Makers

Aug 24 2018

Written by hand.

The kinaesthetic pleasure

of ink on paper,

the slight tug of friction

the easy-rolling nib.

The unmediated path

between brain and hand;

between tactility and sentience,

learning, and remembrance.

This is not the hand-thrown pot

or embroidered tapestry,

objects of heft and touch

and imperfection.

The thumbprint left, the wheel's wobbly travel,

the stitch dropped

fringe starting to unravel.

Love letters

in an old desk drawer.

Her elegant penmanship

my messy chicken-scratch.

The ink she traced

and paper touched

that still contains her scent,

the nib she licked and left.

Reduced to neat uniform script

in light and ink

on paper, screen, and print.

To the alchemy of thought,

the mental image

that only lives

for as long as I exist.

Like all the things

we lost in the fire

we thought would never end,

as if we once actually believed

the comforting conceit

a thing could last forever.

It's all just stuff, they say.

Yes, but the stuff

that makes our lives make sense.

The talismans we hold

and memories we cherish,

the strong gossamer thread

from which we weave ourselves.

It's how the hand that makes

and the words I know by heart.

How there are 3 lbs of matter

in the average adult brain,

and how the human mind

without space, or weight

can occupy the world.

How I still have her picture

after all the photos burned.

I really just wanted to write about the demise of handwriting -- the personal letter, the actual object -- and also how writing by hand is linked to the creative process. And then this general idea of hard tangible things -- the things we make -- as opposed to the virtual worlds we now tend to inhabit:  how things are incrementally reduced to abstraction; how the ability to make -- the competence and mastery of makers -- has become increasingly rare in our lives. But it took its own direction, as these things do.