Working With (Coral Under the Sun), Stefanie Amundsen, pottery
that I should abandon my greatest work for a raunchy little couplet! The screensaver is now shut off entirely, and as the sun sets (which I do not watch, in fear of transcendental distraction), the light of the screen becomes my world more fully. Suddenly, the morning sunrise dulls the harshness of the empty Word document; it reminds me of another plane of reality, and I resolve to staunchly resist all temptations of this physical world which would dare tear me from my manifesto. But as the morning light blends into a stormy afternoon, I am compelled to piss. My bathroom is a neutral, sand tone,
and while on the toilet, I think about this. Sand, sandwich, sand, the walls are made of sand, castles made of sand, look, a golden ship—sand! Sand! Walls of sand, falling, walls of, floors of sand. Images of mathematical equations drawn in sand, a cylinder, a sphere, and suddenly I have it. Archimedes kept a living room of sand into which he could draw out his mind and play with it. I wash my hands and grab a purple crayon. The walls of the bathroom are now striped vertically, crosshatched diagonally, and overrun with strings of words which lead nowhere except run around every73
