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.”