My body as my mind, bruised and sore; where it touched the world. Little room to move in any direction, in the work as wartime, a forced slithering me.

Every break like a rebirth, the moment of daylight; a beckoning of hope: for less horrible. Through a dark passage of cobwebs and mummified rats….a mystery tour, where a magnifying glass isn’t necessary; the details are under my chin.

Who let their child play under here? Not surprised they abandoned their shoe. I don’t look very hard for things I lose under there either.

Clearly not the worst of my crawls, and the pissed off bumblebees; were a refreshing new way to stay awake.

Sometimes it feels like my job title, ought to be an Evictor of Vectors.

Why do I enjoy this work? It feels like a counseling appointment, with possum piss. As I squeeze under the timber holding it all above my head, I get stuck a little; and visualize earthquakes.

Ta’ta! I gotta go crawl.

Paperboy Training

As one of my favorite things to do, I approached training my latest replacement for delivery of the news, with a sense of reverence. We met the day before, to go over the route. Laying down the job description, went like this:

“Your job is to say, “good morning!”, and throw the latest news at peoples houses in the dark.” I explained that the timber of the morning salutation was imperative. It needed to be expressed as a joyful fascist statement of goodwill, not a submissive question, ending with a higher pitch.

His first attempt was horrendous. I berated his style as dysfunctional, badly timed, and lacking impact. The guy he tried to engage wasn’t even looking at him, had ear buds in, and was walking away. What a waste.

He did a lot better manipulating people going forward though. The gang of hoodlums in the alley we passed next, actually grinned a good morning back.

Later on in the morning, as daylight brought more people into our path, I discovered another fault to his methods, as he was saying “good morning”, right after me, and it was screwing up my good morning.

As the dictator of etiquette, I instructed him to only say, “morning”….so as we would pass people, I would say, “good”, and silently mouth “morning”; while he said it. That worked magnificently, although we only did it once, because my grin was a little too big; and I started to feel like a benevolent oppressor.

On a seriously silly note, I find it fascinating, that we have a direct impact on the physiology of others, and as a result; with a little expressive effort towards glee: we spread it.

Please consider this as a newspaper, being thrown onto your upper deck. I threw it hard. It cleared the lawn, had enough backspin to avoid denting your screen door, and hopefully landed with a pronounced whack, waking up your whole household….with my sense of a good morning.

Keep in mind, that newspapers don’t require reading; to make good fire-starters. Additionally, if you don’t open them before necessary, the inside is a relatively sterile material, for bandaging gushing wounds. Paper machê is fun too…

Dismantling the threshold.

On the coin of art, awesome and insane are the faces. Both costly in fear and courage, with the payout in contented solitary wonderment.

I need it as an umbrella in the downpour of public opinion, as the griefs of newscasts attempt to devour my soul. Satisfaction comes when it’s closed, and what I get is a punch of the tip in my blind side, as a brush dipped in tears.

Honesty brings out the naked dance in the downpour, jumping off the cliff, while knowing the umbrella won’t hold my weight.  It shines in me when the fear of losing everything, flies out the window like a receipt I misplaced.

I can make it with a person looking over my shoulder, but I have to drench my idea of what their perspective means, in fuel.  Better yet to spark it with my passion, like the shock in the kiss of a stranger.  Watch their perceptions burning, with the pleasure of getting lost, creating something seriously silly.

The results are mixed. Mediums confounding my sense of doubting perfection. Shards of shattered glass, dust, slivers, and broken beyond repair. But still yes…I’m still, and I dare.

It’s not the results that matter though, like making love to myself with a blindfold, what’s left? What’s right? I have tried again tonight.

Casting Lines

in a whip of laughter

met where the hook

would be.

reeling for nothing

caught like cobwebs

in passing.

Giving free hoped for

calloused at the knee

a glance.

feathered heart flapping

inside a burning cage

of glee.

slight of teared mind’s eye

fingertips holding scalded lips

a lie.

left wanting more

closing the innocent taste

of grace.

dodging popped buttons

torn shirts akimbo fixed

a win.

solitude’s shadow penetrated

pristine jacketed taped boxes

o books.







Spread thin

Met another one. As I walked in his footsteps, I looked to his full head of curly white locks, at the thinning on top. He spoke of friends telling him, he needs to hand down his trade. He said he already taught people how to make magic in wood, and he was tired of it.

He showed us pictures of the musical instruments he makes. 2 million dollar organs for churches, a cabinet maker, a luthier, a master.

I want to let go of this feeling of impeding creative doom. New cars designed without a space for a spare wheel. I want to see that as a cool thing. Roadside assistance is cool. But what of autonomy, agency, and independence?

Trying to wrap my head around the sense, that the foundations of craftsmanship are eroding. For instance, Zelji is a computer program now. In the past it was a apprenticeship of fifteen years, to learn the wonders of mathematical mandala mosaic design; but now: is a push of the buttons on a plastic keyboard. Parts of that are awesome…but awesome has a dark side.

Is it the risk of what happens when the power goes out? Like the container ship stuck in the Suez Canal, is it only a matter of time? Has it always been this way? What are the historical proportions of the population, that achieve mastery? What countries shine as beacons of trade education now?

Becoming more necessary for my community, gives me a sense of trepidation. Maybe it’s the looming duty, to provide for people who cannot, through no physical deficiency of their own. Or is it that I have my work cut out already, being useful for people I care about.

Letting go of this feeling, by finding solutions; is the goal of TATWIP. The masters who developed as a slow burn of talent, will die soon. Left with the second best thing, a runner up at bat; they can still hit a home run.

I’ve been always old at heart, and more now in my body. I love the scratch of ink and lead on parchment. The drag of a sharp knife, through something I would enjoy touching without gloves. Texture like chewing nachos, but with my fingertips.