Every once in awhile, in the shop, you remember why you started making an item in the first place. Then the items imperfections and all the other constant, tiny insults life throws are of no consequence.

When i first saw it, or at least sensed it's presence, it's cold blackness is what struck me, possessing the kind of dark nothingness that is able to pull the warmth from your core -- existing as both thought and a towering monolith that does not reflect light -- always absorbing, never giving.

It made a constant droning sound, just out of human perception. The sound of doom. Insect-like. Mechanical. 

Reaching out, palm against it's surface, there was no perceptible feeling -- my hand just stopped moving forward -- no sensory input to suggest that my hand had reached it's destination.

It was difficult to imagine that this thing was within me, that it is actually a part of who I am.

Jeremy: It feels as if everything that could have happened, did happen. There seems to be ghost images of these othernesses constantly playing out as nostalgia and regret that get in the way of the 'right now'.

Becky: Wow. You are so full of yourself sometimes.

Jeremy: Yeah, I know.

i always assumed...
there would be a day...
when i would grow up.

when i would toss a stuffed animal
--onto
----the
-------ground

and it's soul would

~~~~~~~~shatter~~~~~~~~~~

and then i would sit at the dinner table properly

and a million happy and sad voices would converge into adulthood

between here and there sits a tv
offering the kingdoms of the world
paraded in a numbing mix of half-truths,
frivolity and gore

just beyond,
a wall stained with the steady yellowing of time.
an unsteady arc in the novice-troweled plaster
that says, 'this will be our home'

in the very back of my garden, hidden from everyday affairs and pending disasters, there stands a letting-go tree.

it's fruit ripens with every pulled weed and each reflective moment in the cool spring rain.

Note to self: Each day's work, viewed within the whole, is a single step in an elaborate dance. The step need not be any more productive or complex than what occurs naturally. Both complexity and precision follow a smooth whole that advances, ebbs and flows, at it's own pace.

What is perfection?
Is the forest perfect? It's floor infected with decay, half-lives and restarts?
Or is it just a hastily drawn sketch of some perfect ideal?

The numbers were fuzzy, soft-edged, the pricing of multiple items was calculated by Juan in a quasi liquid street math. He had learned to simultaneously add, subtract, sell, watch for thieves, and chat up potential customers -- all while maintaining the appropriate level of humility that made the tourists comfortable. The totals were accurate enough to work, but not so accurate as to distract from his real task of peddling goods.