26/02/2023
Actor is sitting on a stool on a plain, empty stage. Modern aluminum crochet hook in one hand, ball of wool of an arbitrary colour in the other.
Our tools. This is what we had. Pre-history.
A hook,
Actor holds the hook up.
Carved from wood in the gap between two roots, sheltered from the wind not rain. Carved from bone, chipped and snapped from a leg not far enough through its fifty-thousand rotations. Cast from steel only re-heated in the heart of a furnace
Just as it has been moved and twisted by my hands, mux my fifty-thousand year brothers and sisters, my hands mould to it in twin grooves.
Our tools.


