WORDS • IDEAS: FANNI SOMOGYI
Sporadic blooms (of echinacea) by Fanni Somogyi
It is just the sculptures and my presence. There are no cameras in the field. Concrete, and steel forms are drizzled on evergreen patches in between long grass and golden rod. Abstract or figurative, colorful or rusted, you can discover hidden gems growing periodically. What was a prairie is now a sculpture park. We are restoring that status partially. The grass is only cut for walking paths, and the parking lot in the back. I have two gloves on: an orange rubber glove and thick leather welding glove. I yank at the plant. Yank at it again, and my hands slip on its thorny surface. The thistle is relentless, but it must be removed to give way for the native species. When left unchecked the fields begin to bloom in that deadly, yet soft violet. My long cargo pants are tucked into my socks, dozed with Off! Deep Woods tick spray. That slightly toxic smell keeps wafting to my nostrils as I bend over and rip the 4’ tall plant out of the ground. The deer are frequent visitors to the park thus precaution must be taken against Lyme spreading ticks. The long stalk is the last one from this patch. The bees, intoxicated by its smell, keep returning to its violet lollipop blooms. Meanwhile, Rusty, the big chalk-grey tomcat, has decided to make his home right in the middle of the pile. Unbothered by the thorns and drawn to the coolness of the leaves and buggy, still not warmed by the morning sun. I drop the plants off at the burn pile that we are to burn at the end of August. As the summer becomes hotter the mound grows each day with expectation like a pregnant belly. We are all looking forward to the iron pour that will precede the fire. Each morning I can hear them swinging the sledgehammer and breaking the old iron radiators. Like a dance there is an intimate rhythm to the deconstruction of these heating elements. I used to have those heaters in my bedroom, from what feels like eons ago and 4,805 miles away.
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