island conversations 1 (if these stones could talk…)

You want to know about the faces?  I carved them, all of them, for years, until my hands started to burn- bloody arthritis or some crap like that- so I stopped.  See the skull?  There’s another skull, in one of the eyes, but you can’t see it any more.  It’s granite.  A found stone, a findenstein, from a beach in Cumbria.  My first wife, she helped me get that one into the trailer.

Bloody buoys.  It’s got beyond a joke.  This is the latest one- the fiftieth- I found it just the other day.  My neighbour helped me drag it from the bog in his landrover.  Come in to the garden.  I’ll tell you about the others.  Then you can go.  Go, go, GO!

 

This is my niece.  I fell deeply in love with her eighteen years ago.  She brought me back this stone from Canada, from an Indian reservation; it marked where the tipi stood.  There was another stone, but they said, “You can’t bring that on a plane.”  So she left it there at the airport.  I’ve never been able to carve a female face successfully.  My first wife, who you just met, she did this one.

 

Michaelangelo, now, he was a bloody genius.  See these veins on my arm?  He could carve those, standing out of the marble.  When he carved a naked woman, the pope of the day objected, see?  So he carved a veil to hide her private parts.

This is the mass murderer, Mao Tse Tung, in his younger days.  There’s Rumi, the poet.  From Afghanistan, I reckon he must have hailed.  This is Blue Eyes.  He has shining eyes- marbles- childish, I know.  And the Cheshire Cat.  This chap’s the winker.  And the smiler… as my second wife is Cambodian, I like to think it has something of the Buddha about it.  When they changed the cats’ eyes, in the road, I drove along, picking them up.

 

 

I stole this one from Rennes-le-chateau.  The priest there, he had a fortune, nobody knew how, built himself a mansion, a castellated masterpiece.  He lived with his housekeeper, a woman who never spoke.  There’s a legend that Christ was never crucified, but married that whore, Magdalena, and they lived there, with their treasure.  It’s still buried somewhere.  The Hitlerians, maybe even that bastardo Hitler himself, sent two hundred slave workers to dig for it, but they never found a thing.

A priest came visiting once, but the first thing he saw was this crucifix.  He asked me, “Is that a female crucifix?”  I told him it was, and he left, like that, didn’t get any further.

Now, are you going to see the Ringing Stone…?  Let me show you the way.  It’ll take you 35 minutes.  50 if you get bored.  That’s 100 minutes.  I’ll  be waiting here when you come back, even if it’s ten o’clock at night…

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