Oh, lump of clay. Oh, blob of mud, why have you forsaken me? Why so stubbornly do you insist on staying away from the center? Why be content in your lumpness? Why are you so difficult? Are you not at home on the wheel? Am I not your thrower of choice? You behave so well, move so beautifully in the hands of Mcbeth. You poke and prod into muscles that I never use. For you, the Golden Mean is no option. If the perfect balance is not reached in each of the various hand positions or techniques, you fall to pieces. Pressure, moisture, timing are crucial to you.
I'll be honest. I love the mess you make. You splatter water and muck all over me, and I do very little to minimize the spread. I love the cool feel of your moldability. The very sight and feel of your compressed, decomposed, caked muddy self puts a smile on my face. I spend hours with you at the wheel. I would leave, but I'm compelled to stay "just a bit longer." And yet you ignore all of that.
Lump of clay, why don't you love me?
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1 comment:
Ali san! Te encontre lol. Ha ha I was about to say "add me if you want" lol. Totally forgot this is not like facebook or myspace. Oh and in case you don't know...this is MIA lol.
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