Vinegar and self-talk.

Approaching this week’s failures.

I spent some time outside of Berlin this week. I found myself, among other places, visiting my girlfriend’s grandfather’s house (though he really should be addressed as her opa, when in Rome and all that). At my girlfriend’s suggestion, we both went into his basement in search of treasure. In the last few weeks, I’ve been dreaming more and more of woodworking and my girlfriend reckoned her opa had a few tools I could borrow. The appeal of making the furniture I sit on or tables I eat at has been growing inside of me. It is large enough to provoke me to peer into every dumpster I walk past in the hopes of finding scrap wood. One day last week I came across a gorgeous palette about as tall as me and at least three times as wide. I lugged the forty-something kilogram behemoth home and left it in the courtyard. The next day I gingerly fiddled with it, trying to pull the planks free from one another without damaging them. I hammered with a tense stomach, anxious to create too loud a raucous and irritate the neighbours. For reference—it’s illegal in Berlin for residents of a building to throw their glass refuse into their own glass bins on Sundays because it is considered too noisy.

Once we had sifted through cobweb filled cupboards and inhaled an egregious amount of ancient dust (and likely mould) for an hour or two, my girlfriend very politely suggested that I continue the search on my own. Five hours and two pairs of gloves later, I had found veritable library of tools. Everything I’d need to get started making furniture. Opa very kindly agreed to lend them all to me. I’ve had my eye on a particular chair that I want to attempt to copy using my palette wood. The process is, however, rather an involved one and there are many techniques I plan to employ that simply must make use of certain tools—no compromises. For a week the wood lay in my room. I knew I wanted to make my chair, but had absolutely no way to start work on it. I would return from my trip, though, with every last tool and accessory I needed. What a blessing! While the two electric machines I borrowed only needed a wipe down after emerging from Opa’s basement, other tools were totally rusted. I brought a pair of callipers with me specifically because of how rusted they are. My intension was to bring them home, clean them up, and show Opa just how well I was stewarding the tools he so generously entrusted to me.

Those callipers are soaking in vinegar in a glass dish sitting on the floor behind me. They are waiting for me to scrub the rust right off. They were only supposed to soak overnight (the acid in vinegar helps dissolve rust), but they’ve been waiting much longer. My plan was to spend the day refurbishing, cleaning, oiling all my tools and, if possible, starting the preliminary woodwork. Instead, they lay, untouched, behind me. Still rusted and unused.

I stopped my au pair work in October. I will hopefully start my next job in December. In between, I planned to earn a little money. Rent, groceries, the deposit for my apartment when I move out in a few months, a pair of jeans that fit properly. I had lots of motivation. Between the travel and figuring out health insurance and catching two successive colds within the month, I only had the resources to apply for a few jobs. I found out this morning that none of my applications were approved. No casual work for me.

I had a phone call with a good friend of mine earlier today. It was the first one in a little while, and though it started well, I began to dwell on the past and I feel that I made the whole conversation about myself. In the very end of the phone call, I realised that I’d spent half an hour moaning, and I became very, if not inappropriately remorseful, which, in turn, continued to make the phone call more difficult for the both of us. I hung up wishing that I’d told him I was busy instead of answering the phone.

No one buys tools to let them go rusty. The callipers, hand plane, scissors, clamps and file that sit soaking in vinegar were all bought with the intention of making something, I’m sure. They then sat, disused, on shelves and in toolboxes for long enough to become derelict. Then I came along. I planned to wipe the rust away and make it all better. After my chat and my day and my month have gone wrong, I want to be in a state. I want to feel like it’s a burnt cake. Like a shattered window. Permanently broken. Irredeemable. Because I didn’t spend my day refurbishing the tools, as I had planned, I want to count myself as one of their previous owners. To punish myself, I want to feel like I have hurt them, abandoned them. The reality is not so harsh. The callipers are more patient than I am. More forgiving, too, perhaps. One bath in vinegar isn’t enough to make me look and feel as good as new. That friend I spoke to will understand that I had an off day. I’ll have enough money for rent and jeans and everything else. My tools are fine. Nothing went as planned today, but nothing is beyond fixing, either. I should know that already, I’m the one that went home with a bag of old, rusty woodworking tools, ready to give them a new life. Tomorrow, perhaps I can get to work refurbishing the tools, and myself along with them.

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I actually did end up getting to the callipers, in the end.

They’ve certainly got more life to them, though I wonder if I can get them to sparkle even more… If you enjoyed this journal, good job, that was a tough one! Subscribe if you like.