[POEM] Euology for Clay

There are stories all over the world,

mythologies across thousands of

miles and years, that all reference

clay. The ancient Greeks had

Prometheus, who molded man

to be servants of the Gods. He

spat into clay, gave them fire, and

for this transgression against Zeus

was sentenced for an eternity

to have his liver eaten by an eagle.

The Judeo-Christian religions had

Yaweh, maker of Adam and Eve.

“For dust thou art, and unto dust

shalt thou return,” that guy. And

who could forget Patrick Swayze

and Demi Moore starring in Ghost,

spinning that spire of clay into a

flaccid paranormal phallic symbol?

Anyone who has worked with clay

would understand its importance

to history. In various geologies, it

is abundant. Clay soil is ideal for

many crops, in the right ratios. Alone,

depending on moisture and quality,

it is malleable and strong, making it

diverse in its application, capable of

creating almost anything given enough

time and skill. And to add another

layer of complexity, it can also be

baked, painted, spun, sculpted.

The possibilities are endless.

But most importantly, it's sexy.

Imagine Moore and Swayze sexing

it up if instead she took a chisel

to a block of marble in a study of

the Statue of David. What kind

of relationship would it be if Swayze

was cupping Moore's hands as she

was capturing the ideal male form?

Completely selfish. Narcissistic.

Even if she got it perfectly right,

there is no one I would trust,

other than myself, with a knife

around my balls. Hard pass.

Pound for pound, if you want visceral

sexiness in art, there is nothing that

can beat clay. There's a cool earthiness

to it, a thickness and heft that gives

way to your fingers when you hold it

and press it the right way. Add enough

water and it gets all over your hands,

your arms, slick and sticky and slippery.

(By the way, it's not a coincidence

that you can throw it on a wheel.)

The more you work with it, the more

it needs attention. Maybe it needs

more support. Sometimes it needs

moisture. Don't press too hard, but

too soft and it doesn't respond to you.

It takes hours of work and care, but

if done correctly, you will transform

your pleasure to build or reduce it

to a single expression of ecstasy.

Wouldn't you want to live as clay, to

be molded by a creator? Wouldn't

you want to create something, to take

a formless lump of dirt and turn it into

something beautiful? Isn't that what

we all want, to make something, to

have been made for something?

My answer was yes. This you asked

me the first night and for nights after,

up until you found my answer tiring

and I found nothing in your silence.

You have always been most complete

when in the act of creation, a part of

which I wanted even as I asked you in

return, already knowing your answer.

Let it not be said that I did not make

my mark on you as well, those times

I placed my hands on your hips, every

exposed sweep of your neck, fingers

entwined in your hair, sure weight

of your thigh, mingled panting cutting

punctuating in the dark, between us

the heat, everything yes, yes, yes, yes.

You spun me into a ceramic tea pot.

But somewhere along the way, after

you had your fill, you lost the taste

for tea, its ceremony forgotten, leaving

me on the shelf beneath thick dust of

dry meals, quiet rooms, brittle hope.

Your hair tied up at the top of your head

as an afterthought, strands falling across

your face. The freckles of slip kissing your

arms and your cheeks. The excess clay

clinging as ripples to your fingertips. You,

leaning to and fro to discern the perfect

angle and balance of your work. You,

enacting your will on the universe by

the act of creation beneath your hands.

People change. Tastes change. I don't

blame you for that. You can only work

on a project for so long before it needs

to be finished. At a certain point, there

needs to be a conclusion. You found it.

What kind of person would you be if

you stayed the same your entire life?

What kind of person would I be to

love someone like that? So, I understand.

We needed to move on. That is the

nature of people and relationships.

Growing. Changing. This is healthy.

Life goes one and we need to change

or risk stagnation, something between

death and life.

Hours you spent in your studio moving

on, making art that wasn't for pouring

a drink between lovers. And no, this is

not a metaphor for infidelity. I've known

you long enough to know that cheating

isn't in your moral vocabulary. This was

only an observation on the cost of art.

The artist must, by necessity, kill

her own creation. She will never

visit again what she has created,

never the same brush stroke, always

a different arc in the vase, moving

ever onward. She will return only

in remembrance, as a member of

the audience. Look over there at

that teapot. Someone fucked a

lump of clay, made him come

over and over again until he was

dry enough to be baked in place,

monument to his obsolete ecstasy.

Clay, to be tipped, shattered, shards

of his identity crushed to dust.

Artist, never wondering where he

had gone, never knowing where

her crafting hands had wandered.