The assembled pieces of wood that constitute an outside bench in my garden have really let themselves go. Splintery and worn are two adjectives that no self respecting bench would want to be described by, but unfortunately, they seem apt when gazing at the bench in my garden. Gazing is the correct word here – a stare that has become trapped by strange fascination. I often become trapped by the assembled pieces because when I look up from my laptop screen, they are there, in the middle ground.
Pervasively assembled.
Rotten wood is a fertile ground, and throughout history war has been waged over countless fertile grounds. In this case reality is no different. Fights between woodworms and carpenter bees take place on many different fronts within the assembled pieces. The worms may win one skirmish in the right leg (their initial entry point to the bench and historically their home ground), only for the bees to capture the left armrest in response. All this violence in hopes of the acquisition of wood rights and the ability to eject the other from the wooden interior.