Oblivion lives in a matte black dustbinin the corner of Julie’s studio.Lid on, it eclipses itself, a Buddhabeneath notice, waiting under primitiveshelves laden with pots-in-progress:leather-hard or biscuit-fired, provisionallypainted, the stoneware mute,a Morandi in waiting of milky bottles,milk and dust…
You are makinga pinch-pot, idly turning and pressingand meanwhile thinking of something else—perhaps your mother, gone forever,or the bag you want to buy—whenthe wall gives way. Clay has a memory,Julie says; she goes to the suddenlyevident dustbin, and lifts the lid. Insidea wet glint, opalescent,
full as an eggof creamy gray shadow, sedimentground down finely and suspendedlike a verdict in a tone. It stirs,gathers body. Slip!—but not as we know it:the wettest slip you’ve ever seen,insipid liquefaction, stone soup…Throw it in, she says. You feel sorry for it,this pot you didn’t…
