In our living room we have a long, low Iron Bark timber plinth that hovers just above the ground. It is a resting place for beautiful and precious objects we have made, gleaned or been given.
When we first moved in I raised the plinth up with scraps of timber full of splinters
lying in wait. I told myself it would not be long before a more elegant solution
How time gets away.
But six years ago I did not have a shed full of beautiful timber offcuts, the tools or the experience to transform them into anything useful. Sometimes we have to wait for circumstances to catch up to our aspirations. The luxury of waiting for the right moment to present itself is one I try hard to indulge in. More resolved solutions seem to result. That is my excuse anyway.
Shown above is one of the two ‘feet’ I made for under our plinth. Once in position they are not visible as they taper away from view and the dark chocolate of the Torrified White Oak melts into the shadow line beneath the plinth. I thought they deserved an airing here as they won’t be seen again until we move on, which, with any luck, will not be for a very long time.
As mentioned in a previous post, torrified timber has been ‘cooked’ in an oxygen free oven so that it browns through but does not burn. It means you can take a relatively inexpensive timber like White Oak and turn it into a rich dark timber, similar to American Walnut. Yum.
My workshop is open to the elements. They move around and through my workspace.
Wind sweeps wood shavings into corners and wood dust is carried out and back to the soil. Rain encroaches and humidity creeps across and into the timber, while rust blooms on anything not coated with Camellia oil.
The tin roof moans with disappointment as the sun moves behind clouds and it amplifies the footfalls of Magpies and Pee Wees strutting overhead. I have learnt to recognise the sounds of Green Snake belly scales moving over rafters or leaves sliding into gutters.
There are those seeking shelter in the workshop. Butcher Birds singing sweetly as they murderously hunt down spiders, the languid fifteen foot Carpet Python and the silent possum in its belly, legions of termites moving forever toward the softwoods in the woodpile, and there is me.
A Native Pink-tongued Skink (Cyclodomorphus gerrardii) at home on an old block of Red Cedar (Toona ciliata).