craftivism: wee, yet mighty!

speechless, not hopeless.

I have spent much of today speechless and on the verge of tears. Watching the events unfold in Louisiana and Mississippi, standing in line waiting to get gas (and then getting yelled at by a frustrated driver who needed gas. NOW.), having a Peruvian woman collapse and sob into my shoulder... Her mother is in a local hospital and not faring well from what I could understand. All I could do is offer a hug, a shoulder and tissue as she tried to explain what was happening in limited English. Her body shook mine as she sobbed and sniffed and shared some of her fear and sadness.

It was a sadness that continued later while watching the news. Glued to the television like an automaton, working on my cross-stitch was all I could really muster. I have been relishing in the way it has soothed me as I weave the thread in, over, out, almost in a cadence. It's calmed me as I keep tearing up watching people on the news collapse into sobs much like the woman here earlier this afternoon. As they told their stories to the cameras, I felt the weight of her on my shoulder, the tears soaking into my shirt. She cleans my parents house once a week, and even though she couldn't tell me exactly what was wrong given the language barrier, I reached out for a hug that I knew was so sorely needed.

I wish I could hug the entire Gulf coast right now, soaking up the water in my shirt like a sponge, offering warmth and shelter with my arms, absorbing the fear and instilling a little hope. Hope for the strength and the courage to persevere, to stay strong, to touch and talk and hug.

But my arms are not that wide, so what I can do right now is let people know about this:

The good folks over at Craft Revolution and Etsy have gotten together to raise money for hurricane Katrina relief. I've already bought something. If you've ever thought about supporting the indie community, now is your chance to buy something that's ethically sound and ethically minded.

****

Recently I've been pondering over what direction to take the Crafter Documentary Project, as something about the gallery aspect was not sitting right. Given the fact that it was originally a roadtrip idea, I've decided to create an online world map (the world is big, it may take a bit) as a way to visually show the art/craft community's breadth and strength. Different profiles will be linked to the map, instead of in a photo gallery format.

Thank you those of you who have sent me submissions, please keep them coming!

****

I'm extending my arms as far as they will reach, can you feel them?

xo
betsy

southernly thoughts.

My grandmother just called to tell me that a tornado has been sighted in my local area. This, of course, was highly confusing regarding the fact that it's sunny outside. Talk of the weather went on to the events in Louisiana and Mississippi...and looters. I don't think I would loot, but then again, I also don't know what I would do if all of my belongings were destroyed, either. At any rate, my thoughts over the past few days have been down on the Gulf coast.

I have weathered several hurricanes and have never forgotten that awful feeling much like Dorothy after she landed in the Wizard of Oz. Suddenly the wind stops, the banging of trees and debris ceases, and it's just.... quiet. A quiet so loud it's deafening because your heart is beating so hard anticipating what's outside your front door.

So you try to turn the lights on, and they won't work, hope that the water mains haven't been snapped, and breathing in deeply, take a look outside. It, too, is quiet. Downed trees, breached roofs, broken glass, power lines crossing the roads like snakes, cars flattened, people tiptoeing around the rubble stunned and a bit blinded by the sunlight. It's humbling in a way I can't quite describe.

But each time, I felt like Dorothy, gobsmacked and lost in a world that seemed quite unlike how things looked a few hours before. My best wishes to those of you down by the Gulf. Even though craft helps through the tough times, sometimes it is little comfort to total destruction.

Humane Society Disaster Relief Fund

Red Cross

no, it's not friday, but...

So while I'm working on coercing a friend to be the "guest Craftivism writer" for a few Fridays, to replace the joy that was the "Friday Dispatch" all summer, I'm going to keep on posting the links that keep me going during the week. We're coming up with topics to cover regarding raising kids ethically and how to incorporate craftivism-related activities into their upbringing. (Truth be told, I just sprung the question yesterday. She agreed....I think.) Given that the general work week is unpleasant, I'm coming up with a list of things/topics to cover on Fridays. If you have any ideas, please let me know!

While it's not actually Friday, here goes anyway:

*the Street Photography photo pool at Flickr.

*Also from Flickr, be prepared to be amazed with the needlepoint of Rosie Grier!

*Once you're done wishing you too were a needlepointing football hero, go check out Extreme Craft, who posted all of those glorious pictures online! Thank you Garth!

*Topher's Breakfast Cereal Character Guide. Ever wondered what happened to your favorite cereal character? Find out here and be sad that your bran cereal doesn't have cartoon characters on the box...

*Learn more about thrifting over at Tag Sale Tags!

