Forces of NatureTerrifying but compelling. Some people run after hurricanes and travel to see eclipses, to measure earthquakes. They photograph, film, talk passionately about them. But wind and thunder are not the only powers in the land. Exploding volcanoes not the only terrors keeping us awake. Some others less obvious but more insidious exist; forces that propel us forward and incite us to action; fires that burn in our heart and brand our mind with righteous indignation, that knock us back with frustration and rebelliousness I pick up a handful of clay and I proclaim: This is the very guts of this planet. Please may I make something of it, something that speaks this fury inside my mind. I know. It sounds preposterous. I think of clay as the material that I govern, that which I take for granted and force to become an object through my will and my hands. But look at my ambitious intent: I could write or talk or describe, or teach. But I hide instead behind this magnificent material and demand that it transmit to others my story or my despair, or my joy or my irrational belief. Most often, I inject it with doubts and ignorance and expect answers and direction. Sometimes it feels like the only friend I have. Sometimes my worst enemy and fearsome oppressor. I remember the stories, perhaps told by Man Ray, of the beauty and elegance of Lebanon in the old days of the Grand Tour; Lebanon with its cedars, its snow capped mountains overlooking sun baked golden beaches; the high society, the jewels, the parties; the elegant dream of when everything was just fine; the beautiful days after the great war ended. What of Lebanon now? What of the Middle East come to that? Does it still have its aromatic food, its sobriety, its ambition to greatness and holiness? its mystery, its dark eyes, its severe rules, its men of steel? The men of steel are there, but is anything else still stirring? Is clay an appropriate medium to chronicle a desperate collapse? The corruption, the indifference, the exploitation? the human trafficking? The wars and the suffering. Who is standing on the shores of this river of misery just observing and wondering? That person is me. I feel strength of purpose in these two objects. A sense of agreement, a sober concordance of goodness. I feel these are two voices that speak the truth from their black mouths and wear their scars and attitudes with indifference. We hear so much nowadays about the bad others. There are so many bad others out there. We label them; we justify them; we call them names. We fear them. We forget they are human like us. I forget they are human like me. Mothers with children; families with a couple of goats and a few orange trees; shredded cloths for homes; old burnt-out tanks for shelter; drugs for forgetting. Violence for revenge. And they leave their shattered world and come to us. In little boats, with their babies and their evil plans, with their hope and their bad nightmares, they all come like ariver of sadness and loss. They come and disrupt our little world set up nicely with broken promises and falsehoods . Who can justify the excruciating atomic incineration of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians and then incriminate another who kills innocent civilians? Who can believe and justify the enslavement of entire populations on the assumption that they are not really human or they would not be in this position... and then demand full liberty? what stories have we been telling ourselves all these centuries, telling our children, being told by our parents?... What is the planet now telling us? The planet keeps the score of all the exploitation and bad behaviour. And it is sick. I care. I do care. And what can I do but make pots? I am determined to start offering myself and all who look at my work the hopeful story that will certainly come out of all this nonsense. I will do it even if I have to write myself out of history to do it. I promise.
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The Milky Way. Shimamura looked up and felt himself floating into the Milky Way. Its radiance was so near that it seemed to take him up into it. Was this the bright vastness the poet Bashö saw when he wrote of the Milky Way arched over a stormy sea?
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