NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.
Reference: Loops of String, Post 100 and In The Ivy, Post 116
“Look out! Don’t step on Mrs. Lutwidge.”
“What? where?”
“Right there, see? by the bucket of tools.”
“That’s a skink!”
“Fred, remember what time of year it is.”
“Okay, okay, so what wavelength is she on?’
“Oh, I have no idea.”
“Aha, you have never mentioned her before.”
“No, she moved in over the summer.”
“Is there a Mr. Lutwidge?”
“No one seems to know.”
“Well, anyway, it is far too cold for skinks to be zooming around in the carport.”
“Obviously, Fred!”
“Don’t you find it odd that Mrs. Lutwidge is out and about?”
“No, look! There she goes!”
“Where?”
Diddlie points towards the front yard.
“She rushed out over the snow and into that patch of ivy.”
“But she has turned white! Contrasting with that dried oak leaf resting on top of the ivy next to her.”
“Mrs. Lutwidge is something of a chameleon.”
“Okay.”
Diddlie has now bundled all her goldenrod with hemp string.
“Fred, you want to help me move this stuff downstairs?”
“Sure, I’ll lend a hand.”
She walks over to the old wardrobe against the carport wall, opens the door and then tries to remove a green bucket with the lid fastened and marked ‘Snaz Super Store’, in a white Italic font.
“This thing is really heavy. Can you lift it out on to the floor?”
I try it with both hands on the handle, and it is a strain to move it.
“What is in here, gold or lead, or what?”
“Lies, there are some really massive lies in there.”
“It seems too small to hold such weight.”
“Yeah, Here take this.”
She steps in and hands me a long and narrow piece of stained plywood, separating at the top edge.
“What’s this?”
“An old shelf I improvised in here.”
“Looks like it is on its last legs.”
I lean it against the side of the wardrobe.
“Take a look in here.”
I step forward to look past her into the back of the wardrobe, which seems to be a brick wall.
“Have you cut the back of this thing out?”
“Remember? I put this thing here to hide the entrance.”
“That’s right, your husband’s bomb shelter.”
“Yes, repurposed by me!”
“Okay, so I am looking at the wall of the carport made of bricks, so what?”
She pushes one brick about waist high and another about at her eye level.
“See, I have a new door!”
“Nice bit of tromp-l’oeil there.”
“No, no, come see.”
I step up into wardrobe with her, which is only about eighteen inches deep.
“Mr. Faulks made it for me.”
She puts her hand in mine and squeezes.
“I see, these are thin pieces of real brick stuck onto an old door and grouted.”
“That’s right sweety.”
“It is a remarkably good illusion.”
“Well?”
“Well, what happened to that beautiful six-paneled oak door you used to have?”
“I gave it to Mr. Faulkes for doing this job.”
“Barter, good idea!”
“Fred you are about as romantic as a damp brick!”
She pushes me out of the wardrobe.
“You were supposed to kiss me, dummy!”
“Well, you pushed me out, so how can I?”
“It has to be spontaneous, or it won’t work.”
“Sorry I wasn’t tuned in.”
Mrs. Lutwidge is now looking at me from the separating top edge of the plywood shelf I just leaned against the side of the wardrobe.
“I told her this wouldn’t work.”
“She got back in here incredibly fast.”
“Yeah, that’s how she avoids predators.”
“Was it her idea to get us both in there at the same time?”
“Yeah, she came back when she noticed.”
“Noticed what?”
“That you are about as romantic as damp brick!”
“Well, I am not tuned in to the expectations of lizards or their human allies.”
“Obviously not! and, by the way, she is not a lizard or a skink at the moment. You are going to hurt her feelings talking like that.”
“Well Mrs. I… she has zoomed off again.”
“Yeah, she understood your intention though.”
“How do you know?”
“The goldenrod helps. Hand me that bundle that’s fallen by bucket, please.”
I hand it to her, and she takes it through the brick door, and down the narrow stairs, brushing against the walls.
“Shall I bring down another bundle?”
Diddlie climbs back up, sneezing.
“What? I can’t hear you from down there. It’s a bomb shelter you know.”
“I see, it keeps sound and blast out. I just offered to bring down the other bundle.”
“Yeah, sure, hand me another and come on down.”
We both descend, knocking pollen off the blooms as they brush the walls of the staircase.
“Here, put this on.”
She pulls a yellow mask out of a box on top of the bookcase on the right as we enter.
“Thanks, if these masks can protect against droplets in a sneeze, they can keep the pollen out too.”
We gradually stop sneezing. She goes into the spacious cupboard to the left and closes the door. I walk over to the dusty couch and sit down to look in the big leatherbound book.
“You won’t understand the Aporia book!”
She has come out unexpectedly.
“No, what are Verdictives, Exercitives, and Commissives?”
“That is processing jargon.”
“Okay, so, who is this author, Austin?”
“He is the guy who knows how to do things with words.”
“I see, this is his manual, is it?”
“Yeah, among other things.”
“So, what does he do with them.”
“You mean words?”
“Right, not goldenrod.”
“Well, I can’t explain it. See how thick that book is?”
“Okay, but in general terms, what does he do.”
“He puts the weight into buckets!”
“Yes, okay, I thought you would say something like that.”
“Well, you said in general terms, didn’t you?’
“I did. Look, where did you collect all those lies?”
“They are easy enough to find. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Yes, but I never thought of collecting them.”
“One thing Queenie does out there, is herd them in this direction.”
“And how did you get them into that bucket?”
“First you have to let them settle out of the verbiage.”
“But the verbal context gives them their punch.”
“That’s in speech or print.”
“Where else do they exist?”
“In my bucket!”
“Well, okay, buckets of abstractions.”
“They may be abstractions, but they carry a lot of weight.”
“I guess so.”
“That small brown metal drum over there is full of influences.”
“Are you going to arrange them in cubbies like your truth collection?”
“It is volatile because influences are a mix of lies and different kinds of truth.”
“This seems to me to be a very big project.”
“Lies and influences and truth need careful handling.”
“Sealed up in buckets you mean?”
“Yup! Until it is processed with this year’s rod.”
*
