Blinding light spawns liquefied steel, like a volcano sending its molten core across the metal in front of my face. My eyes are covered with darkened glass. I only see flashes of burning white light that I have to judge by touch where to point and what to melt.
My fingertips guide the flame while constructing a sculpture. I follow Picasso’s design to create an original thing with wings who will sit in my yard with Boadicea my warrior queen made from cement and her dog Spot, constructed with materials like hers.
Images no one expects to see stand on my sandy desert lawn bordering a residential street. Thin, tall sculptures stretch to the sky and beyond. Cars jam on their brakes and stop at the sight. Even children stop to look and point. A little boy asks, “Can I look at the cool statues?” Unbiased judgment I couldn’t get anywhere else.
I can hardly wait to get a welder of my own. Maybe build an Eiffel Tower on my front lawn for the kids to admire and maybe climb along with the King Kong I’ll build too. Maybe I’ll sculpt the king and have him powered by the sun to light up at night so everyone can see where he climbs after dark.
What will my neighbors say, people ask. I don’t give a damn, is my reply, but I really do, and only design politically correct things to adorn my yard. Why I even turned my white queen brown when people protested a brown skinned girl being painted on a mural at a local school.
Surprising to me, she was enjoyed by many more than ever before once she changed her color. Can it be that color only makes a difference if it’s on someone’s skin?