Tag: Drawing

When I was a teen I wanted a lathe. (The machine used for making things round, like stair spindles and bowling pins.) I bought a cheap one from the local hardware store and proceeded to rattle it apart. I wanted MORE. So I built this behemoth of a machine out of scavenged parts and plywood. I filled it with about 800 pounds of sand.  My favorite was finding freshly cut wood on the side of the road. If you caught it at just the right moment, before the sun had started to crack it – you could scavenge some amazing timber and save it before it went in the fireplace or the shredder. I haven’t turned anything in years, but it’s an amazing feeling. It’s like drawing and sculpture at the same time, describing two-dimensional curves that magically become a three dimensional object.

This is true.

He comes after dark. I hear the steady thrum of the refrigeration unit outside.  Mr. Yum sells ice cream. His van gurgles a happy tune in that warped off-key way you expect to hear at sideshows. Every night during summer he parks himself at the end of my driveway.  Every night. I’ve never found anything particularly sinister in all this.

Sometimes, on nights when sleep is slow to come, I imagine myself in a self-contained suit that propels me through space at tremendous speed. It’s not a modern, high-tech device, more like space travel 1890’s style. The low “shoosh"ing sound is very relaxing and one can sense the infinite silence just outside.  

In my dream it is 1947, in Cordoba. We stand at the ancient fountain in the Plaza del Potro. I take the stoneware pitcher from your hands and turn it so I can drink from the place your lips have been.  The afternoon shadows are black and purple where they collide with your feet.  The square is empty, and the only sound the far-off crackle of an old Victrola. 

A productive morning. A&M Specialties is like a candy store for woodworking types. It’s in this old mill building, it smells wonderful and it’s infused with this beautiful light. I was looking for some pear wood for a special instrument, and not having any luck.

The fellow serving me looked like an auctioneer from the ‘30’s. Suspenders – and not in an ironic hipster way. Shirt pocket crammed so full the right suspender had to go around it. “Gee. I don’t know. We switched suppliers and it’s been a while. Unless you wanna look down in the corner. We did a job a few years back that didn’t turn out to specs.”

On hands and knees. Brushing dust away like it was an ancient book of spells. Gorgeous clear French pear-wood, mellow and buttery and pink.  I bought it all. It was sitting there waiting, unwanted and a “mistake”. Ah, but it’s perfect for what I’ve been planning.  

There’s a street here in Hamilton where the buildings are close together and you come to a stop atop a steep hill. At one point somebody had spray painted the word “Courage” on the brick. It’s since been painted over but at the time I thought it was a most positive sentiment for graffiti. This morning I was driving and listening to an eclectic mix of downloads and stopped there.

I guess the volume was up high enough that the guy next to me could hear. He motioned for me to roll down my window, which I did.  “I love this song, man!" So we sang the chorus together, a couple of rough looking fellows belting out the Pogues until the light turned green.