I needed that jack.
It needed me.
IT called to me.
It’s like grocery shopping when you’re hungry: a bad idea.
I went into the store looking for nitrile gloves.
I’ve been working with plaster and my hands ache like sandpaper.
I grabbed a sales person.
We wandered the aisles looking for blue, purple, black gloves
Finally found a pack of ten,
the last one in the store in the horse section.
I shop for tools when I crave something I’m lacking.
As a sculptor, I need tools and I believe
they need me to feel like they have purpose.
I feel less than complete without my aviator snips or my lineman’s pliers.
I’m not whole.
I must make art soon
or the world will continue to tip askew.
I can’t hold back for much longer.
Stasis is killing me.
I WANT MY ANVIL!
Before the earth split open
my art would flow in between invoices
phone calls, customers, emails.
Now, the talking about it, typing about it is not enough.
An artist has to make something or we get a little squirrelly.
More like a rabid raccoon trapped in an attic
pacing back and forth looking for the exit
while your stomach grumbles,
“What can I eat? Where can I go?
Why does it smell like I should sleep here?
I’m claustrophobic. I need air.”
I can’t keep still.