Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
I get my hands dirty, weeding the gardens and planting some seeds. I transfer some seedlings that are starting to sprout into the large garden that’s on the side parallel to the main road.
That’s when I catch sight of another girl approaching the firehouse down below. She’s in a similar sundress, a tomato plant with a bow tied around the pot in her arms.
“Oh no,” I whisper as I watch her cross the street. “Another one.”
She disappears into the building and a few minutes later, I hear Doug’s voice calling out.
“Ethan! There’s someone here to see you!”
Goddamn.
CHAPTER TWO
June
The music is so loud my ceramic pots on the top shelf are rattling. I grin as Notorious B.I.G. starts rapping in his deep iconic voice. I roll up my sleeves and start rapping along with him.
This is my happy place. An old secluded barn hidden deep in the Greene Mountains and it’s all mine.
I can have lights on at midnight and blast music as loud as I want. I can stay up all night creating. The artist in me is in heaven. It’s just me and my work. Creative freedom.
I rap like I’m a true gangster as I dance on over to the painting easel in the corner. It’s a painting of the mountains I’ve been working on. I pick up a paintbrush I forgot to put away this afternoon and dab the light blue paint on my wrist and forearms, painting little symbols on my skin. A sun. A peace sign. A bird. A heart.
I like to paint, but I’m not great at it. What I am great at, is pottery.
It’s the reason why I’m here. It’s the reason I’m so fired up on life.
I toss the paintbrush onto the paint-splattered cardboard on the ground and spin around, rapping the chorus as the bass from Hypnotize thumps through the old creaky floorboards.
This is my new pottery studio. I bought the old barn with what little money I had and spent the rest of my savings—plus a little more—to renovate it and make it just right. I have all I need here. A spinning wheel, boxes of clay, shelves for my creations, and an old decrepit kiln.
I sleep in the loft on top. It’s just a mattress on the floor and I haven’t gotten around to buying a dresser yet, so my clothes are still tucked away in the suitcases I brought them in with. But I got my own pottery studio, so I don’t care.
I grab a half-smoked joint out of the ashtray and tuck it between my smiling lips as I head over to the spinning wheel.
I flick it on, hit the pedal, and grin when I see it spinning around empty. With my heart thumping to the beat, I sit down, grab a chunk of clay, and slap it down hard, right in the center. It lands with a satisfying thud.
The song ends and It Must Have Been Love by Roxette comes on. My playlist, like my creating style, is pure chaos. I like to be surprised at what comes next.
I light my joint, take a few puffs to help me get in the zone, and place it in the ashtray beside me.
I’m feeling like there’s nowhere else on the planet I’d rather be as I dip my hands into the warm water and let it drizzle over the spinning clay. I just focus on the music, on the warm buzz in my head, and I let my hands do what they do.
My fingers and palms move like they have a mind of their own, molding and shaping the spinning clay.
It’s been a long journey to get to this point, but I did it. I sigh as I remember what I had to go through…
Three years in Osaka, Japan, deep in the forest, waking up before dawn, dry hands cracked and aching, my master standing over me in silence while I worked, grunting and frowning in disapproval.
There was no music in Shigeru Hoshino’s studio. No music. No dancing. No smiling. And definitely no weed.
He was a hard man with a sharp tongue and had absolutely zero patience for any American sass. The first year was the toughest.
We didn’t get along so great.
But, I worked hard, and I had talent, so eventually, it got a little better. I think I grew on him. Or maybe I just wore him down. Either way, he became a true master and I became his apprentice.
He taught me everything he knew. Pottery secrets that had been passed down through generations, all the way back to the Muromachi period, way before the Europeans crashed into the Americas and said to the confused natives ‘this is ours now.’
I learned and became proficient at dozens of rare and ancient techniques—Raku-style firing, Noborigama, Tatara-zukuri, Mashiko-yaki, Oribe-yaki, plus many more.