I frequently forget how to use the tools in my box, the ones that keep the machine running smoothly in spite of the dolorous hazards of being alive. And why shouldn't I forget how to use them? There are so many.
Tools to lighten the load when it's heavy. Tools to strap shit down during courses of uncontrollable chaos. Tools to tighten loose screws and get it done, and to loosen tight screws and break out of the box. Tools for weighing and measuring feeling against tangible fact to better assess the level of freakout required in any given situation. Tools for drawing lines and building walls, and when that doesn't work, tools for getting the fuck outta there. Tools for focusing. Tools for fun! And tools that clean up the other tools strewn about my internal living room after looking for the right tool to make it all ok.
These tools are called art.
For a time they were inutile. Tarnished and rusted stuck by the oppressive dankness of productivity. I had to call in an expert to have them repaired. They work quite well, now. I've been using them for small, quiet projects to refamiliarize myself with their function.
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