A shout out to the neighbor’s cat crying to be let in the back door. i doubt you’re dying. you sound like you’re being tortured, or deep in that recurring nightmare where you’re starving and that black dog is eating the hell out of your favorite food. you cry and cry that pathetic mewl like your 9th life depended on it. give it a rest. those folks were up late drinking beers and smoking weed on the front porch. you were out prowling, so you know it’s true. it’s a good news, bad news situation, Socks. i call you Socks because you have a black coat and white feet. every neighbor calls you something different and you ignore the lot of us, unless you need something.
the good news is that you’re no longer on the streets. you had it pretty rough for a time there on Highland Street, and it shows. but now you’ve got semi-regular room and board, and you’re way ahead of your broken housemate Ahab, that kitty with the ruined eye from one too many scratch duels. the bad news is that you were adopted by a house full of post-adolescent, pre-middle aged humans just barely better off than you are. you’re just not getting back into that house before noon on a sunday so give it up and give me back my peaceful morning. i know you’re not THAT hungry. otherwise you would have taken care of a certain rodent situation that’s developed around my backyard compost system.
a shout out to the addled maker of the variously disturbing or fascinating tools/toys/sculptures i pulled out of a roadside trash pile this winter. i’ve had to keep moving this collection of oddness around the property for months to keep ada from putting it back into the trash. the idea was to document the wierdness for the blog, but now i’ve grown attached to these totemic trash objects. i’m not sure if i can let them go. i’d be happy to sell the lot for 3 bucks at a yardsale, but to imagine them getting rolled over by the landfill tanks and crushed back into their component junk parts is just too sad. too much like the disturbing ending of the anti-toy story movie
there’s a touch of magic in these pieces cobbled together with an old man’s nail, screw, tape and wire collection. they are pure tinkery, and not a dime was invested in their development. sure, they may be missing court evidence for drug abuse or mental illness, but they’re still magical.
granted, the magic may be the black, mordor mountain of doom variety. i’ve named this piece the Gigger. this is not the product of a serene mind. it’s more like something commissioned for the latest spinoff of a sadistic horror franchise. the common household craft tool has never looked more sinister.
i recall reading that the word scissor shares the same root as the sword and scythe- some ancient descriptor of separation. whoever crafted the Gigger had certainly sliced himself apart from the normal.
there are a few more exhibits in the tools of the weird gallery, but i’ve got to get crackin’ on my own abnormal construction efforts. more shout outs and revelations to follow!