, won't it?"