*Since I'm writing a post planned for Friday on Sunday, it's obvious that I need help at timekeeping. I think the D.I.Y Planner is going to be my BFF!

*I heart Beautiful Decay. Just lovely. Part magazine, part shop, all rad.

*I just discovered Knit and Tonic and it just might be one of my new favorite reads! Yay!

*I also just discovered Indie Workshop. Holy crap! Awesome!

*And as if I don't have enough things to read already, Things Magazine, has also been added to my daily list....

fall, heed, listen.

What is it about the onset of fall that makes me want to wrap myself in a blanket with a cup of tea by my side and take refuge in a book? I've been delving back into the classics lately and have been savoring the way that The Count of Monte Cristo plays on the humanistic need for revenge of wrongdoing and The Moon and Sixpence sparsely draws you into the story of Charles Strickland. At first W. Somerset Maugham seems a reticent writer, but after a few pages you begin to notice that he is telling a full story without flowering phrases or alliteration. It's such a welcome change that it's beautiful.

To be honest, I've just started Maugham's book. Even though I am a bit further along than page 11, I stopped to underline, "I forget who it was that recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two things they disliked: it was a wise man, and it is a precept that I have followed scrupulously." Even though the sentence continues with, "for every day I have got up and I have gone to bed," the first part was intensely resonant. Lately I've been doing things I don't necessarily like doing. Not to make myself miserable, but to push myself from a routine that seemed, well, not as productive as it could be.

If you've read this little blog for awhile now, you might have noticed that I am a night owl. My most productive hours (whether its cleaning the house, writing or embroidering) are between 10pm and 3am, when the moon beams through my window bathing everything in a gentle omniscient glow. Since moving home I've been trying to reorient my schedule to something more "normal," and have been attending 6am workouts at a local gym.

While every fiber of my being fights getting up at 5.30, my body has become to adore the stretching and pulling and pushing of the workouts as they vary from day to day. This morning it was yoga. Somewhere around 6.45, we were doing the happy baby pose, and I started giggling to myself. It was the first time in all of these morning workouts where I actually found myself happy to be awake so early. It, too, was a welcome change.

You also have probably heard about this little documentary project I'm doing. In fact, you may be sick of it. (I'm sorry!) That's the second thing I'm partaking in each day even though part of me cringes while I'm tinkering away at a template and or answering emails. But don't think for a minute that I am not also enjoying every second of it.

The problem lies in the fact that the components of the project (submissions) remain outside of my control. That's the part I hate. Turning over something I have ideas for to the public. Even though I collaborate with people in art/craft/writing projects, seldom am I the one running the show. It's not that I don't like taking the initiative, but that I enjoy working as part of a team instead on my own. (Unless, working on my own means solely own, ridiculously). And I must admit, this second thing I dislike is infinitely more frightening to me than my hair in the morning- which is precisely why I must do it.

For those of you who have sent me submissions (and those of you who have emailed me about submissions you are going to send!) you have my heart. Not because you are helping me to gain confidence in my own ideas and convictions, but because every one of your stories has fuelled me with more ideas than I ever thought possible. It is this sense of inspiration that first astounded me about the craft world, how individuals throughout time were taking age old traditions and making them current with the times, in resurgence after resurgence. I can have similar conversations regarding craft with both my grandmother and my most radical friends, which never ceases to amaze me.

Craft has given us a common ground, which is where I started to think about collecting stories and photographs from people in the community. It should be online within the next two weeks...that is, as long as I continue to follow Maugham's advice.

keeping up with the kids.

First of all, can I just say thank you for all the emails about the CDP?! Wow! Thank you! And those of you who have already sent in your submissions pre-deadline, I've linked you here. Here's to hoping that list only gets bigger!

Being home continues to be a strange new experience, but thankfully, there are few things I adore more than strange new experiences. The worst of it has been getting roped into hour-long workouts 2x/day and discovering that mold has taken over most of my belongings out back in the garage. The combined result is that it takes me a thousand years to bend down to investigate the mold damage due to my hamstrings protesting their introduction to spinning and too many gym classes that have "power" in the title.

Yesterday I had the opportunity to hang out with my favorite 4 year old. We talked about Harry Potter and Sonic Youth- while I had the honor of wearing his "wizard hat" (black construction paper rolled into a hat shape) and holding his "wizard wand" (a dowel rod). Forget looking to blogs for creative inspiration I think I'm just going to read parents magazines for the craft tips...

