craftivism: wee, yet mighty!

crafter documentary project vs. friday dispatch v.10

work/shop:

As I have mentioned here before, I am working on a crafters documentary project. I am still trying to wrestle with the best way to present everything, but in the meantime, I thought I would post some details:

Who: crafters/artists/makers who create with DIY ethics in mind, and either sell their wares or participate in political/ethical projects with them.

What: two photographs (either two vertical or two horizontal, will be cropped around 300ppi or 350- one self-portrait, one of your workspace/creations), a little bit about yourself (name, age, location, website, statement about why you do what you do)

Where: eventually, it will be up here in photo format. originally i was planning a road trip to personally document everyone, but maybe one day?

Why: because via the internet we have formed a giant web of DIY ethics and creativity that spans the globe. even though some of us have met face-to-face, many of us have not. i want to document who we are. because even though i may email you and support you, i may not recognize you if we passed on the street. it's time to show the strength of community, and the numbers of individuals who are creating things each and every day to fight mass production and to strengthen uniquity and creativity.

How: email me your photos and statements or if you have any questions. as i'm moving (again) and things will be a bit hectic, i'll be accepting photos until late August.

friday links!

*You could do a whole lot worse than spending the rest of the afternoon reading DIY or Else. Go ahead. It's Friday!

*Go check out Bugbear. A whole site dedicated to "the similarities between computers and knitting!!" Hot damn!

*Mark Horowitz is incredible. His Coffee in the Park project makes me happier than anything I've seen in ages. Totally my biggest and newest crush. Too adorable. Really. ....I wonder if he likes Lionel Richie?

*Did you know that you can make your own tempeh? This woman is my new heroine! from now on, every night is tempeh night!

*The photography of Chris Jordan makes me want to take more roadtrips.... any pay more attention.

*Even though most people disagree with me on this, I actually adore airline meals (for the ridiculous way they're all compartmentalized! And so happy that there's a website devoted to them!

*If you know how to use your sewing machine, you should check out Sew Betsy Ross, and not just because of the wonderful name, either!

*I think everyone should aspire to make a stuffed animal everyday for 365 days. Especially if they're cool ones.

*I love You Ain't No Picasso, and not just because of the myriad indie covers, either.

*Because everyone needs to have a sense of humor, You Knit What? reminds me why I'm so afraid to show my knitted creations when I go "outside of the pattern." (And then makes me snicker.)

got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.

Actually a more correct title for this would be, "Got my (extreme lack of) money on my mind, and my (near to non-existent amount of) money on my mind, but I digress.

Lately I've been in contact with numerous farmers in regards to setting up some sort of apprenticeship or work agreement at a farm where I could learn traditional textile techniques. While I have established some amazing contacts, it has been a somewhat disheartening project at times.

While it's no surprise that the cost of wool has plummeted, and that farming is hard work, I've been saddened to hear from individuals who are struggling to keep their farms going. Like one farmer, who writes that his farm: "operates either at a loss or, in a good year, with only a minuscule profit. We are only able to keep the company going by subsidizing it heavily through our other enterprises. We have kept it going as [my wife] is determined, as you are, to maintain the craft. We sell, on average, just one [knitted item] a week." And another who notes, "We (like many other small farms) can't afford to employ anyone - even ourselves."

Nothing makes me happier than people have a passion for something. Some subject or notion or project that makes them come alive, eager to learn and wide-eyed. When I was working with troubled teens many years ago, the best part of my job was when they would enthusiastically yell, "Wow! Cool!" or "That is so neat!" (or given the time and place it was usually, "Wicked, innit?!") The kids went from individuals just going through the motions to pure energy lit within. Years later, this reaction is my most cherished in other people, a reaction that is purely based of joy, honesty and interest.

During my own job hunt, I keep running into others in the same predicament who have the same soulless look in their eyes, somewhat like last call at the bar, only slightly less creepy and desperate- more disheartened and rejected. I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall, applying for job after job only to hear little. Somewhere along the line we all have seemed to have lost that spark of interest, that pure flash of fascination. A spark that diminishes with each CV and cover letter...

Until we remember what we're intrigued by.

Then all bets are off.

I have made a little bit of headway in finding people to possibly work with for various lengths of time, which has been a great start. But I know that nonetheless, there is little that I can do to make the money worries (my own and that of others) go away. I know that I could constantly remind myself of the old adage that goes, "do what you love and the money will follow."

