There’s a quiet rage in the craftsman who spends an extra hour, an extra day, pushing his work toward perfection.
The swollen knuckles, the missing fingertips and cracked skin.
There’s a rage behind doing it right.
A rage against profit, and scaling; against outsourcing, and wholesaling, and cheaper and more.
A rage against the sacrifice it demands, and the ease with which it might slip away.
There’s a rage in saying I don’t want your money, what I want is to do it right.
It’s a rage against mediocrity, and all the garbage touted as design that stuffs our world.
I used to think that making as perfect a thing as I’ve got it in me to make filled me up.
But the truth is I’m overfull. When I finish a piece that’s more perfect than perfect, it’s an unbuckling, a pouring out.
The rage is all and I’m King Kong on the loose, rampaging neighbourhoods.