After we discussed Hagrid's knitting expertise, he picked out Slaapkamers Met Slagroom for the drive to his gym class. I felt rather pedestrian for wishing he had picked Goo instead. We arrived at the only non-competitive gym in the area for his weekly hour of balance beam tottering, somersault conquering and group hide-and-seek a few minutes later. I was a bit taken by the fact that the mothers were all sitting in lined-up chairs facing the gymnasium, able to watch the action through a glass wall. Although it was fun to watch them run around, I think I've watched too many CSI interrogation scenes.

During the class, my friend Kerri and I talked about food politics, craftiness and being a liberal in a conservative state. The other mothers sat silent watching their children through the wall of glass, and I kept stifling the urge to invite them into the discussion. I'm not about trying to foist my opinions on others, but I am devoted to facilitating discussion. My family will tell you I just like to argue, but the reality is that I am enamoured by what happens when you have a lively discussion (as opposed to an argument) and the way that people can learn from hearing some one else's position. Afterwards, I may not change my mind, but I will have benefitted from hearing more than just other opinions like my own. But, if I've learned anything, it's the importance of knowing when to pick my battles.

Today my cousin is moving to Afghanistan. My grandmother called to spread the word and I dodged several political bullets sent over the 2 minute conversation, as their political beliefs do not match my own. He's not moving for pleasure, but for work. I also have another cousin in Baghdad, who's just 21 and against the war. And another one who spent last year in Africa, again, doing his duty. I often wonder what would happen if instead of a knitting or embroidery project, I whipped out my anti-war graffiti cross-stitch project after dinner one night. But I fear that the conversation that would materialize would be detrimental and only end in tears, on both sides. Even though I'm making these little pieces filled with repetitive crossed stitches because instead of getting into fights regarding politics, I prefer to voice my dissent via craft, not through spoken word. A discussion, yes. A full-blown argument, no thank you.

So knowing that sometimes involving people into conversations is highly unwise especially regarding politics, I kept talking to my friend as the other mothers stared semi-blankly through the glass wall at children who they could see but not hear. The biggest danger with anything, I think, is only talking with others who feel the same way. It happens in the craft world. From the inside, the number of crafters seems infinite, when in reality people still stop and stare when I'm in public knitting. Yesterday I was talking openly about being liberal in a southern state because I knew that my friend understood and could sympathize. But during the conversation I knew that some (if not all) of the other mothers did not share my political views. And a day later, I'm still wishing one of them would have entered the conversation. Or that I would have said, "What do you think?" when I caught their eye.

But neither of us did anything. I kept preaching to the choir and they kept silent. So I reminded myself of why I make what I do- in the hopes that via non-verbal means, I will be able to facilitate discussions regarding politics, without raising my voice, without any tears shed, raising questions to be answered in a nice lively discussion, not a heated debate.

After an hour of having this on my mind, the kiddo came out of class and immediately asked me to hand over his "wizard wand" that I had been keeping safe in my handbag during class. Then we piled into the car as he hummed along to Sonic Youth and practiced magic with a dowel rod, wearing a paper hat, extolling hope that the power of imagination is live and well.

dance dance revolution.

I've had the John Vanderslice song "Exodus Damage" in my head for about three days now. (lyrics and link to download here) I keep hearing the lyrics "dance dance revolution" and "so the second plane hit at 9:02" in a revolving roaring chorus, each time leading me to think about how we as creators and makers internalize tragic and/or catastrophic events.

Natalie Goldberg says that the process of "filtering" is an important part of creativity, the way that we intake events and then after a few years we suddenly can reapproach them in a new light with perhaps a different spin. In transitioning to different mediums over the years, I can only echo how important the filtering process is for me. Stories and projects and ideas knock around in my head for years and only when I am ready to honestly and rationally deal with them do they morph into actual tangible forms.

So Vanderslice's mention of 9.11 has reminded me of how valuable this process is to creativity and productivity. How years later, that one lyric still holds resonance and conjures up shadows of images seen on screen along with thoughts and conversations that have occurred between 2001 and now.

Today, I have been entranced by photos of the current events in the Gaza Strip. I can feel some of the scenes going into the figurative mental card catalog, waiting to be used in future work, after settling in among other images of other international events that grab my attention and yet seem so distant.

When I arrived at my parents house the other day, I was met with a corner in the back of the garage where my belongings have taken up root while I've been bouncing around. Sadly, I was greeted with some of my most treasured possessions covered with mold, that almost unknockable beast of the American south and its summer humidity. While I've been fighting it, its presence means that I have to pore through old things and throw out what is damaged or unnecessary.