I just wish that this adage had proved itself as sage advice to all the amazing people I know who are perpetually in debt... doing what they love. And still see little light at the end of the tunnel...until that spark of fascination comes roiling back reminding us of new project ideas and ventures and possibilities.

Perhaps the money will one day come. I wish that traditional textile techniques were recognized as more valuable, but who needs to know how to knit when you got machines and modernity, right?! I also wish that following your heart would equal an increase in one's bank account, but I guess a girl can dream and keep her eyes open for that moment when someone dear shouts, "Wicked, innit?" and remember that there is more than life to financial gain. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

Lately I've been reading a lot about art instead of listening to music. I'm especially enamoured with harrell fletcher and ellie harrison, whose work makes me happy.

the nighttime is the right time?

Even though London is never very far from my heart, it has been on my mind a lot lately given the nature of recent events. I remember wearing long-sleeved shirts for several days in July last year, thankful for every not hot-as-hell moment. I can't help but think of last summer this summer, when it's so sweltering that even doing something as simple as making coffee seems a chore.

With the window air conditioning unit blaring in the front room along with a fan blowing some reprieve down the hall to the back rooms with the ceiling fans, it's overly loud in my apartment. Add to that music turned up to a reasonable level (at the moment, Bjork's Medulla, an album that gets more magical and beautiful the more I hear it) and I keep missing phone calls due to the current noise level.

Such heat turns me into a full-fledged night owl, operating at my best when the sun turns down and the heat abates somewhat. After sunset in the summer is somewhat magical to me, not just for the fireflies and the cicadas, but for the way that for the first time all day you can run barefoot and the ground seems cool and for the stillness in the air that lingers like the humidity.

As a child, I spent most of my summers at camp (and as a young adult working at camp) in the North Carolina mountains. I can still remember the peace that existed late at night on the way to the communal bathrooms, tiptoeing along a well-worn path, enveloped by the sounds of frogs and bugs, freed by the light of the stars. After a day of running around with the other campers, following rote routines, making macrame bracelets, this nighttime ritual seemed like a gift.

While I do love the sun and the clouds, summer belongs to the night. After spending all day trying to dodge the heat and properly hydrate, at night we're able to focus again, working on projects that stalled as the heat index rose. So often I'm up until almost sunrise, working on projects and research in the quiet that the nighttime provides, thankful for moments of serenity I can collect after a day of basking in the hothotheat.

I find myself working less and less on my knitting and spinning and devoting more time to my current cross-stitch and embroidery projects due to their being light and less heat-inducing. I am amazed at the way that the weather dictates my craft endeavours, without me even fully realizing it. Come September, I will gravitate back towards cozy wool and itch to work the spindle, leaving my summer projects in a semi-state of abandon until its time to pack up my winter wardrobe and unearth my t-shirts and flip flops.

I wish that my political work would also cease with the seasons, but I fear that I won't be so fortunate. Still there will be mass injustices and wars that seem useless and people that I love embroiled in them. So no matter what the medium, the message behind the work never changes. Because inherent to its inception, craft is a political endeavour.

But for now, I will continue to work in the nighttime. Lucky enough to be able to currently choose the hours of my employ, lucky enough to be able to fully enjoy the cicadas and the fireflies and the moonlight filtering in through my windows. I just wish that everyone had the luxury and the safety to not worry about the next day's travel to work even though that stiff upper lip is omnipresent.

friday dispatch v9.0

It's Friday! Again! Hot damn! Sometimes the days do sneak up on me, especially during the hothothot summer where it seems like everything is going to melt and blur like a work by Dali. The local kids, however, don't seem to mind that the heat index is high and continue to run around the neighborhood laughing and playing and taking refuge in the nearby woods.

But...nonetheless, here are some links for this Friday in July, for a bit of work reprieve, even though there's nothing I can do for the heat:

*I'm sure it's hot wherever my friend Arthur is. He's walking from London to Rome right now. And whatever he makes extra is going to charity. Go Arthur go!

*Even though it may seem calm, is it? See for yourself at Who Dies, Who Pays, Who Profits. Sobering, isn't it?

*From Slate, I was amazed by The Art of War. There are no words, really, are there?

*When I grow up, I want to be Harmon Leon, I think.

*Collectives like esprit de corps inspire me to no end.

*Tired of sandwiches? The Bento moblog will have you dreaming of cute little lunches in cute little boxes.

*Kids rule. Especially their interpretations of idioms. Wow. I've been giggling all afternoon. I especially like this one.

