2003-09-08 - 11:36 p.m.
Since I paid a reasonably large sum of money to enroll myself in Sheridan College's Flameworking Glass 1, allow me to share with you some of the important lessons I learned tonight in my first class.
1) I do not have the patience required for glassworking.
2) I do not, apparently, have the basic intelligence required for glassworking. Or survival.
3) One of the odd properties of glass is that, when heated to temperatures in excess of one thousand degrees celsius with an oxygen-propane torch, it takes quite a while to cool down.
4) Another of the odd properties of glass is that, should you attempt to touch it before it has fully cooled, you will witness the fascinating phenomenon of molten sand attempting to fuse itself to your flesh.
5) This hurts.
I'm trying to see my pain as educational. My teacher, who is very like Jenna Elfman of 'Dharma and Greg' fame, and my nine classmates, who are very like a bunch of bored retirees with money to burn, certainly found it educational. They learned that not only am I a total idiot, but I possess an enviable vocabulary of epithets and expletives. And a great set of lungs.
The best part is, I did it TWICE. Once is excusable. It's my first time working in this medium, I'm young and inexperienced, and our instructor failed to expressly warn us against touching the glass after heating it. But during cleanup I nonchalantly hoisted a bundle of rods, one of which I had just finished heating, and burned the living daylights out of my other hand.
Actually, I take that back. The BEST part was my brain, trying feebly to wrestle my screaming nervous system to the ground by reasoning that if the glass fused permanently to the bone, I could at least have it sharpened to a razor-edged blade and turn vigilante. I actually had a brief vision of myself as the ill-conceived superhero "Glass Justice", striking down evil on the streets, screaming "Who wants some? Do YOU want some?" at various villains. Some coping mechanism, eh?
Sigh. At least I didn't sign up for glassblowing. Otherwise odds are extremely good that I would have tripped over my shoelaces and plunged headfirst into the kiln. I would have met my end like the bad witch in Hansel and Gretel. As it is, I now resemble another well-loved mythical character from a story not at all suitable for children to read. Oh, my poor bandaged mitts.
If I'm feeling super masochistic, I'll post an image of the broken pieces of scrap I managed to manufacture today on this page tomorrow morning.
[Note! This entire entry was typed with my pencil/mouth wand. A small taste of what work tomorrow will be like. FYI, tastes kinda like lead.]
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