Once again, I'm paring down my possessions, only this time I'm being forced to by the arrival of a fuzzy green carpet that is breaking down things kept and boxed. It seems so ludicrous in the face of settlers losing their homes of so many years, me warring against brightly colored fungi. But here I am, going through the reams of paper and old tchotckes as that card catalog in my brain is being visited repeatedly, images and memories being conjured up, remembered and restored.

Who knows which will make the cut and be reworked into a piece of art or lyric or scene or tapestry or color combination. All that's important is that we keep our eyes open, taking in what's happening around us and to us, that we keep filing away things in that card catalog, things that hopefully will have a new life one day in something besides a mere memory.

time travel.

For the next few weeks, while I'm betwixt and between places to live, I am back at my parents house. Today was like 1983 in an alternate reality. My hair in pigtails, my stuff all packed, suitcases and trunks waiting to be stuffed into a car adeptly so everything fits. As I cleaned my sublet (scrubbing the sinks, mopping the floors, wiping down the shelves) it was highly reminiscent of summer camp. A dear friend helped me through the chores that seemed to be the hallmark of the end of summer years ago, chatting about idle things in between taking time to stand in the direct blast of the air conditioner. I kept giggling remembering the last day of camp where everyone's running around creaky wooden cabins trying to find all their belongings and clean the little spartan oak box that had served as shelter for the previous few weeks.

But this go-round, instead of my parents pulling up in the 1980 Pontiac Parisienne wood-paneled station wagon eager to greet me and meet my fellow campers, I drove myself home. I said goodbye to my friend with a gigantic bear hug, and watched her walk in the direction of her house, disappearing through the woods, the bamboo (poshly displayed openly in a peanut butter tub filled with water) I gave her in hand. There were no "see you next summers" or secret handshakes or scribbling down of addresses like in 1983. Just a hug, a sigh and driving away.

Saturday I had the chance to go craft at a fellow knitters house, someone who is also in a period of transition, and has also returned home to where she grew up temporarily. I was enthralled by all the books everywhere in this lovely rural house of her father's that was much like a museum of cool things instead of my parents house which is well, a bit hermetic. There are few things more ridiculous than playing U2 songs from an official songbook (and singing along) underneath the portrait of a sailor in the middle of the country in a house owned by an Irishman. It, too, reminded me of 1983, although I stopped dreaming about Larry Mullen, Jr., sometime around 1989.

So weighing all of my options, I am back where I grew up. Even though I am somewhat reluctant, here I am. Not because I want to look back, but because I am moving forward and need somewhere to stay in the interim. I haven't looked for a job in this city since I was in high school, which is a bit frightening. I fear going to an interview and being questioned by someone from high school. But in order to move in the right direction, I know that sometimes the best course of action is to take a step back. So I have, and I'm thankful for the chance.

I'm taking this step in order to look at my own creative production in an environment that will force me to focus due to its temporality. I'm finally beginning to believe in what I'm doing, even though I've taken the (ultra mega) long way around to getting there. This current pit stop is one where I'll have the breathing room in which to concentrate on concocting the best path to take next month, when hopefully I'll be learning traditional textile techniques.

In Ways of Seeing, John Berger wrote, “the way we see things is affected by what we know or what we believe.” I hope to hold that sentiment close to my heart the next few weeks, because it stands as a reminder that beauty begets beauty. And that we are our art, whether we like it or not. It may help to alleviate estrangement, anger and/or confusion, but is no less a result of the process that is going on in our heads. We are inextricably linked to what we produce, if only for the fact that we choose to produce things one way and not another.

It is this connection between self and creation that inspires me to do more, think more, question more, love more and trust more. Tritely, even though I see some definite wrong turns in the paths I've chosen, I can't help but believe that they all were picked and trod for a reason. And the way I see it, if I don't keep creating, I'll never get to fully understand the reasons why.

Should you find yourself in a similar position, I recommend listening to Death Cab for Cutie, that is if you don't have an organ on hand...

friday dispatch v12.0

It's not officially the end of summer, but the end of my 12 weeks of Friday links. This summer has been hot, but chock full of road trips and cookouts and wandering in the rain and new adventures, so I can't complain too much. That being said, I'm really going to be glad to see my old cardigans and yarn (that's been too hot to work with) again. But I will miss all the brightness of summer and the joys held within it.

*The photography of Robert and Shana Parke-Harrison leaves me a bit breathless, in the way their work creates a whole new world that looks almost close enough to touch.

*Redefining Craft is true to its title.

*Even though I can't read what the website says, that doesn't mean I'm not astounded by Felieke Van Der Leest!

*Ridiculously, I just found out about September Action today. Although that doesn't mean I'm not going to be here if I'm in the States. Anyone care to meet me for some political crafting?

