Bleh.

Today was a pretty blah day. Lots of things I should have done, some things did get done, but the Dissertation Proposal looms as ever.

It did make me realize I need to do a bit more reading on allometry. But that's about all to emerge from the day. I feel like my body's fighting something off--either depression or illness (perhaps both). I wish it would go away.

In other news, I rearranged the Garage. I was getting tired of staring at cars whenever sitting at my desk. I'm not sure if the new arrangement will hold up to the test of time, but it did inspire me to get rid of some stuff, so that's good, I suppose. I think it will also be nice for future Scrabble games, and I feel marginally less like I live in a fishbowl.

Malleability

Two weeks ago I wrote about trying out porcelain clay for the first time. As my instructor said, it is not an easy material--it's quite unforgiving. When I came in on last Saturday to check on the molded piece I'd made, cracks had begun to appear in places. They didn't run all the way through the piece, but are probably due to the piece's thickness. First lesson learned. Fortunately, they could be smoothed away (hopefully they stay that way).

Tonight, after touching up that piece and a couple of other pots, I sat down and threw with porcelain for the first time. Prior to that, my last bag of clay had become a bit too dry for throwing, which makes the process into a nightmare of stubbornness, potter battling wheel and clay, sacrificing hands and wrists in the name of centeredness. In contrast, the porcelain felt again like smooth, creamy butter with nary a tooth about it. The clay centered in mere moments and proved almost too responsive to a gentle touch.

Only time will tell if these experiments will succeed. There were a few small hitches--clay that ended up in a puddle around the base of the piece instead of getting incorporated into its walls, and some strange "speed bumps" that formed more than once (I think they must have to do with the amount of pressure that one applies in conjunction with the speed the wheel is turning and the texture of the clay). But these are minor battles compared to some of the more epic Jamaican struggles I've had. It's nice to be able to translate between clay languages.

The strangest part has been going from orange hands to white--I've spent too much time in the sun over the past two weekends, as indicated by my skin's darkened color. Porcelain clay does not leave its white residue on my hands in the same way that Jamaican stained them orange--it washes clean. It does not mark me as a potter.