“And I just want to tell you, ‘It takes everything in me not to call you. And I wish I could run to you, and I hope you know that everytime I don’t, I almost do, I almost do.'” – TS

One-thirty. With half a night’s sleep earned & banked, my mind turns on like the row of burners in the furnace below my writing desk. When the thermostat calls for heat, you get heat. Whether you actually wanted more yet or not.

Back at five pm, when I looked around for The OA, my hands sore from painting, my back sore from stooping, She was nowhere to be found. Just a Muse-shaped hole in the blinding blue sky above. At six, after making dinner, still gone. At seven, with Pixel finishing her Friday evening bonus Minecraft time, I wanted to cry out, “Where did you go? Are you ever coming back?” But I didn’t. I’m learning to know better.

Then at eight, as unexpected as a great dream, I luck into making room for Her to return. The opposite of ‘can’t you see that I’m driving?’ is ‘hey, just a guy sitting here with his fingers poised on ASDF JKL and an empty mind :: I’m here again :: just in case :: no pressure’. And, so suddenly I almost don’t detect it, She’s there again; lingering in the corner of the room, by the shelf still jammed full of my guest potters’ pots, checking me out; seeing if I really did have the wisdom to supplicate, but not to call.

It takes everything in me. I almost did.

A N D W E ‘ R E O F F.

{A Note of Apology From the Editor: Now that Scott has flashed on this new compositional affectation — the simulated stonecarving letters thing — it seems quite likely that he’s going to beat it so far into the ground it’ll end up down where our well water seeps into the limestone. Like, 200 feet too deep. FWIW, he can’t help it; it’s just how he is. But still, that’s no excuse in a public forum like this; we are not endorsing this behavior. So when you’re rolling your eyes in exasperation and reaching to X out of this browser tab, swearing that you’ve had enough — can’t possibly endure any more of this nonsense — go right ahead. We are fully paid up on subscribers, and since there are no ads to click, we’ll be fine without your eyeballs. Have fun on Facebook.}

[Wow — my editor is an even bigger jackass than I am! The balls. I even had to cut out this part (yes, I get final cut. What do you think I am — stupid?): “You know you’ll be back, and you know we’ll still be here, and ‘Sigh’ing and random-lyric-quoting and codename dropping and “I dunno”-ing A N D A L L T H E R E S T O F I T whether you’re here to see it or not. Seeya suckers!]

[As I used to say on that old blog — you know, the one you actually liked — you’ve been warned.]

Here we go again ….

A post shared by Scott Cooper (@stearth) on

So I wake up in the middle of the night, after the first sleep, and literally three distinct ideas for posts roll into my mind, in sequence, like waves arriving from some distant shore. 1) One about W’s; how I’ve got one in my history, in my stamp, and how if there’d been a “G” in there, at the end, instead of a “C”, I’d probably not have gone with SWG, because SG would have been way too tempting to the 20-year-old me who made that decision; and how maybe that one little thing would have butterfly-winged its way to changing everything else. For the better? Who the fuck knows. 2) One about another goddamn snake dream. That’s already saying too much. 3) One about the S T O N E C A R V I N G letters. Or no — wait. [Ha… Maybe not so distinct after all.][‘Be distinct and credible’: I seem to only be capable of one of those at a time.]

OK, the S T O N E C A R V I N G letters was supposed to be in 1), entwined with the ridiculousness of W’s, since “double you” is just V V, for carving expediency. And 3) was actually about baskets, and visual influences, and that thing Clary said, ‘back when I was young and cared’, about having to be careful about what things she brought into the studio because of their tendency to creep, unbidden, into the clay. I mean, like, who makes a basket out of super thin porcelain, then scores and drills and grooves the living hell out of it? What good could possibly come from this?

[Answer: A L L T H E G O O D.]

Those subconscious visual inspirations. Things both seen and unseen. Like The OA, sitting quietly but intently in the corner, observing everything, even if She gives no sign that She hears you. Now eyes wide and giggling madly, Her mouth covered by one hand, as if She knows this is too much mischief even for Her, as She tosses another curveball at us, Her willing fools.

That’s how it works. That’s how you end up with either some sweet ass porcelain baskets or a twisted pile of shards, straight out of the bisque. Either way, you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit. (If you know what’s good for you.)

OK, that’s all I got for now, I think. Sleepy again. The first rule of OA Club is after you talk way too much shit about the OA, you go back to sleep for a while.

Not publishing yet. Can’t trust myself to have not said something nuclear. Hmm. “Nuclear” and “Unclear” are so much closer than you’d think. [I think it’s OK, but then again, I mean: I would, wouldn’t I? Hopefully after the next sleep.]

{Try not to wreck it by fluffing it up too much, yo. – Ed.}

[OK, I’ll try.]

“Oh oh oh, leaving me quite a mess, babe — probably better off this way. And I confess, babe: in my dreams you’re touching my face. And asking me if I want to try again with you… And I almost do.”