I now know where the Eldritch Bard Of Providence found some of his inspiration.
Today was a fine day; Tam and I hit Holliday Park, civilized for lo, this past decade at least and dominated by a vast sculpture/garden folly known as "The Ruins" for a stroll down the serpentine trail through the rock garden, along the river and back up the Trail Of A Thousand Steps for a picnic lunch by the Frictionless Sphere Of Destiny. (So, do any of your city parks have a 4' sphere of polished black and gold marble, floating and rotating on a high pressure water column concealed within a huge boulder? Do they let ya play with it? Thought not). We missed the huge ginkgo, somehow. Next time!
That omen alone should have warned me.
The gutters at Roseholme have been shewing certain Signs indicative of excessive leaf, seed and maple-spinner content. A pair of husky, rough men had cleaned them last Fall for a low, low $40 American but they've not been by since. I got out the ladder and a garden trowel and made my way aloft.
The roof is steep! And the gutters? Full to the brims. Standing water, muck, vegetable matter, Contents Unknown and the wrack and ruin of life's great cycle. All of it impressively malodorous, a genuinely Lovecraftian stench. When dead R'yleh hove above the waves? Could not have been any worse. Pickman's model's brown-bag lunch? He'd'a thrown it out eagerly in favor of the reeking muck I dug, shoveled and hosed from those gutters.
There's even a weak denial of Euclid in the corner by the porch: the skilled craftsbeings who performed the most recent gutter-revision (no doubt to the loathsome pipings of a maltuned flute and irregular thumpings of a flaccid toadskin drum, though I'm just guessin') decided it would be fun to slope the gutter away from the downspout and towards a dead end; by the time it reaches the end, the sag is sufficient to leave it almost full. Fixing that is a job for another day. You don't suppose CERN would loan me a teeny-weensy black hole in the meantime? Or -- and I'm just askin' -- perhaps a dragon?
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago