Nothing stops me in my tracks like an unwanted handmade piece of pottery. Living in Oakland so long, I've had plenty of opportunity to see trash at the curbside, but a handmade piece of pottery in the "free" box always gets my attention.

Did the maker die? Did he or she move back to New York or Minnesota? Is this some personal message to me to get out before the BIG ONE?

I always try to read the answer baked into the clay. Why did this person come to California in the first place? It's very unlikely they were born here in Oakland.

I search for some signs of the dream that propelled them. I examine the artifact for signs of its cultural origins, but, as if it might be a toxic specimen, never actually touch it. I may lean closer into the box or bag, but I never disturb the way the pottery lies. It may be meant for someone else, not me. I came here, I remember, to make my own art.