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….or, watching the heart of a volcano transform my clay into gold.

I have a thing for odd titles, I think.

I am currently the resident labtech/slave to the kiln god at my college, and I just popped my oxidation cherry. That’s right folks, I fired a gas kiln all the way up to cone 10, roughly 2300 degrees Fahrenheit. With green goggles and the oven mitt of Vulcan, I peeked into the spyholes of my baby-waby wittle kilny-wilny and was blown away.

The fire was so hot, no color could be seen beyond pure, shimmering gold. All was flame and light- the shelves, the posts, the pottery, everything. I couldn’t touch, but oh, how I wanted to. To press shivering fingers to pure beauty, to brush lips against a slice of the sun’s heat….

Truly, a kiln is touched by the hand of the divine.

I may be a smartass (well, there’s no maybe about it >.> ) but no matter how phallic the plugs for the spyholes are, or how weird I look on my hands and knees in dark green sunglasses peeking in said spyholes, or the way the tip of said phallic plug glows from dipping into the fires…. there is power in a kiln. There is magic. There is intense heat and light and transformation that is hard to compare to anything else in my world.

I’m hooked.

Now I just have to wait til Monday to get my fanged vagina out of the fire…

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