Arts complicated to clean precious vases. It requires attention to the fragility, attention to detail, patience in the application. It is not a profession for men troubled, nor for careless rogues. Refraining the hasty, violent, the angry, the irascible. Only those who have a lot of time and a nice dose of perspective is called learning.
In the old shop and there is no teacher. Only a pot waiting for you. One and only a fragile vase, magically precious. Covered with a thick layer of opaque dust. Gates and the gate of the old, surrounded by ACRI smell of dust and mold, I already see it on your counter. Next to the soft cloth on which to study the art. Below, a basket: there should be rested up the pieces. The broken shards.
There is no clock in the shop. No artificial light. Only a few large window facing south, also dusty. Silence reigned throughout the hall. Each worker works concentrated on his small jar of clay.
Mani alienated from repetitive slow movement is blocked only the dull roar of cracked surfaces. Each heart-in-his mouth puckers bitterly to dry the ticking of a lost heritage. A sort of communal prayer recited by anyone. A hug to a broken dream. A second, just one moment. Then the work begins again, as it was. Each in his own way.
No one has a contract, a precise period, a period of work. We do not want to hurry, I've already said. It may remain closed for days, months, years. Even a lifetime, if you are stubborn enough and patients. Some even raises the brightness of his vessel by reason of existence. People who have lost head, who greeted everyone and everything, closing in that old room, and living on bread and water. And a little rest the night curled up on a bale of straw next to their bench. A miserable life, for the world. A life of love her for that pot for him. Points of view-as-usual.
I saw out of that mysterious place gray men are folded into self. Men heartbroken, disappointed, hurt. Men who were hurt, someone had lost in an instant, years of work on time. Who knows what it feels cm polished by hours of meticulous work are shattered. Tic. And everything collapses in on itself, mixing with those bits still full of dust, dirt. Must hard to accept to be judged to have failed without even a bit wrong '. It makes you wonder if you have not been too impulsive, too hasty, a little sweet, a little tender. But something must have been wrong. There was a misstep.
Or maybe that pot-so precious to be collected in a soul-self did not want to be caressed. Maybe it was already cracked, already dented. And the careless eye had enough sweetness at that point, destroying the rest. What a shame.
I would one day learn the magical art and not be more than mere spectator. I would like to know that old man who welcomes young hopefuls in his shop. I wonder if it is the usual pain in the ass or nice damn wise. And maybe ask a little precious pot polish, and clean, and shine. Maybe I welcome you, or maybe I'll throw out a kick up the backside, railing against my clumsy hands trembling. I do not know.
Certainly, this garden bench in front of the shop-I'll never learn that ancient wisdom. It is to enter and work, risking the balance on that thin line between disappointment and happiness.
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