March 5th 2011
Two old drawers and a breaker box.
The breaker box was once in use in the pump house, all old parts are still lying around there, so I can trace the history of the work that has been done through times.
On the left, the bees built a wild beehive in the branches of dead rabbit weed.
The hive engulfs the chair, a similar chair as I found on the Hayride property a long time ago, that property has been burned down 6 years ago. The trees come back very slowly, and surely not all of them. It will take at least hundred years to become what it once was. This wild beehive also contains a Queen-bee apartment. It is a small box, the size of half a matchbox, with a screen and a little round hole on the side. The hole gets plugged up with a small cork. This is how you get your Queen bee in the mail. You release her in the hive where she will built her kingdom. Across the road of the Compound, on the landing strip, Matt and Robin Shields place their collection of beehives every spring, the honey is sage and buckweed. (Although I am not sure how the bees distinguish between these two or other plants.) The little cups scattered throughout, contains the reminiscent of bee-keeping, burnt burlap, drenched in essential oils, the smoke of the burlap calms the bees while Matt and Robin steal their honey, and it helps them to stay healthy he told me. Parasites are smoked out of the castles. The cups also hold bits of the old wax left behind when the hives are picked up in the fall. Other cups have dried-out moss. There are also a few, abandoned Queen-bee boxes in the heap underneath this wild hive, some of them crushed.
The Old Guy…sigh, with his chin resting on his chest, occupies the centerpiece.
He is packed with rubble and trash, dried up exploded seeds, roots and rusted metal mesh. His coat: an old leather welding helmet. His head a coyote- I found on the Bald Mountain top, when I was up there with Tesla, my dog, to look at that property. Tesla has died- hit by a car, Easter Sunday at 7pm, a careless moment -someone left the gate wide open. That, on top of other events, broke my spine at that time.
It took me seven years to heal.
Little threads out of The Old Guy's head go into a clear plastic cups, in there… hair from my dog Moskau, from me, burned burlap... The Old Guy crushed a small cup with moss, the moss a tiny little forest with seeds about to burst. Before it could, it dried out.
On the right, well, she hides her face. Her Coot hand holds a golden tress of hair. Her bent body a football turned inside out. Her shoulders are a weathered softball; the leather forms her Amelia Earhart cap.
Amelia Mary Earhart ( /ˈɛərhɑrt/ air-hart; born July 24, 1897; missing July 2, 1937, declared legally dead January 5, 1939) was a noted American aviation pioneer and author.
Behind her a tipped-over small cup, spilling the moths.
Those moths all ended their life inside the spotlight, which lights up the Tower building at night. The house built from four Queen-bee boxes flies away, following the shedded lizard skin.
