where the bullet hits the bone

as soon as my hand slipped around the handle of that worm drive skill saw that was it. i was in love. all that power right at the end of my arm, it was my avenue for freedom, i could make money, express myself, i was a damn dancer climbing buildings i'd built, only i didn't know that then. not exactly. but later the saw and hammer became an extension of my whole self, my body an intstrument for self fullfilment, no it became more, the search for the grail, the best part of myself. half jokingly i called construction the holy wars. at first it was a practical thing, i needed to make money. but that thought never lasts in construction, it's to damn hard, it's back breaking, grueling, dirty, hot, sweaty and dangerous. make no bones about that, the saw will eat you, that high torque, all that horse power in about ten pounds, the saw will buck and wheeze and scream at you. i'd pin the guard of my saw back, an old framers trick, the idea being less drag on the guard, less time waiting for it to release, the more wood you can cut, the more money you can make. the only thing is it left the blade exposed, about four inches of solid razor sharp steel. it was a crazy macho thing to do, and i did it when i was young, you're standing there with that blade exposed, you're saying i'm bad, i'm not afraid, my sword is out, i'll run that saw within an eighth of an inch right next to my hand, i'm ready for anything, hell yes. one day on a remodel in Berkeley, i was cutting through a floor joist when my saw hit a nail and backed up the inside of my thigh, the spurt of blood hit my helper Mark and sent him screaming down the street, and after i tied off my leg i had to go and get him and damn he could'nt drive a stick and i had to drive and hold his hand, the blood pouring down into my boot, him sobbing i was going to die , and then i went and got myself sewed up to the tune of eighty stitches, and then back to the job. my saw lay where i'd thrown it, covered in my blood, one of those moments, and i picked it up and went back to work. hell there was two good hours left in the day. mark sat outside, sobbing and moaning like he was the one that had gotten cut. i took the nail out of the guard and let it down, you can't hold anything against the saw, it's only as good as the hand that guides it. i learned not to bully my saw, to listen to it, it's my friend, you've got to develope a relationship with it. i used to store my tools in my tool shop at night, laying in bed i could hear the saws talking to the screwguns, the chop saw talking to the table saw, they got lonely, i went out and talked to them, cleaned them, told them how great they were, admired the steel and plastic shapes, marveled that i could run them all, and for a long time, they were everything to me, with them i brought beauty into existance where there was none and running them some where along the line, i literally felt the harder i worked the better person it made me, the closer i got to myself. my tools took me there, and you can't tell me tools don't have a soul. my saw never bit me again. believe it. jgk