I became absent from clay for the last few weeks. I don’t know what happened. I forgot what it was about. It isn’t any news that I struggle with existence. I manage though enough and maintain a resemblance of a whole. It isn’t so bad.

Forgetting clay though? What a travesty. Letting go of the medium of dirt and water from which I make ceramic fish is terrible. I should covet it often and always.

It’s weird what I know about clay; smooth porcelain, buff stoneware, fireclay stoneware, either with iron. Raku. Cook it to 2400 degrees F and it becomes vitrified. Microwave and dishwasher safe.

Glazing is a whole ‘nother story. I brush on the glazes with precise care and abandon. I imagine the chemicals in the glaze melting in the kiln and how they will end up when all is cool and done. Beautiful streaks of haystack orange, volcano lava red and an Oribe that was born of mistake. Mistakes are okay.

Recently, I got caught up in a cycle of wanting to know what I wanted. I just figured out that want is the wrong way to go. Have is better and getting with purpose is the best. Don’t worry, I couldn’t follow me either. Giving is important too.

Instead, follow thyself. Find something in or out of you that you love, and give it everything you have. I assure you that the dividends will far outweigh the effort you extend. That is, if you keep at it. All is null and void if you give up. I won’t endorse you.


No point pointing fingers or taking blame or feeling guilty or waiting or wanting or regretting or even being overjoyed with something like a moment of happiness. No point unless. Unless you take account of all the little things. Then it is important, but refrain from pointing it out like I just did.

Tomorrow, I won’t get my fingers or soul into clay. It isn’t that part of the work cycle. Tomorrow, I will glaze. The next day too.

I will glaze a Northern Pike, many rainbow trout, Atlantic Salmon, Sunfish, and myself.

Inside, Bob thought about all the things he could have done or been. Hiccups of reality mandated a next moment to get to. Bob wanted so much but when the shit hit the fan, he retreated into art. Not just any art, ceramic fish.

Reading that about oneself can be pretty.

I like when I pick up my can of beer and don’t know how full it is.

Process is just that. It is every song on the radio. It gets you while you’re going. I really like the parts that mean something along the way.

Like clay. Clay is just.

I wedge balls of it to escape bubbles and I feel its’ texture and think about how smooth or rough I am. Then, I make fish. Pressing the rolled out slab into the molds I made with real fish. Feeling my fingers press the clay, I absorb my own emotions and static them back into the clay form. You couldn’t tell by looking at it, but I can.




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