ever dumbening Cut and shaped by endless analysis--what am I to do with all these giant stones? They're not waiting for something to happen, but I sense a longing--from stones? Can this be? I've made them all myself, through study, accident, experience. I hardly have room any more, anywhere. They're scattered in my yard, leaning against the wall in my bedroom, piled up haphazardly in the kitchen. They fill the trunk and even the passenger seat of my car. I bring a little cart with me now, when I go for walks; it makes them easier to carry. I always seem to find room for one more. I've stumbled across them at friends' houses--imagine that! They clutter the cities I've lived, though many I brought home with me.

I'll spend days at a time pushing them around with great effort, rearranging. No, thanks, I don't need any help. Pulling the old ones to the top of a given pile, admiring them with uncertain pride. Running my hands across the rough surface, I imagine the polishing I could do to this one. Sometimes I just rub away the calluses. My mind wanders, I drift to another pile and shuffle again.

Friends and acquaintances tell me they know of someone who could use those stones. I respond with hesitation, saying that, um, I'm saving them, they need more work, or, they're just stones, but thanks.

Friends and acquaintances compliment me. "What beautiful stones and There are so many and Wow, look at this one and I never knew you made stones, and in such great variety and Kiss me."

But then they always have to ask:

What are you going to do with all these giant stones?
what's it to you?
who go