Peter Maeder

Voyeur

Due: 2/23/19

               Her tie-dye shirt is speckled with brown clay as it continuously sprays against her. She loves her work; her hands speak for her as she caresses the spinning creation. She is undivided in focus, the conversation buzzes all about her and she scarcely gives notice, even as the others call for her. The clay begins to take shape beneath her hand as leans down to it as if to kiss, watching her hands as they massage and pull the image in her mind into reality. As she finishes the her first triangular bowl and cuts it off her face is one of pure satisfaction and fascination at what her mind had been able to bring to earth. As she strides away out of my view, I see that unlike most of her counterparts around the table she has left her space immaculate, taken care of and cleaned with compassion. A hear a laugh echo from the space she had just entered and look up once more to see a face of joy that seems to emanate happiness. Followed by a few more ceramicists she sits once more to her wheel still wet with the last hour of work.

               What will her next work be I can only imagine. I find it hard to accept that the same love goes in to each and every work although I know it must. The physical nature of this work as she kneads the clay and pulls it into shape continuously astonishes me and I cannot help but be in awe of her work.

Blind in the library

Peter Maeder

4th Floor of the Library

Sunday, 4:30 PM

Closing my eyes in public is aided by the weight my eyelids seem to have put on within the last few days. My body settles back as the couch molds to my body, pulling me further back and daring me to even attempt to rise. The background noise grows in volume as my thoughts drift to what the cascade of key clicks, much like an orchestra of metronomes, could possibly be creating. So many people working with different rhythms but all bringing their new thoughts into the world. A table away from me a new noise breaches the peace as a river of murmured curses escape through the lips of a student who finds relief in the crumpling of their paper. The crumpling of paper fades into the cellophane rustling soon followed by the suspicious sent only created by a melody of vending machine snacks. Finally, harmony seems to settle once more allowing me to drift into the concord of typists. This sound encourages me to shift positions and fully lie down on the dust filled couch that has seen me far too many days and nights. As I settle in and perhaps drift a little beyond blind observation the elevator dings and think nothing of it. With my thoughts and nearing sleep not much of the external could permeate the relationship found between me and this sofa. However, the air around me stirs and a familiar scent reaches me nose bringing me back to reality. A warm flow carrying the kind smell of cheap coffee and cigarettes reaches my nose just as the words reach my ear telling me I’ve fallen asleep in the library once again.