“I love you to the moon and back…” – TS

It’s sale day. The last thing I should be doing, three hours and fifty seven minutes before opening, is writing a blog post. That’s why I’m doing it.

Well… That and I feel like I kind of left you hanging there. After twenty thousand words in October, and another twenty in November, I was certainly paid up on my Karma Payment Plan for December — but I could have at least given you a heads-up. I was so insistent about getting my voice into your head, all three of you who doggedly followed along for the whole thing, that it was kind of rude to just turn that voice off, without warning. So, sorry about that.

It’s not that I haven’t been writing. Might even be doing more, but I switched over to paper and the Private side of the words. I’ve had a ton to think about — between the new job and the new brain, it would have been plenty, but adding in the sale panic and I didn’t think I could trust my filters enough to avoid making a mess. A couple recent near-misses — where I accidentally lobbed things on the wrong side of the Public/Private membrane, yet somehow got away clean — shied me off for a while. You don’t have to FILDI everything, all the time.

(Don’t worry; I’ll be back to cause myself more trouble again, soon.)

➕ SALE TOMORROW :: 10-4 ➕

A post shared by Scott Cooper (@stearth) on

So last night, during the obligatory bath time (not mine), I was cruising around iTunes — which I virtually never do — and found a new-to-me TS song. I bought it instantly — a dollar and twenty nine cents might be the most ridiculous bargain in the history of culture — and discovered it is tragic, and beautiful, and austere, and… Well, it’s pretty much knocked down my walls and destroyed me three times since then, and the sun still hasn’t been out in that span. Clearly, things are moving below the surface; tectonics of emotion, drifting in their inexorable, unpredictable patterns, atop a sea of god knows what.

And the shocking-revelatory thing there is that this slice of beauty was there, for years, just out of my view. It existed in the world — we have as many external bits of proof of that as we might want to go look for — and yet, to me, it was invisible. Unknown; even more: unimagined.

So how many other things are there, like that, just out of my biased, habitual, so often too-scared and too-distracted view? Dozens. Millions. A red cardinal on a twenty degree late afternoon, perched on the side of one of our seventy year old trees to catch the fading Midwestern sun. A side-by-side moment of paternal joy. The explosion of a perfectly landed joke; the glimmer of a secret smile. All these things.

It’s traditional for potters, at this time of year, to proclaim that this is their best batch of work in a long time; that they are really pleased with the new stuff, their discoveries since they last hammered out their road signs, that you should (I mean, not should, but I sincerely hope you will) come and see it — and also, if that’s not enough, cider and cookies! And that’s usually just Communications & Marketing. (Trust me; I know. Also, I am now a certified professional, so you have to believe me.)

Well, as suspcious as this will sound: this is my best batch of work in a long time; maybe ever. I am more than really pleased with the new stuff; the discoveries since I last hammered out my road signs — I’m almost to the moon and back over them. And, as great as it would be for you (and you and you and you and a whole bunch of them) to come out to our weird spot near Fillmore and see them, I honestly don’t really care if you, or practically anyone, does.

The pots are good, and that’s almost all that matters. Almost. I followed The OA as far as she would take me this time, sincerely and openly and with all the attendant risks, and it was worth it. The setup is getting lovely even as I write, the snow hasn’t started falling yet, the flowers in those new perforated vases are gonna break my goddamn heart, and maybe yours, too, a little bit.

The hardest part is done, the funest part — seeing people see them; seeing people like them — comes now. And… and then these long months of work and worry and more work will be done again, for awhile. I’m not certain that I won’t start glazing up the next batch on Monday — I’m that jacked up to take another shot at twenty two hundred degrees — but I might sleep all day, too. Maybe some of both.

Or write that plus-99 post. Or something.

Anyways. I’d say “wish me luck”, but I already feel like I’ve won a lottery this fall. Can’t really ask for more than that. Wouldn’t want to.

Cheers, readers. I hope it snows on you today, just a little. I hope you look up that song, if you’re overdue for a good, clear-the-decks sob… It’s called Ronan, and it’s, to me, astounding.

I hope you find some unexpected, pre-existing beauty today. I’m going to keep a good watch for it, here, myself. Try to be the best version of me I’ve got access to, right now; after all that. When I get tired, but can’t go nap, will try to just go a little quieter than usual. To remember that tired is okay, and doesn’t last forever.

OK, here we go. I won’t ask for you luck, but I’ll take any you’ve got to spare.

Thanks, guys. I love you all, even if I don’t even know your names.

“I remember your bare feet, down the hallway; I remember your little laugh.”