Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Monday, December 26, 2011
Statements
I believe that the world is complex beyond comprehension. That is not to say that nothing can be said about the world, but merely that whatever is said is, by its very nature, incomplete. Counter-intuitively, the less is said, the closer you are to it.
I believe that people are by their nature good, but they sure do some silly things. The silliest being thinking they really understand something.
The belief that we have mastery over the laws that govern nature has lead us to play with the levers. More often than not, scars follow us where we have steered.
We explore the world around us. We fill pages with words and the air with sound, and mistake this for that.
How can you be a scientist with such a view?
The answer might be in the problem. To listen to the world without making a sound, to traverse the fields without leaving a mark. To explore that without this.
Then come statements, flawed tools and fractured mirrors.
I believe that people are by their nature good, but they sure do some silly things. The silliest being thinking they really understand something.
The belief that we have mastery over the laws that govern nature has lead us to play with the levers. More often than not, scars follow us where we have steered.
We explore the world around us. We fill pages with words and the air with sound, and mistake this for that.
How can you be a scientist with such a view?
The answer might be in the problem. To listen to the world without making a sound, to traverse the fields without leaving a mark. To explore that without this.
Then come statements, flawed tools and fractured mirrors.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Silly Frustrations
Merry Christmas!
So, today has been a day of silly frustrations.
One was when my aunt innocently asked if I could make a table for her like the one that I made for Kristin, the oak hall table that stands in our entryway. I asked her how much she wanted to spend on it, and the answer was $40.
That amount is reasonable when you consider that she is trying to replace one that she bought for $40. And I know that my aunt meant nothing by it... truly I did. I actually was not upset, except...
Except somewhere deep in my head there was a part of me screaming about how on earth she could think that table was only worth $40. A handcrafted, solid oak table with traditional and solid joinery and a French rubbed oil and wax finish. It was not what she meant, and my reaction was illogical and completely silly... and yet it was there. Oh well. I feel bad cause I did not react well, even though my aunt meant nothing from her innocent questioning.
Frustration number two was when I discovered that the professor who has been blowing me off for literally months suggested that I contact a different professor in a different department... a department that had a Dec. 1st deadline for applications.
I am starting to feel adrift. Sigh.
I am going to bed. Tomorrow is a new day.
So, today has been a day of silly frustrations.
One was when my aunt innocently asked if I could make a table for her like the one that I made for Kristin, the oak hall table that stands in our entryway. I asked her how much she wanted to spend on it, and the answer was $40.
That amount is reasonable when you consider that she is trying to replace one that she bought for $40. And I know that my aunt meant nothing by it... truly I did. I actually was not upset, except...
Except somewhere deep in my head there was a part of me screaming about how on earth she could think that table was only worth $40. A handcrafted, solid oak table with traditional and solid joinery and a French rubbed oil and wax finish. It was not what she meant, and my reaction was illogical and completely silly... and yet it was there. Oh well. I feel bad cause I did not react well, even though my aunt meant nothing from her innocent questioning.
Frustration number two was when I discovered that the professor who has been blowing me off for literally months suggested that I contact a different professor in a different department... a department that had a Dec. 1st deadline for applications.
I am starting to feel adrift. Sigh.
I am going to bed. Tomorrow is a new day.
Monday, December 12, 2011
A piece I am really proud of
I am really proud of this piece, and not because it is so well done, or that there is anything in and of itself that is extraordinary. I am proud of this because it is less than $15 of lumber, and was completed in less than 10 hours total. Even better, it was built during free-time in a 40 hour work week. This is big on some many levels. I will admit that I have been having issues with getting pieces completed while working a full week. Additionally, I am so nit-picky that most of my pieces are taking longer than would be profitable. But this fish tank stand is not only solid and well built, but I think it looks attractive to boot!
So, now our house has no less than 7 pieces that I have either built from scratch or repaired to usability, and that is pretty cool to me. :)
~ matt
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Chasing the wire
A mere filament of steel hangs on the end of the blade, catching the light filtering into the window. I flip the blade over and work the other side, forcing the stubborn wire to the opposite side. This is called chasing the wire.
A red paste, a mixture of material worn from the stone and the water, coats the blade and my fingers. Every couple passes I move my finger gently over the blade, feeling for the wire.
And then the wire is gone, and I know it is time to move down in grit. This stone feels smooth to my skin, but the steel knows differently. The blade slowly becomes polished to a mirror finish from my efforts, and the edge disappears, splitting the light so that none is reflected back to me. I cannot feel it, but here too is a wire which must be chased from side to side.
Finally, some sacrificial hairs from the back of my hand are offered to the blade. It passes through them without so much as a tug, leaving barren skin in its wake. I doubt my razor is this sharp.
Fitted into the plane, the blade seems almost hidden, and the space given to it is just enough to let a thin sliver of light through.
Time to get to work.
The plank of cherry is rough and ugly from the mill's saw. The tree it came from probably saw the sun's rays before I ever did.
On the first pass, the plane sings me her song. A sweet note, as shavings thin enough to see through are peeled back from the plank. With every pass, the light red cherry wood is exposed, shimmering and luminescent in the sun's fading light. The depth of the wood's figure is exposed. Each pass is a cascade of notes sung by the blade, the siren calling forth the hidden beauty in the wood.
People ask why I do not work with power tools. It would be easier, they say. Faster certainly. They know nothing of this hidden secret, of this simple joy. It is a delicate thing, easily severed by the table saw's buzz.
A red paste, a mixture of material worn from the stone and the water, coats the blade and my fingers. Every couple passes I move my finger gently over the blade, feeling for the wire.
And then the wire is gone, and I know it is time to move down in grit. This stone feels smooth to my skin, but the steel knows differently. The blade slowly becomes polished to a mirror finish from my efforts, and the edge disappears, splitting the light so that none is reflected back to me. I cannot feel it, but here too is a wire which must be chased from side to side.
Finally, some sacrificial hairs from the back of my hand are offered to the blade. It passes through them without so much as a tug, leaving barren skin in its wake. I doubt my razor is this sharp.
Fitted into the plane, the blade seems almost hidden, and the space given to it is just enough to let a thin sliver of light through.
Time to get to work.
The plank of cherry is rough and ugly from the mill's saw. The tree it came from probably saw the sun's rays before I ever did.
On the first pass, the plane sings me her song. A sweet note, as shavings thin enough to see through are peeled back from the plank. With every pass, the light red cherry wood is exposed, shimmering and luminescent in the sun's fading light. The depth of the wood's figure is exposed. Each pass is a cascade of notes sung by the blade, the siren calling forth the hidden beauty in the wood.
People ask why I do not work with power tools. It would be easier, they say. Faster certainly. They know nothing of this hidden secret, of this simple joy. It is a delicate thing, easily severed by the table saw's buzz.
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