Picking Nails

A leaning stack

of an old building’s lingering,

I believed love

was only

picking nails from the stove grate;

but you

were solstice

fire

hammering two by fours

to the air.

Teak's Way (3)

Teak is beautiful wood to work with - able to accept a knife blade with grace, and offer the subtlest of suggestions of how to move upon its surfaces...

Teak's Way (2)

When I placed the knife blade against the wood, I went back in time...  I was siting by a river.   There was a piece of wood that was floating by and I scooped it out of the languidly flowing water.  Nothing was moving fast that day.  There was a lull to all of existance.

The piece of wood - a branch about wrist-thick - did not seem to have been in the water for long.  It seemed like it was green wood - wood that had not been away from its tree for very long.  Its end was of a wind-shorn sort of rip of strands.  I imagined the wind storm in the past night's darkness, and envisioned the branch straining to maintain itself against the pull of swind.  Maybe a larger branch had fallen upon it.

I looked closer.  Yes, there was a rip upon the bark, like something had been dashed upn it, maybe as it hit the ground, maybe to induce it to break and fall.  I felt like I could walk upstream and find the tree that it had been ripped from.

I moved the knife blade against the teak.  When I had mentioned to friends that I had gotten a piece of teak, they asked if it was actual teak - maybe it was acacia, they ventured.  But I had explored it and had come to the conclusion that it was actual teak.  Fine-grained, oily, smelling of leather.  The knife dug through some first initial grain, and like most times, I felt the blade warm to the wood, like it needed to gauge the wood for a few cuts before settling upon the texture of the rhythm - a texture of slow yet solid growth amidst a spectrum of seasons.  I felt like I could begin to see the tree.  What a majestic tree it must have been.

And I felt like I could begin to see a spoon.

Teak's Way (1)

A piece of teak, a knife, some time and a balcony on a side road in Bangalore, India.
I got this piece of teak from one of the sawmills here.   It seems to be authentic, actual teak, not acacia... 
This wood has a way about it - even in its present solidity, its form and structure, it seems to be telling me that there is thinness within it.  I'm not sure what that means.

A window

You open a window, the breeze feels just right;

please open it wide, or shut it up tight... 

I don't fear the breeze as much as its touch,

yet a fluttering sail never longed for so much...

Inner transformation

Where do we go, what activities do we do, what interactions do we take part in that takes us into spaces of transformation? 
Generosity allows for many points of access.

The character of searching

What begins as a journey of the sharpness of a blade searching out the last moment of surface emerges as an exploration of your own character of searching, the wood, in effect, becoming more and more accentuated towards your own existence. 

The warmth of your body wraps itself around that whisper of substance, the last vestiges of any solid sense nestling there like a trusting child cuddling upon your chest as you both lie down to take an easeful, restful sleep. 

And you dream.

But at some point you need to stop. 

In shaping solidity, in moving towards an ultimate end of carving down to nothing, at some point all that remains on that other side is your own skin.