l i f e
ovipositor ii
contributions
christopher@30seconds.org
I kind of think Clyde never wanted anyone to go away. The sign on the door was only an empty phrase he couldn't bring himself to stand behind. Of course I know all this because I know Clyde. I know him to be a hollow man when it comes to standing up for himself. All his passion goes elsewhere and so he must leave signs and clues to warn and ward off those who might try to take that passion away from him. It usually works. He could have always walked back down the hall of his shotgun shanty and never entertained the thought of meeting me at all. That's where the trash bag came in. I knew I'd need to leave a gift. An offering. I'd come prepared.
In that trash bag were slightly over one hundred fifty empty black plastic film canisters with grey lids. You can get them anywhere. I got mine from photography students at the university near my house. When Clyde opened the door a little ways I said, "You want these?"
He stood there barefooted, his greasy hair falling over one eye. Nervously he opened the door a little wider and said, "Whatcha got in there?"
"Friend of mine said you might like some film canisters, I brought you some."
"Leave 'em in that chair there by the door. Meet me 'round back."
I placed my offering in the round-back metal chair by the door and stepped back down off the porch. Clyde lives at the top of a hill, sort of enclosed by trailers and other shanties. They form a partial circle overlooking the old Bynum complex where they used to stamp out rubber toys. Mickey Mouse, Goofy, policemen, various dolls, etc. The iron molds are all still there, sinking in the mud, or crushed beneath a roof no longer able to support even its own weight. I don't know if Clyde ever worked there. I never thought to ask, but one things for certain; walking into his back yard is entering the mind of a lunatic. The fringes of sanity are met near the side yard where pieces spill over off the porch and rusted sculptures lean against the house obscuring the fence and first floor windows along the southern side. The Bynum side. Clyde likes animals. They are his subjects. A tree branch may have a certain angle or knot in it so that with no alteration it forms the perfect joint for the leg or arm of a fox or bear. Other times wood is splinterd by axe into thick uneven planks and nailed together in what could only appear to most hap-hazard. Without technique. Without thought.
These wood animals populate the front yard, side yard, and to a degree the backyard as well. The wood animals are Clydes compainions, or so it seems. They do appear primative, hurried. Thrown together in mass to guard or console whatever the need. Their eyes are the true essence. I doubt Clyde has ever read Heart of Darkness, but his animals looks towards him and his yard. Very few stare out at visitors. Very few indeed.
A galvanized steel chain link fence surrounds Clyde's backyard and I have to stoop under an abstract metal sculpture of old saw blades and bicycle wheels at least nine feet tall to get to the gate. It swings loose by one hinge and plastic fruit hangs all over it along with worn silk flowers of all size and type, though along the top it appears as though some care has been taken to arrange a dozen or so plastic sun-flowers in the filigre of the fence.
I move through the gate and around a bottle tree before I notice Clyde, sitting on homemade bench, popping the lids off his film canisters and onto the ground at his feet...
goodnight 1.18.98
