Musing
Grease embeds itself in my pores.
Sword Callouses, wear marks, scars and nails bear the black marks of work.
So different from the sterile world of chips and sand that it reminds one of another world.
Which work is truer work, the mind or the body?
By the moneychanger's hands, it is the work of the mind. By the survival of the ape that was, it is the body.
Repairing a simple machine. That which requires little of the mind, much of the body, and the discipline of a generation past:
This can lead you to where the demons are driven off by the blackness of oil, the smell of unburnt hydrocarbons, and the rough steel of a bolt and wrench.
Sword Callouses, wear marks, scars and nails bear the black marks of work.
So different from the sterile world of chips and sand that it reminds one of another world.
Which work is truer work, the mind or the body?
By the moneychanger's hands, it is the work of the mind. By the survival of the ape that was, it is the body.
Repairing a simple machine. That which requires little of the mind, much of the body, and the discipline of a generation past:
This can lead you to where the demons are driven off by the blackness of oil, the smell of unburnt hydrocarbons, and the rough steel of a bolt and wrench.