“Ethan! There’s someone here to see you!”
Goddamn.
CHAPTER TWO
June
The music is so loud my ceramic pots on the top shelf are rattling. I grin as Notorious B.I.G. starts rapping in his deep iconic voice. I roll up my sleeves and start rapping along with him.
This is my happy place. An old secluded barn hidden deep in the Greene Mountains and it’s all mine.
I can have lights on at midnight and blast music as loud as I want. I can stay up all night creating. The artist in me is in heaven. It’s just me and my work. Creative freedom.
I rap like I’m a true gangster as I dance on over to the painting easel in the corner. It’s a painting of the mountains I’ve been working on. I pick up a paintbrush I forgot to put away this afternoon and dab the light blue paint on my wrist and forearms, painting little symbols on my skin. A sun. A peace sign. A bird. A heart.
I like to paint, but I’m not great at it. What I am great at, is pottery.
It’s the reason why I’m here. It’s the reason I’m so fired up on life.
I toss the paintbrush onto the paint-splattered cardboard on the ground and spin around, rapping the chorus as the bass fromHypnotizethumps through the old creaky floorboards.
This is my new pottery studio. I bought the old barn with what little money I had and spent the rest of my savings—plus a little more—to renovate it and make it just right. I have all I need here. A spinning wheel, boxes of clay, shelves for my creations, and an old decrepit kiln.
I sleep in the loft on top. It’s just a mattress on the floor and I haven’t gotten around to buying a dresser yet, so my clothes are still tucked away in the suitcases I brought them in with. But I got my own pottery studio, so I don’t care.
I grab a half-smoked joint out of the ashtray and tuck it between my smiling lips as I head over to the spinning wheel.
I flick it on, hit the pedal, and grin when I see it spinning around empty. With my heart thumping to the beat, I sit down, grab a chunk of clay, and slap it down hard, right in the center. It lands with a satisfying thud.
The song ends andIt Must Have Been Loveby Roxette comes on. My playlist, like my creating style, is pure chaos. I like to be surprised at what comes next.
I light my joint, take a few puffs to help me get in the zone, and place it in the ashtray beside me.
I’m feeling like there’s nowhere else on the planet I’d rather be as I dip my hands into the warm water and let it drizzle over the spinning clay. I just focus on the music, on the warm buzz in my head, and I let my hands do what they do.
My fingers and palms move like they have a mind of their own, molding and shaping the spinning clay.
It’s been a long journey to get to this point, but I did it. I sigh as I remember what I had to go through…
Three years in Osaka, Japan, deep in the forest, waking upbefore dawn, dry hands cracked and aching, my master standing over me in silence while I worked, grunting and frowning in disapproval.
There was no music in Shigeru Hoshino’s studio. No music. No dancing. No smiling. Anddefinitelyno weed.
He was a hard man with a sharp tongue and had absolutely zero patience for any American sass. The first year was the toughest.
We didn’t get along so great.
But, I worked hard, and I had talent, so eventually, it got a little better. I think I grew on him. Or maybe I just wore him down. Either way, he became a true master and I became his apprentice.
He taught me everything he knew. Pottery secrets that had been passed down through generations, all the way back to the Muromachi period, way before the Europeans crashed into the Americas and said to the confused natives ‘this is ours now.’
I learned and became proficient at dozens of rare and ancient techniques—Raku-style firing, Noborigama, Tatara-zukuri, Mashiko-yaki, Oribe-yaki, plus many more.
My arms and shoulders got strong in that forest. My hands can crack walnuts. Seriously, I got grip strength fordays.
All of that to come home and make fancy vases for rich people. I grin as I start working the clay harder. The clay rises under my palms, tall and smooth, responding to pressure the way it always does when I’m locked in. My shoulders flex as I pull the clay upward, guiding it into a long, thick shape.
I grin to myself as I look down at it.
