He got up. The birds were, somewhat annoyingly perhaps, already singing. Birds singing, like people, are wonderful in small groups, but large congregations produce nothing more than just noise.
For some people, early mornings are a blank slate of time dedicated to little routines and breakfast. A way of self-regulating into a good day. For others, it is the sudden adrenaline jolt from finding oneself again thrusted into this valley of tears, with no regard for wants or needs. For others yet, it is nothing particular, nothing of note. It is just the way things are.
As I was saying, he got up to the birds. Out the window, he could see green. The bright green nearby and the muted, deep, green afar. I like to think these are the two best kinds of green, especially when found together. Green is beautiful. Somewhere deep in our human psyche, we are hardwired to like the green. It means water and life. Or… does it?
Perhaps then unsurprisingly, the green filled his heart with joy. “Yes” he thought “this is what life is.”
He wasn’t the type to have breakfast, really, or to really have a morning routine. He was more of the type that wanted to get started. Perhaps a sign of a troubled upbringing, perhaps a natural trait untainted by society, we may never know. You may wonder, “get stared on what?” We will soon get to that.
He heard a car coming up the driveway. Not the motor, mind you, but the sound the tires make when grasping and crunching the gravel to his house.
He went to the unlocked door and peeked. Yes, he could see the car coming up through the winding road. It was something vintage, maybe from the 1920s, perhaps a replica? There was no motor noise, so it must be an electric. An electric conversion? People do that a lot these days.
The he in question is the Craft Master. Or as much as anyone can be sure they are a he, he was a he. One can never be too sure of themselves on their performances though. Brains are weird like that. The car? That was me, coming up the long driveway in his… farm.
We were soon seated in the living room. Cosy, if quite bare. A sign of someone that cared about form and function, but whose mind was often elsewhere.
I had organised this interview months earlier, and had almost forgotten until the deadline creeped closer and I was forced to look into who I was interviewing and why, again.
I had my iPad at hand, for notes, he was sitting across, looking relaxed, but a tad perhaps unsure of how to broach this interaction.
“What does it mean to be a Craft Master?” - I asked.
“Mmm… what does it mean…” - he half repeated half replied before pausing for a long breath where his eyes looked at the ceiling. “Starting with the tough ones, I see” - he smirked.
“I think it means to love. To really appreciate something, to the degree one is willing to - at least some times - suspend all the games we humans like to play and really engage in dialogue with nature, with the world.”
It was a long interview, albeit convoluted. There were many tangents and in the end I am note sure any of his answers actually answered my questions.
I am not really sure, to this day, who he was or what he did.
But, supposedly, he was the Craft Master.