The Garage is a museum, in a way, life's most astonishing trick, a demonstration that things outlive their makers, that makers become their things. Entering the bare bulb lit shed, a shifting of must, memories of sawdust, and a stillness absolute but for our presence. To step in here is to step into history, at least into my own. His actions live on after him only as objects, as oddments of fibro, slices of masonite, just begun toys and boxes. But now the half-painted timber goes untouched, the levels and squares starting to rust, the saws unoiled.
Brown nails sit firmly in their jars.
A carpenter's language of tools and timber and notes which imagine wood and machine, finished brilliantly made things. There are no tricks. God dead, Russell's intellectual muscle expressed a world that simply was. Steps A man stepped along the packed granules of Geraldton coast beside the shilly shally of waves on shells, the smooth and restless, ceaseless Indian Ocean. Behind its crystalline shrines, those quiet lights and effervescent water, near Patpong Street the Manohra Hotel is a large, white torte of concrete and glass iced with neon.