Priming the Pump
A dry pump that sucks at air and gives nothing until you pour water in to draw water out—the old paradox of priming.
EssayThe Weight of the Peel
The potato still carrying the grit of the field, and the peeling back of its skin—the small daily undoing of earth into food.
EssayThe Face in the Socket
The face your mind assembles, unbidden, from a plug socket's two holes and a slot—the reflex to find meaning, even where there is none.
EssayChopping Onions
The cool papery onion, the loose edge of the skin worked back to the wet gleam beneath, and the plain attention chopping asks and gives.
EssayOiling the Board
A cutting board gone grey and thirsty, and the oil worked into it that darkens the wood back to warmth—a small feeding of a thing that serves you.
EssayVoices in the Static
A shortwave voice reading numbers into the dark to no one you'll ever identify—a message you can hear perfectly and will never understand.
EssayDriving a Nail
Setting the nail with a tap, then the swing from the elbow—the small acquired knack of driving a thing straight and home.
EssayAnother Reader's Hand
A previous reader's pencil in a secondhand book—an underline, a note gone grey with age—and the quiet company of a mind you'll never meet.
Word, when there is word.