Everything looks like a composition today.I helped unload the kiln earlier but I wasn't doing much, so I had time to look up- something I don't think I've done in the kiln room before. When I looked up the first thing I saw were the friggen strangest lights hanging like yellow strawberries from the ceiling, and the closest one was swaying because the vents were blowing so hard. The lights curved away so nicely and to the left of them was the procession of the straight planed kilns, following the same curve, and the pipes were coming in and breaking it up so neatly and comfortably.
Then I looked up out the window to see the snow, and if you blur your eyes and pretend that everything that wasn't white was black it was a Franz Kline painting.
On the table, next to me, right now, there is a roll of masking tape, a big rubber band, a little rubber band, a pin, a rectangle of sandpaper, a highlighter yellow index card and a pen forming this stupid nice still life. I say stupid nice because I hate still lifes of nothing (or still lifes in general)but I must admit it looks good. Noone put that there, that happened there. How dare those objects be so unwillingly perfect, like they can make the mundane sacred.
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