There are people who wake up in the morning and immediately know what they're going to do.
I am not one of those people.
I wake up with approximately seventeen simultaneous questions, three projects, an unresolved mechanical problem, a philosophical observation, and a sudden desire to know whether something can be melted, fermented, waterproofed, preserved, tattooed, or turned into art.
This is not indecision.
This is range.
Over the course of a normal day, I may investigate the structural properties of leather, contemplate the behavior of human beings under emotionally ambiguous circumstances, troubleshoot an aging vehicle, research mushrooms, consider airline miles, analyze an oddly flavored cup of coffee, and then spend an unreasonable amount of time determining whether an obscure object can be made substantially better with grease.
And somehow, this all feels like one subject.
The subject is: What the hell is going on here?
I have an enduring relationship with things that are old, stubborn, handmade, slightly dangerous, or unnecessarily complicated. This includes tools, boots, machinery, houses, artistic materials, food, and—apparently—human beings.
Especially human beings.
I like things with evidence of having lived.
A perfect, untouched object has never particularly impressed me. Give me something scarred, weathered, repaired, modified, and still functioning and I'll probably become emotionally attached to it within fifteen minutes.
This may explain the attraction to old vehicles.
It may also explain the attraction to old houses.
It definitely explains the attraction to leather work boots.
The jury remains out on whether it explains my taste in people.
There is also the matter of art.
I have spent a considerable amount of time making things that other people apparently find meaningful.
This is somewhat inconvenient because I don't necessarily agree with them.
They will look at something and ask what it means, and I am occasionally tempted to say:
"It means I had the materials."
But apparently that's not considered sufficiently profound.
So people assign meaning.
I make something.
Someone buys it.
Everyone goes home satisfied.
Honestly, this seems like a perfectly functional arrangement.
Then there are the mushrooms.
At some point, a reasonable person might ask why someone needs to know about every edible and medicinal mushroom in a particular corner of Alaska.
The answer is simple:
Because they're there.
That is basically the governing philosophy.
If something exists in the woods, I want to know what it is.
If something grows on a tree, I want to know whether it can be eaten.
If something smells strange, I want to know why.
If something can be preserved in a jar, I'm probably going to preserve it in a jar.
And if something tastes vaguely like mildew despite smelling perfectly normal, I will absolutely spend part of my morning investigating the neurological implications of pinching my nose while drinking coffee.
This is what passes for recreation.
There is, however, one subject that consistently defeats practical investigation:
other people's behavior.
You can diagnose an engine.
You can waterproof leather.
You can troubleshoot an app.
You can determine whether copper will melt using sufficiently persuasive amounts of heat.
But introduce another human being into the equation and suddenly we're dealing with variables such as tone, timing, context, subtext, attachment, personal history, and the terrifying phrase:
"We'll talk about it later."
No tool has yet been invented for that.
So I compensate by thinking about it.
A lot.
Possibly too much.
But then, thinking deeply has advantages.
It has also led to some wonderfully ridiculous conversations.
There is a peculiar joy in being able to move from a serious question about human nature to "How long should I cook apples on a woodstove?" without experiencing any cognitive transition whatsoever.
Apparently my brain considers these neighboring subjects.
And perhaps that's the real theme here.
I'm interested in how things work.
People.
Machines.
Materials.
Relationships.
Ideas.
Food.
Old buildings.
New problems.
Strange smells.
Mushrooms.
Coffee.
Everything.
I don't necessarily need everything to be simple.
In fact, I suspect I'd get bored if it were.
Give me something complicated enough that I have to take it apart, look at the pieces, understand what each one does, put it back together, and then wonder whether I can improve it.
That's where I seem to be happiest.
Preferably with a cup of coffee.
Provided, of course, that the coffee doesn't taste like a damp basement.
In which case, we're going to have to investigate.
Obviously.
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