I tweaked my back yesterday. How you ask? The way all 41 year-olds tweak their backs, I stood up.
No worries, though. I traipsed on over to The Joint, scanned my card, lay face down on one of the six tables, and Dr. Jay did the rest. He’s a very built, very hot, Asian chiropractor that specializes in what I call the Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma’am school of adjustment. Not much talking, he just cracks you ten ways to Tuesday. You can’t beat it for $29 and no appointment necessary. I felt better immediately.
I can’t help but wonder, what with the proliferation of Boulder’s medical marijuana, um, pharmacies, how many confused stoners wander into The Joint (as in spinal joint you idiot), ask for Dr. Jay and get the scare of their lives. It amuses me to no end.
I’m super happy to be back in the studios (ceramic and dance). A month off of ceramics has me full of ideas and a month off of the pole has me weak and mushy. But to both ends, it is great being back in places where I can do something about them.
My idea of heaven is listening to a great audio book (Gone Girl a fantastic mystery) and working away at a hunk of porcelain. I love hand-building because there is nothing immediate or urgent about it. Unlike wheel-throwing, where a perfect piece can collapse into a pile of wet mush in a split second, hand-building is methodical and forgiving.
Getting to dry? Mist it down. Too wet to work with? Leave it out for a while. Out of time? Cover it up and come back later. It is the opposite of parenting where the needs are urgent and loud: get out the door, kids are squawking for food, someone is crying. It is liberating to work on something, walk away, come back, make a few adjustments and repeat until I am happy. Now I know why women take up pottery when their kids get bigger.
My idea of perfection in my pottery isn’t perfection. I tried for that with wheel-throwing and it drove me nuts. Plus, you can buy perfect at Target. I want my pieces to feel like they have been touched by warm hands and the surfaces have been burnished by my fingertips. I love the uneven, but not jagged, edges and the way each one is different and personal; the way you can tell which plate is yours by the unusual squash of the lip. My pieces drive Lonny insane because they don’t stack for shit, and one day it will all come crashing down in a heartbreaking porcelain avalanche, but that will simply be motivation for me to make more.
The purpose of this digression into my world of ceramics is to show you that my house is not just a jumble of stupid, plastic crap. I have so many wonderful things that I want to be able to see and use easily. Here are just a few.
White stone-wear folded bowl, glazed in celadon.