What Are You Working On?

Illustration for article titled What Are You Working On?

Are you painting a series of Hubble watercolors? 3D printing a full zoo of extinct animal figurines? Building an epidemiology videogame? Bring all those secret and not-so-secret projects you’ve been working on out into the light—because it’s io9 show-and-tell time!


Tell us about your current project—what it is, how long you’ve been working on it, how you did it, and what’s behind it. Be sure to include photos, both in-progress and finished, so that we can admire it from afar.

Image: Infinite custom action figure, from an earlier show-and-tell / Clayton Emery

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Dan Entwistle

I’m currently working on a compilation of poetry, trying to find my groove. There’s been a few I’ve catapulted out of the window, but I’m particularly fond of this one (I wrote it years ago, but I’ve been refining it for a while)

It’d be good to know what you think!

The Silent Symphony

Sit, sit children,
You there, be quiet and sit.
There’s a tale going around that
Is a pleasure for the senses –
The ears and the eyes and the tongue.

When the world makes its circle complete,
A travelling band will caress the uneven, pebbled roads
Connecting our towns.
Inside the rickety carriage a blind man
Will carve invisible notes onto a rigid piece of paper
With an inkless fountain pen, preparing for the show.

And with him will be many people,
With battered clothes and tired faces,
Who, on the most first of glances,
Will appear to be practising the most beautiful of music.
But do not be deceived young ones,
Their instruments are long gone, retired to another age.

Now, this is only the way it was told on the winds,
And a higher authority than I can be its only judge
But when the rickety carriage
Rolls on in to town,
The lively chatter that once filled the air
Is strangled into a melancholy whisper
Where finally it becomes a deafening silence,
As the band begin to play.

First, the voiceless conductor,
With his lopsided top-hat and
His sewn lips jarringly motions his broken arms
Grasping a baton of corroded wood.

Second, the asphyxiated strings,
No horse hair to draw along,
Empty hands fingering intricate chords,
Necks all strained, heads forever tilted.

Third, a siphoned woodwind,
Holes with no substance,
Uselessly plugged with precision.
A whistling wind embarrasses them.

Fourth, the dear departed brass,
Invisible pistons changing nothing,
As non-existent tunes are lost.
Arms outstretched, like children.

Finally, the eerie stillness builds to
The vacuum of percussion.
Naught is echoed in the night,
And the voiceless conductor
Expects no applause.

The rickety carriage begins a new trip
Along more uneven, pebbled roads,
To a new town, lively and amiable.
And, if you should ever happen upon a place,
Absent of warmth and friendliness,
Then the Silent Symphony has visited,
Forever heartbroken that they always take
The good things away with them.