For the first time in ages, I wound my father’s wristwatch, which I keep on my work table next to his brother’s old briar pipe. The trusty Hamilton started ticking immediately. The tiny secondhand, set in a circle built into the face where the 6 should be, started making its way around. Now, several hours later, I see the watch is still running — as am I, apparently, though I can hardly claim to be as reliable as my father’s watch. Some days, it takes me several hours to get going. Like a schoolboy, I’m awake, but not really functioning. Luckily, I accomplish some of my best work in this condition. My worst work, on the other hand, is accomplished only with the greatest of effort. This is where true dedication comes in.
One Hand Clapping, Volume 1, March 23, 2003
Sixteen years later, the watch still works. It was made sometime in the late Fifties or early Sixties. My work table has since become the work table of our youngest son, who was in need of one. The watch rests atop the scuffed blue binding of an old hardcover book laid flat here on my mother’s desk.
Author’s Press Series logo, 2009-2010
Primitive: Selected Drawings in Pixel, Pencil & Pen, 2010
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