I think I saw. I said I saw. I should have a saw. I do have a saw. Two saws. Three, actually. Three saws or four if you count the jab which you outta. Four saws, then. One pull, one jab, two hand. Wait! No. I have far more than four saws. Five. Six. Eight?
One pull saw. One jab saw. Two hand saws. One hack saw. One jig saw. Two circulars. One reciprocating saw. And the last four are electric which counts, right? Of course, so then I should probably state that the jig saw’s something of a fucked saw since I lost the screw that kept the guide straight and without a guide you’re goddamn saws gonna go all over the place so that’s moot, then. Yes? No? Whose to say?
No one listening.
Reading, I should say.
So let’s settle on eight, then. Eight saws that can function for a dollar and a dime but only three of which I’ve used in the temporal line of work that found me with this unexpected collection of teeth and the jig saw is probably fine, really, if I only use it for projects that beget a certain wabi sabi something but even then…no, not really because that phase of employment (which lord help me is ended with the resurgence of my payday as sociopath) has left me wanting something more than jagged edges and splinters and the doe-eyed acceptance of a lady whose just happy I remembered her birthday let alone spent days and days and days taking shape.
But it’s just a box, eh?
Boxes are the basis.
The shape is the base.
The block on which we build our case for Western (or any, really…modern, primitive, arcane) civilization up and up and out, often, to the heavens and ocean and in which we keep our precious if not unmentionable everyday things.
Just a box?
Go fuck yourself.
This isn’t simply some square nee rectangle frame. This is an object of three-dimensional heft. A capacity. A place and every woman needs a place like every name needs a face and so the I couldn’t just use any old instrument in the creation.
I required accuracy. I required tact. I required the lines that I measured and marked be divided evenly and cleanly and – yes – of course I took sand paper to the edges because only a heathen son of a bitch would hand a box over that hadn’t been smoothed over before finishing but there’s only so much forgiveness you can afford in your plane before the piece reads more like a slop-sink buffet at the mongoloid school for perpetual inchoate rage than an object presented to be dutifully received.
And yeah, yeah, yeah it wasn’t perfect but imperfections beget charm and hearts and arrows slung over the rainbow and into the proverbial Rubicon where so many idyllic designs have found their untidy angles laid waste and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t have been such an idiosyncratic projection had I just stuck with the circular (electric) but something about the buzz just seemed disingenuous that day or days and the funny thing is is that it wasn’t until I incorporated battery power into my endeavor that damn thing went askew but that’s nothing worth splitting the beans of the bed over because with a little stain and a lot less poly the damn thing just screams ‘FROM ME TO YOU!’