feminish

I’m steadily returning from the Immanent Grove… un-retreating after three days of stillness, resting and mind-blowing teachings on metaphysics I’m still midst fathoming. I learnt about Death - or, to be more precise, What Happens When We Die (there was no talk of 49 days and thirty-third heavens). Where do I go when my body no longer manifests? Where, for me, does this world go when I no longer have eyes to see it or a nose to smell it?

The answers were, as the locals here would say with their nasal Langue D’Oc twang, tres interressang….

But somehow, having driven past two hedgehogs slowly crossing the road last night, and seeing their squashed bodies on that very same spot this morning, I realise yet again that the Death Thing is more than just interesting to me - it is damn important; as important as it gets. Why I’m here. Where I go. What it’s all about. Sometimes I’m stunned by how powerful a question it is for me, by how strongly I want to work it out, and by how confident I am that one day I will…

And so I am throwing pots. Mucky, sticky cold wet earth that thuds and slodges and swirls off kilter. Only if I’m breathing right and am rooted well can I (with a struggle) centre it. Throwing a pot - pressing, lifting and drawing it into form - cannot begin until the clay is centred on the wheel, a meditative interplay between mind and body as simple and difficult as the Zen monks’ calligraphic circles (known in Japanese as enso). (( If you’d like to enso-browse you may be interested in Shambala Sun’s Enso Art Gallery. My current favourite is this one. )) It takes pottery mistress Laetitia 10 seconds to centre her clay with one hand. It takes me a hundred attempts, twenty minutes, a cup of tea (for morale) and all my bodily force. I celebrate with a yelp.

The pottery studio’s aural wallpaper is France Bleu FM. “A la cuisine!” the D.J. declares at 11a.m. for the womenfolk. And, after the saga that is the witching hour of midi and France’s three-hour lunch break, he announces “on a bien mangé, on s’est bien reposé”. These words are for the men. They play one-minute versions of Queen, the Beatles and Tom Jones. When my clay develops a swerve to one side or another I’m mortified to notice that it’s dancing to their exact rhythm.

The pottery mistress wanted to know more about British music, so between sighs and yelps at my wheel I attempted to describe, in French, the Britpop phenomenon:

Pooolp? I ventured, hoping she’d nod.

Bleurrr?

Wa-seez? …

I’m steadily returning from the Immanent Grove… un-retreating after three days of stillness, resting and mind-blowing teachings on metaphysics I’m still midst fathoming. I learnt about Death - or, to be more precise, What Happens When We Die (there was no talk of 49 days and thirty-third heavens). Where do I go when my body no longer manifests? Where, for me, does this world go when I no longer have eyes to see it or a nose to smell it?

The answers were, as the locals here would say with their nasal Langue D’Oc twang, tres interressang….

But somehow, having driven past two hedgehogs slowly crossing the road last night, and seeing their squashed bodies on that very same spot this morning, I realise yet again that the Death Thing is more than just interesting to me - it is damn important; as important as it gets. Why I’m here. Where I go. What it’s all about. Sometimes I’m stunned by how powerful a question it is for me, by how strongly I want to work it out, and by how confident I am that one day I will…

And so I am throwing pots. Mucky, sticky cold wet earth that thuds and slodges and swirls off kilter. Only if I’m breathing right and am rooted well can I (with a struggle) centre it. Throwing a pot - pressing, lifting and drawing it into form - cannot begin until the clay is centred on the wheel, a meditative interplay between mind and body as simple and difficult as the Zen monks’ calligraphic circles (known in Japanese as enso). (( If you’d like to enso-browse you may be interested in Shambala Sun’s Enso Art Gallery. My current favourite is this one. )) It takes pottery mistress Laetitia 10 seconds to centre her clay with one hand. It takes me a hundred attempts, twenty minutes, a cup of tea (for morale) and all my bodily force. I celebrate with a yelp.

The pottery studio’s aural wallpaper is France Bleu FM. “A la cuisine!” the D.J. declares at 11a.m. for the womenfolk. And, after the saga that is the witching hour of midi and France’s three-hour lunch break, he announces “on a bien mangé, on s’est bien reposé”. These words are for the men. They play one-minute versions of Queen, the Beatles and Tom Jones. When my clay develops a swerve to one side or another I’m mortified to notice that it’s dancing to their exact rhythm.

The pottery mistress wanted to know more about British music, so between sighs and yelps at my wheel I attempted to describe, in French, the Britpop phenomenon:

Pooolp? I ventured, hoping she’d nod.

Bleurrr?

Wa-seez? …