*People do some amazing things. I have been amazed at the sites listed here, the honorary 2005 list for Prix Ars Electronica.

*Over at Knitty Gritty, you can read about a blanket project some amazing people are making as a tribute to a friend who was killed recently. Simply incredible and inspiring. More info here.

*And if you're still not ready for the weekend, go discover some new music over at Fluxblog or Teaching the Indie Kids to Dance Again.

mega meta.

Why is it that poetry is so much more appealing to me at night? Perhaps it is because I'm a night owl. The noise of the day all behind me, I can take in the words on the page before me in quiet. Baudelaire's Les Fleurs de Mal is on the bedside table, next to Dumas' The Count of Monte Christo and Gunaratana's Mindfulness in Plain English. I have a revolving stack of books next to the bed because I'm always reading multiple books at one time, given my short attention span.

Lately Baudelaire has made me sink into the nights of summer, quiet and still except for the bugs buzzing, chirping and whistling outside my window. And Barthes has made me giggle with his awkwardness and insecurity, trying to figure out life like the rest of us, like this from A Lover's Discourse, which is my thoughts on the phone precisely:

My anxieties as to behavior are futile, ever more so, to infinity. If the other, incidentally or negligently, gives the telephone number of a place where he or she can be reached at certain times, I immediately grow baffled: should I telephone or shouldn't I? (It would do no good to tell me that I can telephone- that is the objective, reasonable meaning of the message- for it is precisely this permission I don't know how to handle.

What is futile is what apparently has and will have no consequence ... Was it an invitation to telephone right away, for the pleasure of the call, or only should the occasion arise, out of necessity? My answer itself will be a sign, which the other will inevitably interpret, thereby releasing, between us, a tumultuous maneuvering of images. Everything signifies: by this proposition, I entrap myself, I bind myself in calculations, I keep myself from enjoyment.

Bless him for also being phone phobic, or atleast more awkward than necessary when faced with a little speaker to project into, hoping that your words don't sound mangled or slurred or that there's a bad connection. But then again, I've always been more than partial to Barthes. But reading such passages as these reminds me that no matter what I'm worrying about, chances are, someone else somewhere is worrying about it, too.

The same thing can be said for the realm of art/craft. As currently I'm toiling away with a couple of new projects, hoping that I can finish them before someone else finishes something similar. Or that once I finish them, someone doesn't present me with scores of the exact same work rendering my own somewhat less enticing.

But that's always the way with anything, isn't it? In grappling with new ideas, old fears, failed relationships and future goals, we not only figure out more about ourselves (and people's perceptions of ourselves) but more about the world around us and how we can best help it become a better place. As well as ourselves better people. Or atleast that's the hope I have for everyone, anyway.

water seeks its own level.*

Perhaps one of my most defining features is the way I move house. I think I've moved something like 20 times in the past 10 years. Granted, half of those moves were within the same county, but most people tend to keep my address on a Post-It. And as I'm currently looking for a textile apprenticeship for the next year, I might be moving. Again. I have less than a month at my current sublet, which means that all areas are up for grabs- despite what graffiti may tell me.

Happily, my computer is up and running once more and my projects are starting to take shape. Lately, I've been so happy to have found like-minded women like the artists behind Anti-Factory, Microrevolt and Obsessive Consumption- their work has been reminding me constantly that ethically-inspired work is more inspiring to me than anything else!

I was also recently introduced to the existence of Paperhand Puppet Intervention, which is local to my current sublet. Their work with the community astounds me and I wish I had found out about their work sooner! Wow!

Recently someone asked me what I wished to see more of in the art/craft community. The answer was easy: "more collaboration!" As I work on my own projects, I concurrently come up with ideas that would be worked best as a collaborative effort. Imagine what people could accomplish when working together within this community? Imagine what we could create if we harnessed our collective energy and brainstormed new ideas?

Even though I do move often, it is the ease of the internet that facilitates so much of the community that I find so inspiring. With the technology we currently have, we can collaborate from wherever we are as long as we have access to a computer and a power source. We just need to discover like-minded souls and start communicating, because they are out there and are probably dreaming up similar projects, too, and I am inspired by the fact that one day I will do more collaborative work, instead of mainly dreaming alone.

*Someone who is smarter than he thinks reminded me of this saying ages ago. So so true.

blink. blink. blink.

