You, brisk box of drill bits, are green. That is your most important characteristic, other than how you are home and host to sixteen sizes of reality, used for making holes in wood. Your handle is black. The plastic beds with their foam mattresses in which the sixteen sizes lie, separated and labeled, are black. Your heart, perhaps, is black? Your teeth, however, are gold, the more richly with which to impale a former tree. You are lying so sedately amid compatriots: a roll of thin black twine (to bind things with) and the caulking gun (to press insides out with) and the Phillips screw driver (to tighten down with) and the electric drill (to forcibly bore with) and a motley tray of screwsnailsboltshooksstapleseyeswiresholdersbrackets (to order and secure with) ― such a clutter of my represented attempts to alter the structures enclosing me, my imperialism of hands and hopes that I can make this wall more beautiful by making four holes in it, and putting hardware in those holes, and hanging objects from the hardware. My conquering role in the physical world, my inhabitation so actively destructive ― or is it constructive, as reads my daily planner, who reflects casually upon the fact that each thing I approach with these tools and toys has already been formed and formulated and regulated and regularized by other humans, most of whom I have never met?
If drilling a hole and screwing in a piece of metal is destructive, then what is removing the screw and filling the hole with putty? !!Oh Gorgeous Clash of Circumnavigating Mishmash Markers, Delimiting Defining Discordant Delight!! This is how it all breaks down, so deliciously, like beef stew for hours in a scarlet dutch oven ― and also builds up, like the emanating savory aroma that now fills every corner of this house so constructed, destructed, instructed, restructed, adored.