Conceived of Earth and Man

I was born from the earth, a terrestrial substance, initially unaware that my destination was to be created and formed by the hands of a potter. Being pliable when wet, normally trampled, ignored, and never respected, my existence now cherished by him. My beginning was silent and still, moving only in nebulous bursts that push me down further in to the depths of the earth. I was gathered by rough hands before being mixed, pounded, and combined with liquid and powdered materials, until they achieved their perfected creation. Metal machine after metal machine took me; their cold unmoving surface molded me into a cube. My rectangular form was pushed firmly into plastic. My unknown journey began. The moon was full and it was late at night when they placed me in his studio. I was stacked in the corner on the icy cement floor covered in splatters of clay, glaze, and other mysterious substances. There was a rusty metal shelf lined with minerals originally extracted from the earth, but were now contained in small glass jars. The lights went out and all seen was darkness. The sun rose from the east and sent shimmering lights across the nearest wall reflecting off the crystalline ceramics surrounding the window frames. I awoke and glanced through the swirling mesmerizing colors and focused on him. He was already at the wheel spinning a bowl creating the shape with deliberate movements. His back muscles tensing tight with his hands held against the form, his elbows locked. He set it on the table; completed. His dripping hands clutched my coldness as he opened the plastic bag exposing me to the warmth of the studio and removed me from the shelter I had grown in to. He separated me from the block, pressing into me, wedging and mixing with his forceful hands. He grasped me gently carrying me to his beloved wheel then slapped me in the center as it spun while he squeezed and released. His hands rose to the top and pushed back down until I was centered with the wheel. Centrifugal force became one with me. He spread me wider with each touch of his fingers. I grew taller, taller, thinner, and thinner. A sponge in his right hand dripped slip and water on my surface letting his fingers gracefully caress my feminine curves. An hourglass formed and my top flared wide with confidence craning to reach the ceiling that was blanketed with dust. He had made me fragile. I felt weak; collapsible under the gentle yet drastic curves of my mid-section. He pulled a device from the corner of the studio. As my middle started to sink down and twist from the uneven movement he turned on the heat gun. I grew stronger and was able to withstand the heat and pushed myself to retain my shape. I would not collapse, not for him. He took a smooth metal rib and gently bonded my particles together making my surface silky as he fondled my neck with his soft fingertips. With a wooden trim stick tightly griped in his hands, he cut my base creating the illusion that my form would disappear in to the table. My top was the final step. Two fingers grasped a wet sponge lightly and compressed my top, rounding my sharp edges. My shape was complete. I was removed, placed on the shelf, and left to dry in the dusty atmosphere. I hardened slowly. He picked me up examining my weight, shape, and style. He took his sponge and embraced my waist with a tender touch while squeezing hard on my base stroking it back and forth to create concavity. The finishing touches gave me personality, designed my individuality, and my confidence. The final impression he directly positioned on my base. He pushed in the permanent mark--his mark. He conceived me from his mind, hands, and soul. I showed off his mark with pride and respect for the creative inspirations of his imagination and the care he took with his masculine hands to actualize my existence.