Thank you for all the nice birthday wishes! I can tell you that only 4 days out of my 20s, I am already stoked to be rid of them. Somewhere in my mind changing decades was symbolic as it allowed me to shed an old comfortable persona that had begun to wear thin anyhow. Not that I woke up on Monday feeling any different, just completely aware that thankfully, I am not the same person I was 10 years ago, or even 5 years ago.

Bizarrely, as some of you know, it was only when I started getting involved with textiles (at 25) that my life started to go from completely chaotic to something resembling more peaceful. I wouldn't go so far as to say "textiles changed my life," but they definitely changed it for the better.

I have always had a numinous side, so starting with a medium that had connections to my ancestors makes sense to me now. My grandmother insists that somehow my textiles obsession is something born from my genetic history, and my frequent return to the UK is something I cannot escape for the same reason. Honestly, who knows? But secretly, I like to think she is right. That everytime I work on a piece of needlecraft I am continuing a chain established on lands other than this one, over a century ago.

Poppycock. That's what my grandfather would say, but underneath it would be a smile. My family tree is hewn strong due to scores of soldiers in its ranks. This past week my cousin passed out a photocopied booklet he had compiled about the life of my great grandfather (my grandfather's father). Proudly an Army soldier, proudly an Irish Catholic, proudly full of love and life. For several hours I was whisked away over 60 years ago, lost in letters written to my Nana (his wife, now passed on, who used to crochet afghans and paint and tell stories) of captures, the "strain of war" and the difficulties of leading others in battle. Entranced by newspaper clippings and photographs and descriptions of a rough-and-dirty fight that he was a part of.

I do a fair amount of reading regarding the women's experience during World War II, so his letters from France were especially fascinating. When a newspaper clipping noted it was cold, I thought of the legions of women knitting balaclavas and vests to send the soldiers in the hopes that their love would be caught in the pockets of air between the stitches. Through his words, I was able to construct more of the story of World War II. Before then, I had only had intimate knowledge of the experience of women.

There was word that there might be more of these letters somewhere, bundled in a drawer or packed in a suitcase, and I am excited to learn of their existence. Because they allowed me to envision a period in time in a different way than my usual method of reading things from the women's perspective. This slight reversal, brought about by the accidental discovery of love letters handwritten decades ago, reminded me once again that even though we think that we have covered all the bases, sometimes we overlook the most important pieces of the puzzle. And sometimes, those pieces only materialize when we are ready to see them.

That being said, my computer is all fixed! I pick it up this weekend, which means I get to start on the work/shop project and a project called vernacular, which will be up here soon and is loosely based on the sublime nature of modernity. Whee.

thirty.

Today is my 30th birthday.

I'm sure that the 8 year-old me thought that I would have conquered my wanderlust, tamed my daydreams or reined in my creativity by 2005. But I haven't. I still get lost in stories (mine as well as those of others), am reduced to tears by the cuteness and curiosity of life and involuntarily blush at everything imaginable. Eight year-old me probably would wonder why I still have tamed my wild hair, too.

While I thought that I was supposed to have everything figured out by now, I don't. In bed this morning, I stared at the ceiling like I used to when I was 8, and realised that honestly, except for having better fashion sense and a bigger vocabulary, not much has changed.

Although what does get sweeter is the way that whenever someone does remember your birthday and you weren't expecting it, there is nothing but joy in your heart.

The past few technologically-challenged days have been full of birthday celebrations (I held a kickball cookout with a dear friend whose birthday is tomorrow) and many many grilled vegetarian products and even more cups of coffee. Yesterday I got back to nature and was mauled by mosquitos sitting outside in my friends backyard, and was thankful later on to be inside working on some charity newborn hats that I hadn't finished.

As I woke up feeling ill this morning, I'm not going out on the town (something that the 20-something me holds in disbelief) but staying in and making stuff. Here's to a new decade, another birthday and much more joy.

xo

power out.

So my computer has crashed. Again. Happily, they are going to repair it under warranty so there is no real reason to complain. But for the next few weeks, internet communication will be spotty and all contents on my hard drive hard to get to. My computer decided to bail while I was editing my PhD proposal, and I'm not sure whether or not to take that has some sort of weird omen or just sod's law.

Yesterday, like perhaps many of you, I was glued to my television watching the events unfold in London. Amazingly, I had access to a friend's computer (as I do again for a bit today) and was able to send emails to check on loved ones in London to make sure they were okay...physically as well as emotionally. While everyone seemed to see yesterday's events as somewhat inevitable, people were still shaken and confused.

