JCT Woodwork

08/11/10

When I was sixteen and building my first house

I had an epiphany about  wood,

I noticed that it was changing: warping, oozing, cracking

Even as I  constructed.

I hated that fact.

I wanted my work to be perfect and permanent.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Perplexed by imperfection.

My boss at the time was a slob.

He coached me: “You need to adjust your attitude:

Don’t worry ‘bout it. Goddamnit.

Can’t see it from my house anyway.” He shrugged.

I found some boldness in his prescription for mindless action.

And that seemed to work for him and be to his pleasing

When I immediately did what he told me to do.

Right wrong: not my fault: not my job to be mindful.

I never could make peace with it.

Even with a raise, when everything was swimming.

I thrashed around in my sleep.

Wrestling an internal opponent that pit me against myself.

I was blissfully unemployed about five years ago

I sat on the lawn at my sister’s house

With both my artist sisters, eating a simple lunch.

One  sister said “Wabi Sabi”

Other sister said “Just was reading about that.”

Brother in law rounded the house

Like in a musical reading a book titled:

“What is Wabi Sabi?”

Well…. It’s a Japanese phrase that juxtaposes

Two notions of age, like New-Old.

Like aging renewed by usage.

An old tarnished door knob that shines anew just where you grasp it.

So after years of mindful care, I can grasp and turn a log

From something old, hidden and rotting

Into a fascinating new vessel.

That honors old and new life in its layers of age and coping.

That has been the idea behind my work this week.

Love, John

July 4, 2010

A friend sent me a photograph

Of a generous oak in Rochester.

In a park designed by Omstead

Near the beautiful Genesee river.

In the precarious comfort

Of my grandfather’s recliner.

IBut come the fourth of  July this year

That tree was cleft in twain

As if smacked so hard

It split from the blow

Of a bare fisted giant.

Now, I’m not Druid any more,

Though those would be my roots.

But such an event on such a date

Might cause a plume to quiver

Back in the age of Shakespeare

When catastrophic events caused

Kings to repent from wars

And other wrong decisions.

Beware, repent and then perhaps rejoice.

Love, John  

P.S. find the “after” picture in the attached.

Spring

My heart aches for the rush of Spring

Where every shrub is stretching

And rushing with all its might

To get ready in its fat bud.

Then burst with scent and color

And join the wild profusion

On its dizzy march toward summer.

Alas, much of summer is here all winter.

And while I applaud the quiet and formal rites of Spring,

I’d still like a taste of New England’s all out bash!