I feel like John Merrick of The Elephant Man as he places the last piece on his puzzle of St. Phillip’s; “It is done.” Fadeout.
Although, when I saw The Elephant Man a few years ago, played brilliantly by Joe Faust, the script was modified slightly from the original English text: “It is done; and so am I.” Then John/Joe lay down and quietly died from asphyxiation. Conversely, I still breath easy, effortlessly even; nonetheless, I have this sense of completeness to the point, as happens from time to time at the completion of a major task or operation, of wondering if this was the meaning of my life, my special purpose as it were, and all that follows is rather anticlimactic, a lame-duck life remaining. I hope not. I guess the morrow will tell if I awake.
I’m ready for something different.
It is nearly done, excepting the installation of the cobblestone circle (which was delivered yesterday) and about 10-50lb. bags of black granite, which is what you see immediately above. I have also an edge of exposed concrete block I need to cover somehow.
The image above is the entry to the garden on a slope; except, is it really a garden (in the traditional sense) any longer given the paucity of dirt and plenitudinous of stone. Ask me if I care.
No. I don’t. I like it, and I will have yet another place to sit and rest, and do little other than contemplate my surroundings, or transcendentivly meditate myself into a state of nothingness when I actually have the time to do such things. It does happen to be the case that I have an awesome wireless signal in the center of the future cobblestone circle, which I’m beginning to consider as my own personal Stonehenge, and I’m thinking that the psychic energy is such that it might be a great place to work on my laptop, on my novel, on consecutive evenings darknesses, broken by the muted glow of thirteen low-voltage lights, each powered by green-friendly 3-watt LED bulbs.
Although the stairs are incredibly level and stable, I’ve still managed to stumble both up and down them for some reason or another. Probably because of not paying attention, looking for a roll of electrical tape or wire cutters or something else desperately in need of, apparently whisked away by one of those little borrowers of childhood fiction just now remembered.
The black granite in the beds is nice, but dirty. It’s only black now because it was raining; when dry, its gray; but if I clean an individual stone of its accumulated dust, it is black. Maybe I’ll take a power washer to it next spring, although that’s uncomfortably close to “maintenance.”
By the end of next weekend, it will be done, if God wills it.
If you were to ask me, now, why I did this I could give you no good answer other than because it was there, and because I could. Sure, it looks nice; stunning even, if for no other reason than the sheer volume of effort the result represents; and it’s still not done. But, Merciful God on High, it is close. I’m finding it hard to resist planting plant media in the various areas I initially intended for rock, insofar as my plan of a maintenance-free dry (Japanese) garden. The original argument included the inconvenience of caring for the flowers on an awkward hill with unstable stepping stones, randomly placed and poorly dug into the ground, that would shift and slide, placing the gardener at risk of fracturing a hip or suffering blunt head trauma from impacting one of the aforementioned stones. However, now with the convenience of 8 steps at regular intervals as much a part of mother earth as, say, the Grand Teton (currently closed), accessing the various planting beds would be as simple as dropping to a foam knee-pad on a stable stone ledge and taking care of business. Hmmm…we’ll see what the boss says.
I planted a Twisty Baby Locust tree yesterday at the top of the hill. On the right are fabric covered sections awaiting black stone, and a few pots. The small green plant on the right, at the top, is a green-seedless grape vine that I’m going to grow along the lattice.
I’ve placed 12 low-voltage lights here and there, and should have got conduit larger than half-inch. I managed to make it work, but only after smashing the knuckles of my right hand against a stone when the fish pulled free of the wires (secured with electrical tape per instructions–obviously not secure enough).
From the bottom, looking up. The joints are mostly mortared, but I have some dry stacked too, and everything is surprising level.
Diamond blades last a long time. I never changed my first one, and I bought at least five. I should have plenty for my next endeavor in the spring which will require much more cutting of stone. I should finish up in one more uninterrupted weekend, as soon as I get my cobblestone circle delivered by Bissen.
