w  i  n  t  e  r
    

The wheel turns quicker now and I push hard into the ball of clay, holding it still, waiting to work it up in my hands. I reach for the sponge and water before pushing again. The wet clay flattens out and slowly my hands stop their wobbling as the mass centers on the wheel.

My thumbs enter easily and work their way right down the middle and then out. A small nipple appears at the bottom and I drop a little water on it. That's what she'd called that collection of hers, nipple bowls.

I back off the wheel a little and lean close almost touching the form with my nose. I place both feet on some white, powder coated bricks and rinse my hands in the bucket to my right.

This part is critical.

Slowly I feel the wall grow thinner, but not too thin as I bring up the uniform shape between both my index fingers. Just a little pinch. Too much pressure and it will climb too fast, too little and it won't be even, might grow taller, but eventually both results will be the same...the growing pot will fall in on itself becoming a wet useless, uncentered mass on the wheel, fit only for slip.

But if the pressure is just right, and I can feel that it is, the pot begins to rise uniformly. I grab the wire and cut the top even. I work the sides with the sponge, smoothing them. I smooth the inside and mash the nipple there flat. Finally I move my right foot to the pedal and cut the power to the wheel. Twice I run a wire under the newly formed clay pot before pulling the mat off the wheel and placing it all on the drying rack.

Only then do I allow myself to brush the couple stray hairs from my eyes. Only then do I wipe the sweat from my thick eyebrows. Only then do I notice the surrounding room, the others painting, the one girl cutting a huge bowl before it's fired. The bright lights and the offending Hip-Hop coming out of the clay splatered radio.

myth

Used to be I played around with folktales. I've been accused of writing parables but no one will believe me. I even rambled for too long about nothing over here, but that was years ago, literally. These days I'm content to read myth or folktales before bed. Always searching out the new stories, the ones I've not heard, the modifications. See, if I remember properly, the beauty about myth is that is assigns language to the unknown or that which is not understood and allows us as people to deal with it on an emotional level of some sort. That only makes sense. It's like myth is the foundation for everything. Without it I couldn't write word one. I, you, we would have no context for meaning without it. I guess that's why I dig it so much.

But you can't mess with myth and what's the fun in that? I mean, Mamaragan is always gonna be the Zeus of Australia. And in Japan the Gods will always assemble at Izumo, determining the affairs of people for the year to come. So along come folktales. Easily re-worded and adapted for all times, all cultures, all people.

It's amazing how supersitious we all really are. Saving our best for bedtime. You know I heard once that folktale came from a german word that meant spell. I don't know a lick of German and never have taken the time to find out its truth, but I suspect it is not correct. It is still interesting to consider spells. Most people would say they don't believe in them, but these are the same folks who utter "Rest in peace" at the graveside.

Words.