New Kiln
story-time < 3
October 8th, 2025
My new kiln arrived today. It is cute
Mauro delivered it in his bulky van. He initially stopped at the first gate, further up the driveway. I opened the side-gate and waved him down. Vieni giù—a questo cancello!1 I went back inside and opened the forest-green gate by pressing the chunky white button with the green dot in the middle. He and his bulky van pressed down the driveway and reluctantly made their way through the now-open gate. Mauro was worried that the top of the van would ruin the foliage that draped itself over the gate, but I motioned with my hand to come come you’re good (he was good) so he rolled his way onto the piazzola2 and for a moment there my body froze, remembering that my father explicitly said not to let any cars onto the piazzola, even though we used to do it all the time when my nonna was still around, but the piazzola has weakened in recent years, my father alleges, and cars shouldn’t really be parking there anymore—but in this now the enormous van containing both Mauro and my cute new kiln within it were parked on the piazzola and taking their time. I stood there, immobile, as the van came to a slow, imagining the piazzola crumbling under the weight of it all, bringing myself, Mauro, the kiln, and all of my hopes and dreams down with us. I shoved the thought away, brusquely, and muttered urgently under my breath—GOD… please, just—No, okay?
Just… oKAY???
Mauro hopped out of the van and opened its rear, setting up two parallel ramps in order to slide the kiln out of the van and onto the piazzola. Somanythingsonthepiazzola but we aren’t thinking about that. I open the glass doors that lead to the studio from outside and we (Mauro) shuffle the kiln into its new home. Mauro insisted I not lift a finger. I insisted that I was strong. He insisted on lifting the kiln out of its snug styrofoam packaging and onto the floor, on his own. Both of us were insisting a lot, but alas his insisting won, and I wasn’t allowed to help him with the kiln. I was almost insulted. Almost. Like he didn’t believe that I could do it—that I might actually be a worthy teammate… Comrade… Equal. He bent over and lifted the kiln, leg by leg, up and out and onto the floor. I merely existed whilst he did the aforementioned. Existed, and watched as mosquitoes swarmed in from outside in impressive and alarming numbers. Like they’d just stumbled upon a poppin’ new bar or locale3 and stepped inside to check out the vibe. It turns out they were quite fond of the vibe. I didn’t think it an opportune time to go and shut the door whilst Mauro performed his Very Strong Man bit consisting of picking the kiln up all on his own. I thought—though he made such a fuss about it needing to be a solo act—that I should nevertheless remain on standby, in the unlikely event that he, for whatever reason, may require my assistance. He didn’t. And still I stood there, watching him do things, and watching the mosquitoes as they too did the things they do.
Moments later, Mauro had successfully positioned the kiln onto a spot on the floor that would be suitable for when it would be on and running. Not too near the wooden cupboards, nor the window, nor the wheel. He was leaning over and pointing at things: the rectangular slabs of pietra4 beneath the base shelf, the little thingy made of platinum that mustn’t ever be touched. He underlined that point a lot. Never let anything touch that. Okay, I said, whilst a mosquito landed on his bald head. The mosquito was sucking the blood from Mauro’s bald head whilst I stood there and watched. I didn’t want to interrupt Mauro’s discorso5—he was speaking at length about so many things. So I let the mosquito enjoy some blood whilst I listened to everything Mauro had to say, and I wondered about the reality where I tell Mauro about the mosquito, or where I simply swat at his bald head whilst he’s mid-discorso, and I wonder about what might’ve unfolded there.
When Mauro left, I killed some mosquitoes and started loading the kiln. I placed mug after mug after bowl after mug after thing into the kiln, stacking shelves upon shelves, filling it confidently to the brim.
Then I consulted ChatGPT regarding the bisque-firing settings. Mauro had walked me through it, in a moment where there was no mosquito on his head. There may have been one elsewhere, but I didn’t see it. The kiln’s control panel had within it some pre-installed programs, including one for a bisque firing, and though Mauro had walked me through it, I wanted Chat’s thoughts on the program’s particular settings, and if they would be adequate.
I paced back and forth around the house, talking to Chat, sending photos of the kiln’s control panel and flicking through the various programs, opening and closing the kiln an alarming amount of times before finally feeling ready to close it, lock it, give it a kiss, and press Start.
The kiln? It’s on as we speak. It did a bunch of clicking and continues to click away intermittently, but I write these words from bed and the clicking sound is far away and at times drowned out by the sound of my typing. But I do hear it, in the distance, in those little gaps of time and space where my fingers are suspended in mid-air or resting on a key but not-yet-pressing and—there—I hear it, from allthewayoverthere. I perceive it in space, beyond the walls and beyond the entrance and beyond the wooden furniture.
It exists, in my life,
new, cute, clicking.
Glossary
Vieni giù—a questo cancello! — Come down—to this gate!
piazzola — a paved or open area in front of a house, often for parking or access
locale — venue
pietra — stone
discorso — speech / conversation