i had a clay class once - held in the back room of some forgotten hallway - it was dank, space was limited, and you had to be wary so as not to get your feet caught up on the chipped tiles on the floor. sacks of clay lay everywhere, people milled about, ostensibly waiting for a great idea to manifest itself from a mound of clay which more closely resembling camel shit than anything else. people murmured to one another about their latest designs, ideas, and about the possibilities of their futures as a great sculptor. as for me, i kept to myself, great ideas eluding me no matter the effort i put in. directions were given, templates were made, people began massaging, folding, twisting their clay - attempting to make it conform to the wishes of the chick who called herself professor. with the idle chit-chat and empty promises being thrown around the room i only paid attention to my own lump of camel shit before me - funny, i thought, since even in its infantile state that lump of shit looked nothing like a fucking teapot. so i began my own journey, reading the clay, listening to my heart, feeling the years of resentment being stuck in a bad marriage, the hate, the the rage the symptoms of my own malcontentment. before i could put together an idea my hands beat the clay into submission, made it listen to me for once, and as i let go all of the pretentious bullshit that i told other people - like how happy i was when i wasn't - the lump of shit began taking its rightful place in the world - first the chest - in which i made certain to include a hole where its heart ought to have been, then its shoulders, which, since it was a man one might have thought they'd be strong and verile, however, i made them weak, fragile, and too small to hold anything in the world, originally the lump of shit had arms but on another day i ripped them off, tossed them back into the pile - he didn't deserve them anyway. i tied a rope around his neck with an antiquated key so that even if he tried to free himself from his life he couldn't get to it - what with not having any arms. spiteful bitch i think it would call me if it could talk. on his back i took my pen, scratched it from the base of its neck down to its side - whipping it for being so bad - now the head was another story since i wanted it to look like it was happy, but i knew the truth. it eventually had a smile which, when painted red - resembled the joker as a whore; it seemed to compliment its sallow eyes and black snakes which protruded from its head. when completed i sat back with my "teapot" and sighed with delight. i felt better, happier, more free, invigorated in every sense of the world. the women in the class called my piece disturbing, the men saying that it scared them; forcing them to think how women really see them. every bit of me is in that piece.
years later, after the clay class, after the divorce, after the dust had settled i find myself thinking about my sculpture, thinking about where i am now, the angst, the social bullshit, that fucked-up boyfriend i have somehow managed to include in my life - and i think, my goodness, my sculpture, my boyfriend - they could be twins. the next time i have the opportunity to make a teapot i think that is exactly what i'm going to do. perhaps that's why i drink coffee now.

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