As I sat watching the television, I was hit with image after image of streets I had walked down, transport I had taken and the same sound of sirens I used to hear barrel down Commercial Road. Ever since the mid-90s, I have been intertwined in a love affair. Not with a person, but with a city.

Somehow it happened quite without me knowing it, wandering alone throughout crooked streets on rainy days, walking along the river at dusk, watching the sun rise over Canary Wharf from atop a hill in a nearby playground. Even though sometimes I wanted to be anywhere but inside the M25 and would escape to the seaside, London would always call me back.

The thing about having such a relationship with a place combined with an errant sense of wanderlust is that you leave behind many chances for new relationships to start because you've always got a backpack at the ready. And when one city in particular continues to call, you go, unsure and a bit bemused. Thankfully, I have been blessed with dear friends all over the world who have opened their hearts and their doors to me whenever I felt like traveling, but there was one city that had unshakingly held my attention.

Yesterday, watching London hurting (but still resilient as ever), I was reminded of why I fell in love with its charm, the sounds of footsteps on cobblestones, the smell of curry along Brick Lane, the sight of boats on the Thames. And was also reminded of why I came back to the home where I grew up, because all affairs have their limits, even if one day you might not be above returning.

While I will always love London, I am just not sure if it is where I need to be right now. So I put that dream to bed, tucking it in and giving it a kiss, to see what else is in store. And right now, it seems like I need to get back to paper and pen (while still writing here -hopefully- on my M/W/F 'schedule.' for lack of a better word).

I bought Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal as well as another Barthes book (one of the few I haven't read) after I got the news about my computer, and made a list of all the library research I could do in the absence of email correspondence and site reading. And I'm excited to have a few weeks without it, hoping that no more technological insanity ensues and I end up reading Baudelaire by candlelight or something else equally ridiculous, reminding of the Dickensian mornings in London, listening to the sounds of the foundry across the street and the church bells ringing next door.

It will also give me a chance to step away from the few technologically-based projects I'm working on and get back to spinning and working with my hands. Taking a step back and delving into the world pre-internet, slowing down and yet hopefully, taking more time to listen, write and connect.

zodiac.

Even though I try my best to deny it, I am more than well-suited to the astrological sign of my birth, the cantankerous and often over-sentimental, Cancer. Even though I have traveled over a good part of the world, I still can't sleep without my favorite pyjamas because they remind me of home and even though I try to stifle myself, I can't help but wear my heart on my sleeve. Even though I don't hold that much stock in the signs of the zodiac, I fit every description I've ever read of Cancer perfectly.

As a child, I wanted to be either a veterinarian or a writer in New York City or some sort of crusader working to make the lives of others easier in the rainforest or desert by the time I hit thirty. Instead, I am 140 miles from where I grew up, making art (or is it craft?), writing and still trying to figure out the most accurate definition of the words 'adult' and 'grown-up.'

And sometimes I wonder that if at thirty, I am still supposed to be worried if I laughed too loud when a child told me I had a "giant mouth" or stumbled too much over my words when nervously meeting someone new or said too much about nothing or thought for too long about when to use "effect" or "affect."

Tonight I was 'held captive' by a rambunctious 5 year-old (the genesis of the "giant mouth" comment) who asked me to read her That Darn Yarn! I read the story three times. Twice because I was foiled by the dual-story structure, and one time further because in my own confusion, I had also thoroughly confused the child. And her questions and comments had me laughing at their innocence and raw curiosity that I began to simultaneously wonder why, as adults, we focus so very much on the things we can't control instead of the things we can.

While I was reading, she put her little hand around my neck and paid rapt attention, asking me what this word was or what that picture meant. And it no longer worried me that I am not warding off hunger in the Sahara or spaying stray dogs (although those definitely are beneficial), and instead was taking a quiet moment with a small child, laughing and giggling down to the core. Because at day's end, it's not about whether or not I held true to my dreams of 1983, but whether or not I held true to my heart and convictions.

I'm not sure whether or not I can attribute that to my zodiac sign or pure stubbornness, but I don't think I'd have it any other way.

black coffee and quiet cadence.

Imagine my surprise, when I woke up needing a cardigan while drinking my morning coffee in my non-airconditioned apartment in North Carolina on July 4th. While the ceiling fan is on full-tilt, it's still a welcome reprieve.

