the tea pot

The tea pot made it home safely under exquisitely dangerous circumstances. I took a chance on making myself sick, eating a Ceasar salad with lobster at Sam Adams Grill, looking down over the baggage claim at Manchester airport, another jetsetter, and then, missing a cue, I was among the last to board the little plane, and the pilot, behind me, said to another pilot, who wanted to take the jump seat, "we're so full. we're so heavy." Called the angels, and we soared up quietly. The nice lady next to me, who was sad I chose silence, got up from her window seat and clinked the lid, to her horror, but no harm was done. (The pot was wrapped in its plastic wrappings and in my shoulder bag under the seat in front of me, as much as possible positioned for safety.)

It's built like a bulldozer, this pot, a very graceful, exquisitely perfected one. Readers, as the artist pointed out, because he's the most humble person ever, it's heavy, and, in many pots, heavy is a flaw, but not in this one. Inside, outside, from every angle, it expresses itself, expresses its concern for humanity. Its weight is just pure strength, without a hint of absent-mindedness. The whole design presents us with a whirlwind of flourishes, each executed with utter authority, outrageous daring, given to us, and always with a shy apology. I noticed the profound iridescence, hidden inside, right at the bottom, so that when you do see it, it's a shock, amazement, joy, and the little flowers pressed into the inside of the lid, and that's when Hannes said I should take it. And so, here it is, and suddenly I want to have tea, very much, which will be so good for me.