Some days it is just good enough to be whatever it is you are. An editor, a dog walker, a speech therapist. Some other days it might be better to be the tool and not the operator of the tool. I’d like to be a pencil. Sharp, focused, correctible. Authoritative and yet open to revision. A pencil might suit me well. I might also like to be a drum. Round, tight, silent except when called to service – the drum has a voice, a ritual meaning, transcendentalist habits, a rhythm in the belly, rhythm all the way to the souls of the feet. I could be a drum. I could also be a thief, stealing moments, eavesdropping on the lives and whispers of strangers and friends. I could be a thief without jewels, lifting the unvalued, leaving no fingerprints. I could be a window, looking out on everything, cold and clear and just. I could be a rug, honest and flat, unemotional, willing to wear dirt, willing to be shaken in the open air. I might be a pet rock, a solid chunk of marketing sitting on a shelf, in a box, in a garage, in someone’s grandmother’s house. I could be an ice cube, temporary, cool, transient. Put me on your eyes, put me in your gin and tonic, put me anywhere absolution is needed and I will handle it for you. I might be a bowl, hugging those things that shouldn’t go flying off unattended. Your keys. Your pennies. Your yogurt. Your soup. Rely on me – I am a bowl. I could be a piece of paper. Lined, unlined. Blank, full. Waiting, smooth or crushed, for whatever comes next.