An English In Kentucky



















April 29th 2009

    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.


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