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I love mucking about with clay. Theres something nice about shaping it with your fingers and hands building something. I took a throwing class at the end of last year and made some lovely mugs and bowls (and adored it…though it is a little too far to get to easily which makes me sad). Though normally I handbuild stuff with airdrying clay because—hey you don’t need a kiln and you can still make something decorative. I’ve made little sculptures, a rather nice lemon and lime, a chess board…and well…
Why am I saying all this?
See the thing is…I have a rule. It’s a simple rule and it’s a good one. If I ever say or think “I could make that…how hard could it really be?” then the rule says that I have to. Immediately. That’s the rule.
And then the rule comes up against the nice, slightly weird little artsy deli on my road. And what are they selling in there? Boob pots that’s what. Little pots with tits on them.
Well how hard could it really be? Damn. Well now I have to.
So here we go:
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I intend to keep pens in it. I don’t know maybe its the dying writhing of my own libido…maybe it’s a certain *dad-ness* but hey I don’t get to play with any boobs any more… might as well make my own.
…that’s quite sad when I think about it like that.
Making things out of clay is quite groovy, But the best bit you know it is truly, Building pairs of tits, Leaves me in a fit, Because I really just want to squeeze boobies.
