In Durham, in the circles I travel, we measure our worth in made things. It is poor, not to be a creator. It is rich to create. To have made things, even over a weekend, is to accomplish something. It is holy work.

I keep holding my breath against my value, afraid that the only things I am capable of making are a mess, and at the same time chipping away the ice on my frozen p-p-potential...

Oh god, how I hate that word. So very much.

But do you know? It is nearly September. It is a month to September. I will soon leave 27 behind, I who have been so delighted by the number that I have refused to admit it. So I will lose myself in this last month of 27, Seven and Twenty, and chip more ice, and de-fear from making things, for really, one should always make things,

And show that one is worth something.

<<agé chose>>

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