Had I the intellect, or at least the common sense to more accurately foresee what lay in front of me before I started, I doubt I’d have begun. Rather; I’d have said, “Look, Honey, it’s not so bad. I’ll have those weeds pulled in a jiffy; and this fall, I’ll happily cut everything down with my machete; and next spring,” with a song in my heart I’m sure, “I’ll thin, and transplant, and mulch the garden on a slope between a fence and a waterfall.”
At least now, when I spend a couple of hours in my self-induced Purgatory I can actually tell that I was there; whereas previously, hours upon hours of labor resulted primarily in musculoskeletal aches and pains and assorted soft-tissue injuries, which of course still happens, it’s just that it is now accompanied by aesthetic structural progress. Thanks be to God. Lord Have Mercy. Christ Have Mercy…
Mortar is forgiving, stone is not. There is something in mortar that is terribly bad for skin. I discovered this after defaulting to my hands for packing the mortar into the joints. I was wearing gloves of course, but apparently the mortar managed to get inside and when I took the gloves off a couple of hours later it was similar, I imagine, to bilateral wrist-seal failures while on a space walk. It felt like I still had gloves on, so foreign did my skin feel and for days the desiccated skin would catch on clothing and pretty much anything I picked up or happened to touch. My hands felt like Velcro. Thankfully, I stumbled upon some better gloves that were actually cheaper–imagine that.
From the Skycam
I’ve one more level to finish, then the entry, then the low-voltage lights, then the cobblestone circle in the biggest part, then it’ll be Christmas-time.
Things seemed to take a turn for the better after returning from Ludington Michigan last weekend where I performed a small animal sacrifice to the Sun God:
It occurred to me on a beach just outside of the Ludington State Park. I espied the Sun-God atop this wooden structure quite by accident and was struck by his magnificence and power burning into my retinas. As I cast my eyes about for a suitable offering (Sue was already far up the beach) a wounded seagull limped across the sand; but before I leapt upon it with my unsheathed Leatherman, I felt a ferocious sting on the meat of my left bicep. Thinking that the pretty horsefly with the iridescent wings would do nicely instead, I offered up a humble prayer while simultaneously slapping it with the palm of my hand.
Call it coincidence, but ever since then my project has been progressing much more smoothly, and the end is at least in sight.
I am definitely in part three now, one month later during which my sole focus has been this ridiculous obsession with digging trenches, pouring pre-mixed concrete down cinder blocks stacked on each other after pounding three-foot sticks of rebar into the ground. I have finally finished the sub-structure, of which a friend at work suggested might actually be a mausoleum in disguise to which I replied that in fact it was, and that in a hundred years a future generation of as of yet unborn Melarvie’s might walk down a musty corridor past a row of tombs, like Bran Stark from the Game of Thrones in the crypts at Winterfell; and in reaching the last one, in the deepest darkest corner where the air lays still and heavy on the underground might be told, “Look, here lies great, great, great, great Grandpa Melarvie.”
I just read about a giant cave found in Chongquing province of China that is so massive that it has its own weather system, including clouds; and I keep hoping that I might stumble on some similar glorious find, at least something as big as the cave at Horseshoe Bay, and with each rock I pull up I wait expectantly for a draft of cool air against my face; but all I find are yet deeper rocks increasingly more difficult to unearth. I’m obviously not digging deep enough. Maybe if I persist long enough, I might actually find my way to the Chongquing province.
Truth is, I’m already missing the flowers, and the memories of the weeds and mulching and cutting down and watering are rapidly fading in significance the longer I work on this sterile exercise of straight edges, stone and mortar. The weeds weren’t so bad. Hmmm. Oh well, too late now–the die is cast, the horse has left the barn, the bridge is burned, the Rubicon has been crossed.
Like Dante, I too have passed through a gate, that if not hell should at least share the same inscription overhead: “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”