I'm leaving the old intro here, but adding this- it appears the doves have taken over my blog for their fiction. Just as well, I was doing a piss poor job of updating. They're doing much better.

This blog is infrequently updated, full of incorrect spellings, misused words, and general bad grammar. It started when I was trying to use google+ (which I've since given up on) and discovered there was no character limit for posts. If you've known me a long time, a lot of these stories will be old hat. If you plan to know me for a long time, you'll no doubt hear many of them in person. But, folks seemed to enjoy them, so here they are.

Monday, August 24, 2015

the hundred and fiftieth story

Is not quite non-fiction, but is still utterly true.
You stay up all night working, because it is too hot to have the fire going during the day. Even so, as you're forging, you end up shedding most of your safety gear because the possibility of burns isn't as bad as the certainty of heat stroke. When you finish, your clothes are soaked through and stuck to your skin, so you just take your phone out of your pocket and step under the shower fully clothed. As you peel soaking rags off your body, you realize that turning the water to anything other than dead cold was a mistake, and you're not sure whether the lightheadedness is heat or dehydration. You turn the temperature down and,knees shaking too much to stand, you sit in the dirty floor of your shower, cupping water from the tap and drinking it from your hands. You're still wearing shorts when you climb out.

The next day you pack up all this work, and you drive through the night. You arrive at your location around noon. Five hours later you've finished setting up your booth. You drive to a shitty motel, too tired to do anything else. You order a pizza and try to watch movies on an internet connection too slow to really stream anything. The next day, you wake up and absently dress nice- in a way you never dress at home. You brew tea in your room, but forget to bring it with you. You remember the little white gloves you wear at shows to hide all the marks on your hands. It's slow for the first hour, as it always is. You are prepared for this, but still it is hard to stand there, worrying about whether you'll make enough money to pay all your bills. You look around the booth, proud of everything in it, taking stock, taking note of where everything is so you'll be ready for the rush later. While you're doing this, a woman walks into the booth. You strike up a conversation with her. She tells you how lucky you are that you get to do what you love. Most of the time you love what you do. You really, really, truly do love it. But you do not love this moment, and even when you do love it, you know how much work it is. You smile, through gritted teeth, and not punching this woman in her bright white teeth is harder than not fainting in the shower was just a few days ago. You know she means well. You know that at least part of your marginal success can be attributed to luck, but you can feel the burned skin under your shirt and the raw skin under your fancy white gloves and you do not feel at all lucky. You keep your smile, as hard as that is. You sell her a moderately expensive piece whose name you will always remember. You forget the woman by the end of the day, and forget the conversation soon after- there isn't room in your head for both it and the ecstatic plans for new pieces.

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