through unravelling a tangled web of yarn, and dozing into a drift of passing thoughts i recall the happiness of manual hand held labour. the movement of the fingers, the delicacy of touch, the pleasure of endurance.
what happens to those forgotten in history of great mediocrity. those fallen victim to modest humility and earnest banality. short of the written word, the oiled painting, the coaled etching. no blockbuster no ballbuster. what about that. the unknown the dearth of the nigh.
men at work. build me a house baby, build my life around yours. a bottomless pool, trees of golden apples, double doors, opaque windows, a wrap around balcony more to see you with. invite me into your workshop. i can carry the wood, you can chop it from my hands. watch out for my fingers. i will knit you scarves of wire. scratching deep at your neck the blood is only a metaphor for how i feel about you. you get it i think. it's ok, we don't have to get each other. let's just work hand in hand together until the moon rises. that is my dream in your toiled hands.
Image Credit: scrapatorium.