Therapy

There is something bizarrely gratifying about poking holes in leather-hard pots. The process is meditative, requires little thought, and rewards the poker with clear evidence of progress. But it's addictive. You can't "stop anytime."

Your inner Freud nods and writes copious notes about you in his little book as you pierce the virgin surface of the clay. Now you're committed for the long haul. You want more: a single hole is not enough; it requires companion holes.

You used to want to stop before going all the way. You used to say "just one more hole, the next hole will be the last." But it never worked: you always kept going, finding catharsis in the repetition, in the light that begins to shine through the wall, in the weight the pot is shedding. So you don't pretend this time. The passing minutes pile up: half an hour; an hour; an hour and a half. Poof. Gone.

And then, suddenly, it's over: there's no more space to poke.

Now you have a pot that is (if such a thing is possible) filled with holes. It used to be a bowl or a vase, but now it will never hold water. What were you thinking?

I have lots of hole-filled pots, so this time I planned ahead and made a double-walled bowl. It is half full (or half empty) of holes and it will still hold water. Or maybe guacamole, because I decided the bowl needed tilting in addition to having holes, and guac is less likely to slosh out onto the table than water.

For a sense of scale, compare the bowl to the annoying bifocals resting on the table.