Instead of hopping in the car and driving to the coast, I decided to stay in this holiday weekend and catch up on correspondence, reading, household chores and various writing and needlecraft projects that have all escaped my attention as of late, all languished in the summer heat. I did escape to Durham for an afternoon of wandering around an old tobacco warehouse, only to get politely told we were 'trespassing' and to stick to the main sidewalk. Despite all our jokes about how easy some fences looked to climb, we nicely remained on public property afterwards.

Last night there was a distinct absence of illegal fireworks on my street and the silence kept me awake perusing Ginsberg wishing it was Wordsworth, Baudrillard wishing it was Baudelaire. I fell asleep thinking about Greenhead Ghyll and Tintern Abbey and pastoral poems instead of Ginsberg's "Mugging (1)," and how the ending "shoulder bag with 10,000 dollars full of poetry left on the broken floor" always leaves me cold.

I woke up to look outside on a greygrey morning full of quiet with the tiny yard across the street full of equally grey squirrels because the woman who lives there feeds them as she chainsmokes her first cigarettes of the day. Despite my sometimes faltering sense of independence, this day always holds fond memories. More than any other holiday, I can remember the most about where I spent past Independence Days. Parking lots, school playgrounds, seaside piers, front yard rock shows, giggling abroad with sparklers bought on the sly.

Still somewhat sleepy, my mind is still lolling over works read last night and revelling in the greyness that pervades the blinds and seems to be casting a rare moment of calm over my normally vivacious neighborhood. One of the most beautiful things about language is its cadence, a word that I can't also help but contribute to knitting. Doggedly knitting long rows of a blanket last night, I listened to the click-click-clack-click of the needles as they scraped together creating a sound not entirely dislike that of Ginsberg's somewhat manic readings, his voice waxing and waning with the words.

Often when people share memories with me about their relatives knitting, they speak of the rhythm of the needles. Sometimes it is with great derision, but most of the time there is a profound fondness that is awakened when recounting tranquil times after supper when the house was quiet except for someone dear working on a garment in the corner, keeping time with the needles. It is just this sort of rhythm that so often gets drowned out by traffic, radio, air-conditioning and television these days that we no longer are able to hear it.

Thankfully, instead of weaving in and out of holiday traffic and trying to find the perfect cd to complement I-85, this weekend I opted to turn off the distractions and listen. Noting the repetitive swoosh of the broom across hardwood, the singsong of my needles clashing, the gentle whir of the ceiling fan and the specific word choice of Ginsberg, I celebrated a different kind of independence over the past few days. And it was gorgeous.

friday dispatch v8.0

I can't believe that it's July already! It's astounding to me how summer can whiz by so fast when it's so ridiculously hot here! While the humidity sets on us in the South like molasses...the time clicks by in record time...

Anyway, it's Friday...on a 3-day weekend. If you didn't take the day off, here are some links. Enjoy!

*While doing some random online research, I came across Ad*Access which just may be my new favorite thing... over 7,000 vintage ads from 1911-1955!

*David Shrigley's work makes me happy.

*So does Space Invaders. Not the game, but the urban intervention. I used to see them around London and giggle at the 80s reference, not entirely sure about their intention. I know better now.

*Many thanks to my friend Linda for reminding me this week of Bill Keaggy's photo blog of his 30th year. Because I forgot that I wanted to do something similar...and have 10 days to figure out how to implement it!

*After looking at her zine collection at Duke, I was reminded how amazing Sarah Dyer really is!

*And speaking of fun, if you like random photographs, you could do worse than visit Big Happy Fun House. In regards to the June 29th photo, clowns totally freak me out, too.

*When I was in college, we got really bored one day and built a pirate ship out of cushions. Our captain, Morgan, even had an eyepatch and a fake sword made out of paper. Imagine what we could have done if we had a nearby creek, like these piratety folks...

*I am currently daydreaming about the Elsewhere Artist Collaborative. Hooray for toys.

*In a similar vein, I also have a mega-crush on Eyebeam.

*Lastly, seeing that it's hothothot outside, here's a link to 24 pages of frozen fruit recipes. I'm already excited about the raspberry tofu freeze. Fruit, tofu and bright pink. Wonderful.

Happy 4th of July for those of you who celebrate it. I can't wait to view the fireworks from a local parking deck, sitting on the hood of my car with friends, listening to the pop-crack-spark of the festivities and smiling at all the children who inevitably will be there wide-eyed and beaming. It reminds me of hot summer July 4ths spent at my grandparents as a child in Georgia. The spectacle mixed with warm nostalgia never fails to make me smile.