My palms still remember the resistance, that push-back when the clay wants to be something else, something tighter, more controlled, than what it actually IS. You can try to force it, make it conform to a shape in your mind that isn't true to its nature, but the tension always shows up somewhere, a hairline crack later, or just a feeling in your gut that it's all an act. The honest pieces, they just flow, even when they wobble a bit.