Morning forgets its doorhandles

There's not a single writing instrument in my wife's studio. There are a seemingly infinite number of other instruments--knives, scrapers, wood-handled grippers on which high-tension wire is attached meant to precisely sever clay, flat plastic tools that look like they were made to extract avocado seeds from the avocado, needle-nose implements that appear to be pens but aren't, and so on--but not one pen or pencil. My wife is a potter, she makes things out of clay, she has no need of writing instruments.

What a blessing it is to stand in her studio every once in awhile and imagine what it would be like to live without the need for words, a need I am blessed and plagued by every moment of my life, and to still be a maker of things!

The moment I touch the doorhandle of her studio I feel free. Not only is it quiet, there's not a word to be found. And if there was a word there'd be no way to write it down. I lose all desire for expression, my appetite for periods and commas and exclamation points etc. come to a screeching halt. Only the question mark endures.

I don't think, what's wrong with me?, but I do think, can I achieve this stillness? And if I could, what would I do with it? Could I make something out of the stillness made out of words? Something that would have that certain wordless atmospheric content I find so compelling in my wife's studio...

(Tomorrow: my take on two essays written by Inger Christensen that appear in the September issue of Poetry Mag.)

Clay pot, studio of the author's wife, August 27, 2018.