The fume kiln will probably be Sunday. The
wife's perfect forms are ready. Some finishing to do. I have
ready those aggregates of seeds from the back of the bush hog, hamster
bedding, saw dust and other ingredients which I see no reason to keep
secret, but which I can keep secret because mystery is a game we humans
forget to play at our peril.
Sometimes though honesty is refreshing. Too
often it comes as a surprise. I wait like a salamander for an
opinion. I guess it will be flawed by a bias tainted by an awkward
yet understandable greed. My movements are slow, while others are
quick. It then becomes my turn to help, my turn to teach.
Mystery does away with the need for honesty. It
becomes the purview of the anointed. Part of the clan. That
invisible which continues to separate us all from each other until we gather
to watch cricket, or to sing. Then there is an ecstasy of belonging,
the collective effervescence to use Emile Durkheim's perfect two words.
The fume kiln is sultry-stubborn, but honest, and the
secret ingredients belong to sweat, copper and salt, not me.