Stage III: Newbound Everpresent Warwickshire (Subordinated Curse)
<In the State Rooms.>
The wax chambermaid stands pouring a staged bath somewhere along the visitor route of the Castle’s state rooms. Her bucket is full, a steady stream of water trickles out, yet the bath remains empty, the bucket never empties, she is fixed in place- wax rendering of a purportedly ancient, Olde, olden days role. By night or early morning, we versions of the maid dust her off, switch on the flow of her cyclical water and prepare her lived environment. She’s fixed in state at one single moment in history, with one moving part that’s a constant cycle. It’s possible to pass the Victoriana to enter a room full of Henry VIII next to some wives with wax heads still attached. Half a mile away, lies a network of wives, 80s mock Tudors on streets named Cleeves, Seymour, Aragon, Boleyn, Parr, Howard. Their renders show false beams, glued to brick with pseudonails. Hailing in the new era housing commodity form, maybe- laid down to cluster. The Wife network feeds the workforce of the castle- still walking to and from the chambers, moving in contrast to the wax. Outdoors, figures from multiple epochs comingle, the audio interventions of battles, brawn and bracken coalesce into ye olde white noise as princesses battle witches and witches scratch at dragons. We can pop our hands and faces into stocks, wincing at rotten veg. The stocks feed the stocks, LXi REIT’s portfolio swells with unleashed fantasy joy. We’re just children of capital in the county, swinging our woodenplastic swords, mocking up as centurions, chasing sweets as launched via trebuchet (never to be confused with catapult). We get sick like the peasants used to. We shake liquidity, let it pour through and out of us like chamber water.The ground rent always gets paid.
We make our interventions further out on the crust of Warwick- we see it melt into its surroundings,
coaxing closer (clandestine) catchments like Kenilworth. X17. Biggest village in England, (apparently) languishing on a funeral strip high street. A pretty nice place for want of a bigger Waitrose. What connects our old and new is tarmac, Vitsoe, Morrisonsplex and MacDs. Theirs is closer to ruins, Starbucks, Cats Protection. A man in the US wanted the manor at Priory Park, he had it blown to pieces and shipped off brick by brick. They tell us the Americans want Shakespeare’s birthplace. They tell us and we think of Merlin minus the move. The Americans want us, so they’ll blow us to bits then remake us over there, in our blown up image, except, the explosive equipment- we exported it. We see pics of Warwick, Rhode Island, and sneer, but the ren faire centre on our doorstep yearns for it. It needs to get out of its geographical confine, by making itself gel, malleable. When wax melts, it doesn’t evoke rot or decay, just a pure deconstructive change of state, the liquid pours out and warms the earth.
Watch the liquid pour itself. Become (postwarwickshire)