The Dead Weight Of The Future

So you are the sculptor? says Gaius.

I am, says the man in the hat.

And you have been working on this wall for ten years now? says Gaius.

I have, says the man in the hat. And it still isn't finished.

I believe it is considered one of the art treasures of Tasmania, says Gaius.

You're too kind, says the man in the hat.

Comparable to the works of the Egyptians and Assyrians, says Gaius.

This pleases the man in the hat

How disappointing we shall not get to see it, says Schopenhauer. I've always thought artistic forms of awareness help to overcome the pain of the human condition.

It's almost as if you know my wall already, says the man in the hat. Come in. I'm just going to sandpaper a fist in one of the panels.

How fascinating, says Gaius. I am Gaius Plinius Secundus, natural historian. This is Schopenhauer, my philosopher friend, fellow traveller.....

And benefactor, adds Schopenhauer.

And temporary benefactor, says Gaius.

I am Greg Duncan, sculptor, says the man in the hat.

This is Arthur, says Gaius. My right hand man. And Unni, our .....

Right hand woman, says Unni.

Greg Duncan turns on the lights and the ambient music.

A magnificent wall of hand sculpted flat relief Huon pine panels, one hundred metres long, depicting the stories of those who shaped both past and present of the Tasmanian Central Highlands.

Enjoy, says Greg Duncan, taking out a sheet of sandpaper, and walking off to sandpaper the fist of a woodsman.

Gaius is attracted to the panel depicting the extinction of the Tasmanian Tiger.

See this, says Gaius to Schopenhauer. These men are bounty hunters. And these are Tasmanian Tigers.

Wonderful, says Schopenhauer. Those were the days.

No, says Gaius. It is thanks to the bounty hunters that the Tasmanian Tiger is extinct.

As are the bounty hunters, says Schopenhauer, philosophically.

Schopenhauer wanders off to look at panels showing the herculean efforts of hydro workers, timber harvesters and pastoralists. Such efforts, such strain, such determination. Many of them look like Greg Duncan, and are wearing a hat.

Unni is looking at a panel showing the indigenous custodians of Tasmania. Good on Greg for not leaving them out. Then she turns to the panel showing a pioneer woman who has just buried her husband, and is loading her kids and possessions into a car.

She feels rather serious. Is life really that hard? Hers isn't.

She wonders what Arthur thinks of it. Where is Arthur anyway?

Arthur is sitting on the floor, breathing the strong scent of pinewood.

In out, in out.

Feeling the dead weight of the future.

Holding the tin.

Don't even think about it says Unni. Those are mountain pinhole borers in there.

I'll just see what happens, says Arthur.

Unni watches in horror as Arthur prises open the tin, and shakes out the ten tiny beetles.

The beetles scatter, who can say where?