Kneading Bricks
Kneading Bricks
Pickin' 'em up, Layin' 'em down...
Originally shared by Alvin Stearns
I'm laying bricks. It's sweaty, stupid work. I love it. Make regular rows, don't butt the bricks together, don't make irregular rows.
It's boring work. God, I love boring work.
It makes something lovely, boring work. You will never consider it, probably. How your feet just fall upon the surface. No pain, no wobbling. The world is made for you, yes?
The world is not made for you. Every ounce of your certainty cost a pound of sweat.
You are the crown of creation, and your footfalls go without notice, least of all by you. Glory in that.
I am laying bricks. Row by row. I think of my husband's feet falling upon them. They must line up as perfectly as I can make them line up. Given my stupidity and the environment--winter will un-do the best of my stupid efforts-it's all a "walk on it now!" moment.
I kept dragging him over. The husband. Showing him. "When this happens, do this." "When this one is too high, choose another."
Make it work.
All my life.
Making it work.
Don't bother. I hear the laughter.
I do not stop insisting that it matters.
More bricks. (Ever made a brick? Then shut up.) More effort.
I will not stop.
Will you?
My husband's feet, even naked, will fall upon the smoothest alignment of bricks that my stupid brain and hands can create.
It will fail. That effort.
But, I will distract him.
And then I will do it all again.
//
Pickin' 'em up, Layin' 'em down...
Originally shared by Alvin Stearns
I'm laying bricks. It's sweaty, stupid work. I love it. Make regular rows, don't butt the bricks together, don't make irregular rows.
It's boring work. God, I love boring work.
It makes something lovely, boring work. You will never consider it, probably. How your feet just fall upon the surface. No pain, no wobbling. The world is made for you, yes?
The world is not made for you. Every ounce of your certainty cost a pound of sweat.
You are the crown of creation, and your footfalls go without notice, least of all by you. Glory in that.
I am laying bricks. Row by row. I think of my husband's feet falling upon them. They must line up as perfectly as I can make them line up. Given my stupidity and the environment--winter will un-do the best of my stupid efforts-it's all a "walk on it now!" moment.
I kept dragging him over. The husband. Showing him. "When this happens, do this." "When this one is too high, choose another."
Make it work.
All my life.
Making it work.
Don't bother. I hear the laughter.
I do not stop insisting that it matters.
More bricks. (Ever made a brick? Then shut up.) More effort.
I will not stop.
Will you?
My husband's feet, even naked, will fall upon the smoothest alignment of bricks that my stupid brain and hands can create.
It will fail. That effort.
But, I will distract him.
And then I will do it all again.
//
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