The last downsize.

[tectak]

There once I cut the dried, dead poles of summer’s dahlia flags, where is there? i also stumbled with the wording though i can't point out why
and sulphur-stained I packed the corms in dessicated sand;
parcelled up in gift-box style for opening in spring. Some died, of course.
That was years ago; I left the knife, the grubby duster, the remnants of the year
upon the slatted bench. An ashtray, too, longer ago than I thought, i like the images of the last 4 lines. they're all work-shed or greenhouse and manly and aged
now topped up with wood chips; I can just recall the last vexacious turning
on my squeaking lathe. A source of pride, a single table leg; never again.

We will leave this place soon. Leave behind the tins and pots and poison jars,
the stiffened bristle brushes, kept in hope of rebirth and suppleness. Me too.
The chisels hang forlorn and yet still keen, never blunted by their purpose
in my time, yet sharpened every year, or so I tell myself.
It’s hard to say goodbye to friends like these. Solid, unchanged, ready for their task.
Like so many well remembered, but not seen for year on year, and yet
they will be missed. I cannot see that I will need them now; I once could.

What has changed? Them or me. It seems that waste is not the crime it was.
Out go the rusting nails, the slot-top screws….if only the cross-heads had not come along poignant, nostalgic and very sad.
this ethnic mix would, perhaps, be saved. No. It is time to go. There is always a time.
They rattle through the heap of broken canes, paint-stained cans, evil bottles, metal tube,
corroded iron, broken trowels, a million plastic pots ( I always kept just one or two)
and then silence. I am suddenly transfixed. This edifice before me is my life.
Or strangely, I say inside, my old life. A broken-glass picture tumbles down; my old dog.

Tectak
June 2012

apart for that 1st line that gave me a little trouble, i found the write to beautifully done, prose poetry at it's finest. i loved the narrative love and pride shown through a keen edged chisel. the questioning of progress as beneficial through a cross head screw, the feeling of no longer being relevant. some of the images are as keen as the chisel's edge. it's a poem i could fall in love with. sorry if i couldn't be more constructive via the feedback process, i'm not sure as i can see where it needs to be edited (apart from that 1st line.)

thanks for the read.

Hi billy.
You have no idea how long I thrashed myself over that first line. It was ONLY that line which stopped me putting this piece up last year. Trouble is, changing the words without too drastically changing the meaning brings in duplication and redundancy.
With prose like this, technicalities should not be overworked because that would become out of style with the subject matter....it is a problem for me because I have made a real effort to concentrate on first person pieces on this site.....I never felt comfortable with previous efforts of mine, and this piece demonstrates why. "Easy" prose is very difficult, moreso when you put yourself into the frame. I am rambling. Suggestions welcome including mercy killing.
Best,
Tectak

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Hi, Tek.

Nice, easy piece of prose. It's uncomfortable. Truthfully, the aging process scares me a little. Right now (and hopefully for a long time yet to come) I am able to enjoy what ever hobby I take up. I do think about the possibility that may not always be the case. The futility of life and experience piss me off. Your descriptions of a well loved shop are melancholic, and elicited an emotional response from me, so kudos. Right at this moment I am sorely missing my grandfather, remembering how difficult it was to "clean out" his shop. Some of his tools are still present, but the smell of fresh sawdust is gone, and sometimes the lack of that smell is harder on me than the passing anniversary of his birthday.
I don't really have any crit for you.

Many thanks for the comments, aish. Yes, it is a man thing.....assuming that across the pond a "shop" is a workshop!
This piece could have gone on and on into imminent demise but though nostalgic I hope it is not depressing. Cutting dahlia stems each autumn and turning bits of wood into other bits of wood was never going to be a long term vocation but rjght now I am beginning to feel the wind that blows all things back.
Introspection is for others. Over many years I have read huge chunks of maudling prose, which latterly I have developed a healthy detestation for.........because such work is becoming a little too relevant! I hope never to write such depressing stuff.
Best,
Tectak