Hammering whiskey oars of book children

Hammering nails fight to fatigue the words being hammered over there attempts to quite the spirit that forces them into wood. The great and drumming creative monkey that rides the backs of men like some kind of surreal Darwinian Cowboy. Hie, Hie they call with their long tails whipping the ears of the driven to increasing speed. As the hammer falls again the beginnings of the conversation fall upon deaf ears but, not a deafened heart. "Book arts......Pow...Pow...Pow.. strict conservation..Pow..Pow.. giving me greive..Pow..over.Pow..pow.. my projects....Poww Pow pow. Pow, you know what would..POW.POW..POW.. really kick their...Pow Goat.. POw.. my Deep fried book..Pow," so it went until laughter halted the hammer blows causing sweat to mix with tears of laughter and salty irritation.

We took a deep breath and held our tongues till the days labor was finalized, savoring the sweet treats to come on the river in a moment of relaxation, before our muscles ceased from grunting day after day for the glory of newly remolded basement. With whiskey wished oars we drift into the small cove of a tiny river laughing-in-reunion over the absurd reception the imagination put forth when joking about the deep fried book I once made. If you ever are to make a contract, I tell you it must be from the gut as ours was that day hands replaced by the shaking of bellies in the riots of fervor that had broken hold of its dam. Whether damned and dismissed or heralded as a heretic we would resurrect my one time object so to collaborate on the book project we now undertake.

Of the many art disciplines in the world, books arts has always had its eyes on making well crafted works meant to last for generation to reach a venerated realm of cherished care. Antithesis might come to your lips but, when handling cancers bred into the body you acknowledge your cherished realm of veneration will be in memory and not in the physical everlasting. After all how many mass produced books are meant too last. Still, as always mutation or transmutation can produce unexpected results so when considering the life of our collaborative children only history has the privilege of counting our blessings.

Like all births we have relished the joy of the spontaneous moments of conception but, we have had to raise the project through trial and error as any parent must with a child of an odd nature. I am sure you can remember at least one time when you defied your parents best efforts to pen you into some idea they had about or for you. As such I feel that way about every book we have made as each is a branch of its own yet, part of largest of trees.
DFB