a blacksmiths panic

to write about ones self is dangerous. often one notices more than we thought we knew when we started writing.

gently he raised the iron bar from the furnace and placed it on the cold anvil, raising the hammer but a little way he struck down and made the orange goo smoosh across the polished metal surface, "what do i make?" he thinks, but then settles quickly on an old favorite, he will fashion a horses head. he has made a thousand before it, but there is something comforting in the repetition, just as there is in the uselessness of his hobby. the same kind of comfort, the comfort of whatever thing is by nature good, and not desired because of its usefulness to the social structure. he muses upon this for a moment and strikes again, this time the metal has gone from its moldable youth to its obstinate teen years where it is difficult to impart the wisdom of the workmen any longer. as he hammer hits it rings a little, he has a headache, but for some reason there is nothing about this that hurts his head. to walk past one more electric lamp, to look at another screen, to even hear a human voice over the phone sounds like a pain to him, at times he daydreams of a life without technology, not because he believes its evil, no, only because he isnt sure any more how this socioeconomic system is supposed to improve the quality of life for anyone, but he focuses on electricity because he doesn't like to presume to know anything about politics, or religion, you could say he religiously avoids the subjects. 

wile considering these things an hour of time has passed and he pulls the finished horses head out of the quenching bucket, it shines and the water disappears quickly revealing a blackened idol, his god, the one spiritual experience of his broken boring life, it reminds him of his ancestors the vikings, and their longships, "carved dragon heads are not so different" he thinks. 

he is calm now, he walks back to the house and squares his shoulders to deal with the pestilential wave of stress.