I feel as if I've joined anew the clan of tinkerers, now that I have a basement again.
I spent so many happy hours growing up building things, taking them apart, experimenting with everything from raw wood to celluloid, clay and plastic, with some small compenstation in neurons stimulated as they were destroyed by the chemicals, plastiweld and dark room chemistry, some built, I'm sure, from the ozone air of model railroads chugging by.
When the mind is young and knows nothing, it is easier to spend hours filling the brain with new things. I wonder the exact time in life when we forget that we still know nothing, and think that somehow the world expects a level of knowing, when the rigor of curiousity becomes rigor mortis of the brain, brought about by some transgression, the eating of the fruit of knowledge, an ashamedness at our nakedness, our fraility, which is what is our nature, from beginning to end.
We are simply cursed to know that we are lilies in the field, and blessed with that knowledge as well, should we choose to focus on our blossom, rather than our inevitable decay.
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