chainsaw vs the pampas grass It seemed an unlikely match. All winter unplugged, grinding its teeth in a plastic sleeve, the chainsaw swung nose-down from a hook in the darkroom under the hatch in the floor. When offered the can it knocked back a quarter-pint of engine oil and juices ran from its joints and threads, oozed across the guide-bar and the maker’s name, into the dry links. From the summerhouse, still holding one last gulp of last year’s heat behind its double doors, and hung with the weightless wreckage of wasps and flies, mothballed in spider’s wool . . . from there, I trailed the day-glo orange power line the length of the lawn and the garden path, fed it out like powder from a keg, then walked back to the socket and flicked the switch, then walked again and coupled the saw to the flex – clipped them together. Then dropped the safety catch and gunned the trigger. No gearing up or getting to speed, just an instant rage, the rush of metal lashing out at air, connected to the mains. The chainsaw with its perfect disregard, its mood to tangle with cloth, or jewellery, or hair. The chainsaw with its bloody desire, its sweet tooth for the flesh of the face and the bones underneath, its grand plan to kick back against nail or knot and rear up into the brain. I let it flare, lifted it into the sun and felt the hundred beats per second drumming in its heart, and felt the drive-wheel gargle in its throat. The pampas grass with its ludicrous feathers and plumes. The pampas grass, taking the warmth and light from cuttings and bulbs, sunning itself, stealing the show with its footstools, cushions and tufts and its twelve-foot spears. This was the sledgehammer taken to crack the nut. Probably all that was needed here was a good pull or shove or a pitchfork to lever it out at its base. Overkill. I touched the blur of the blade against the nearmost tip of a reed – it didn’t exist. I dabbed at a stalk that swooned, docked a couple of heads, dismissed the top third of its canes with a sideways sweep at shoulder height – this was a game. I lifted the fringe of undergrowth, carved at the trunk – plant-juice spat from the pipes and tubes and dust flew out as I ripped into pockets of dark, secret warmth. To clear a space to work I raked whatever was severed or felled or torn towards the dead zone under the outhouse wall, to be fired. Then cut and raked, cut and raked, till what was left was a flat stump the size of a barrel lid that wouldn’t be dug with a spade or prised from the earth. Wanting to finish things off I took up the saw and drove it vertically downwards into the upper roots, but the blade became choked with soil or fouled with weeds, or what was sliced or split somehow closed and mended behind, like cutting at water or air with a knife. I poured barbecue fluid into the patch and threw in a match – it flamed for a minute, smoked for a minute more, and went out. I left it at that. In the weeks that came new shoots like asparagus tips sprang up from its nest and by June it was riding high in its saddle, wearing a new crown. Corn in Egypt. I looked on from the upstairs window like the midday moon. Back below stairs on its hook the chainsaw seethed. I left it a year, to work back through its man-made dreams, to try to forget. The seamless urge to persist was as far as it got.

chainsaw vs the pampas grass It seemed like an odd pairing. All winter disconnected, sharpening its teeth in a plastic cover, the chainsaw hung downward from a hook in the dark room under the floor hatch. When given oil, it drank a bit of engine oil and liquid ran from its joints and threads, spread across the guide-bar and the maker’s name, into the dry links. From the summerhouse, still holding a bit of last year’s warmth behind its doors, and covered with the remains of wasps and flies, wrapped in spider webs... from there, I followed the bright orange power line across the lawn and garden path, let it out like powder from a barrel, then walked back to the socket and turned it on, then walked again and connected the saw to the cable – joined them together. Then released the safety and pulled the trigger. No warming up or speeding up, just instant anger, the rush of metal hitting the air, connected to the power. The chainsaw with its complete disregard, its mood to get tangled with clothes, or jewelry, or hair. The chainsaw with its violent desire, its craving for the flesh of the face and the bones beneath, its big plan to fight back against nails or knots and rise up into the brain. I let it blaze, lifted it into the sun and felt the rapid beats in its heart, and felt the drive-wheel gurgle in its throat. The pampas grass with its ridiculous feathers and plumes. The pampas grass, soaking up the warmth and light from cuttings and bulbs, basking in the sun, stealing attention with its footstools, cushions, and tufts and its twelve-foot spears. This was using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Probably all that was needed was a good pull or push or a pitchfork to lift it out at its base. Too much. I touched the blur of the blade against the nearest tip of a reed – it was gone. I poked at a stalk that bent, cut a couple of heads, removed the top third of its canes with a sideways swipe at shoulder height – this was a game. I lifted the edge of the undergrowth, cut at the trunk – plant juice spat from the pipes and tubes and dust flew out as I tore into pockets of dark, hidden warmth. To make space to work I raked whatever was cut or broken or torn towards the dead area under the outhouse wall, to be burned. Then cut and raked, cut and raked, until what was left was a flat stump the size of a barrel lid that couldn’t be dug with a spade or pried from the earth. Wanting to finish things off I picked up the saw and drove it straight down into the upper roots, but the blade got clogged with soil or tangled with weeds, or what was cut or split somehow closed and healed behind, like cutting at water or air with a knife. I poured barbecue fluid into the patch and threw in a match – it burned for a minute, smoked for a minute more, and went out. I left it at that. In the following weeks new shoots like asparagus tips sprouted from its base and by June it was standing tall, wearing a new crown. Corn in Egypt. I watched from the upstairs window like the midday moon. Back downstairs on its hook the chainsaw fumed. I left it for a year, to work through its artificial dreams, to try to forget. The endless urge to continue was as far as it got.