The Consequence Was...

Hour of Writes December 30th 2015 - The Consequence Was...

Kneading the Clay

It is one of those mornings when the human male body suffers a surge of hormones bringing an uncharacteristic vigour to parts usually forgotten. Blue sky pours through the window, soaking through the eyes, revitalising deep-brain circuits still humming with dreams as the phone rings.

It is my good woman talking of her wish to start pottery classes. She has a profound desire to get her hands onto some clay and start moulding. Unexpectedly, I think of Angelika, the Polish care assistant who supervises the Alzheimer patients at the day centre where I play piano to entertain.

“I need a good wooden surface, a couple of square feet at least...”

“What about your dining room table?”

“No, it's laminated. It needs to be real wood with living grain.”

“You mean, something organic? Something smooth but porous - like skin?” (Angelika has skin like freshly planed alder.)

“Yes – plastic is a dead surface.”

“Ah, but it was living once.” (As I was alive once, when singing the good old songs with Angelika glancing at me and smiling as she jollied the old folks along with a force of compassionate nature such as you often find at the eastern end of our continent.)

“Wood is more supple and responsive when kneading the clay.”

“Ah yes...kneading the clay...cradling the round, cool orb and then pressing it gently down onto the wood...” (Her breast is fresh clay awaiting the master potter's touch!)

“I think I'll work by the window with a view of the trees.”

“And the sky, the clear sky.” (As clear as her eyes, flooding the optic nerve with a blue that the calmest, deepest sea would not adequately reflect.)

“What would you make from your soft kneadings?”

“It's of no consequence what you make – the meaning is all in the activity, getting yourself re-connected with the earth.”

“Yes, we need that connection. We need it so badly...but there must never be...”

Consequences. Even when a surprisingly blue sky floods a tired male body at hormonal dawn, there must be no consequences.

Angelika's clear psyche overwhelming the senses – a moment of blue more intense than life itself?

Tantric sex transcendent?

But what of the rest of it? Unrelenting guilt and the rest of life rolling by like dark fields past the window of a train through the long night. When the coupling's over, how shall we ever deal with the consequences?

Will the judgement fall heavily upon us for having dared to eat a peach? Or will we be found guilty by Life for remaining innocent of it?

The old dog might have his day.

And then he'd have to pay.

Better stick to clay.

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