*On the music tip, believe the hype about Birmingham's The Editors. They have been keeping me going all day. Hot damn!

*How lovely is Nylon magazine's Style Watch page? Go get your voyeuristic groove on. Or atleast go see what people cooler than you are wearing.

*Also fun is Japanese Streets, which claims to be "150% cool," despite that being statistically impossible...

*As someone who tends to do her fair share of complaining, The Complaint Project is a site after my own heart. Although I'd like to complain it needs to be updated more.

*One day, aprons will rule the world, I'm sure of it. If you need further proof, check out Tie One On.

*Blame it on that Russell Crowe movie (which made me cry), but I've been obsessed with vintage boxing poses recently. See how cool they really are over here.

p.s. happy summer!

all the small things.

I can't stop listening to the White Stripes song 'Blue Orchid' today. No, that's not an unnecessary shout out, just indicative of my mood. It's an MP3 recorded earlier this year at Glastonbury. And currently on repeat along with Liz Phair's 'Glory,' Radiohead's 'Myxomatosis,' and a live recording of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs 'Pin.' Just those four songs over and over again this evening as if what is reverberating in my head has been coverted into audio.

Today has been one of making lists and then slowing crossing off each task as the day drips along. I even snuck one chore on my 'to do list' that I had already done just so I could have the satisfaction of crossing it off. I did manage to finally get my act together regarding the documentary project I've been babbling about. There's a link up above or you can just click here. Now comes the figuring out of the program and neatening of the super rough template. The end result will be more organized. Eventually.

Other than that, today has been comprised of tiny little everyday things like ridiculously practicing how to walk in high heels (in my pyjamas no less, for a cocktail party this weekend. How classy am I?!)

and meeting an old friend for dinner.

Tiny little small things. But things I now get to cross off my list.

Things like brushing your teeth.

Things like these little things that we all do everyday on autopilot not ever really stopping to consider the absurdity and sublimity of modernity.

Sometimes when I'm brushing my teeth I stop mid-brush to wonder how many people on my block are brushing their teeth right now at the very same time and start laughing because it's all so ridiculous and absurd, these rituals we hold in place like clockwork no matter what.

But then again, what are running errands and daily chores for except for allowing us time to reflect on the modern condition? Or maybe that's just the Radiohead talking...

rainy days and mondays tuesdays...

Finally a cool day in Carolina. There was a gorgeous storm this morning, complete with buckets upon buckets of rain. It reminded me of the time I got caught in a colossal rainstorm in New York. I was on the way home from a reading (someone else's) and found myself walking down Houston alone and in the dark. While walking around NYC in the dark is not uncommon, being alone on Houston is.

It was a night in early spring and I was wearing clompy shoes and jeans with a long-sleeved short and a lightweight jacket. At first I tried to duck under a few awnings along the way trying to stay dry, but it was futile. So I gave in and walked down the center of the sidewalk letting the rain soak me to the bone, turning my clothes into sponges that made each step slightly heavier than the last.

In between tympani-like crashes of thunder, lightning made downtown visible for a heartbeat, like a photographer's flash in the night. I outstretched my arms to either side and started spinning with my face upturned to the sky, letting the raindrops hit me squarely on the face, washing away all my fears and transgressions.

Teardrops mixed with the rain in a moment of pure joy and freedom on those blocks of Houston, blocks that are etched in my memory and are revived each time it rains a good hard rain. As I reached my block, the cover of the village trees acted as partial cover even though the rain continued at full force.

I reached my building and fumbled for my keys, stalling for a few minutes alone in New York City, not wanting to go inside for fear the fluourescent lights in the lobby might erase all the beauty I had just witnessed in a few tiny quiet moments on a seemingly ordinary night.

The five flights up to my apartment were left in one long stream of rain dripping from my clothes, and a small puddle remained at my front door where I stood opening the numerous locks that were barriers to what is often deemed a cruel city. Within minutes my sopping clothes were laid across the shower rod and I was wrapped in a dry fluffy towel, holding onto the last few joyous moments of the night as I squeezed the excess from my hair into the bathroom sink.

Often when I speak of my months in New York, I speak of how much I loathe the place. Forgetting about that night and the day I played softball in Central Park or the walks along the river or my local Korean grocer who was so kind or the nights of laughter with dear friends. This morning, as I was waking up listening to the rain, I thought of all of this and how often the bad surfaces first to me instead of the good.

As I get ready for another move, a temporary one, where I'm not really sure I will land afterwards, this morning's remembrance stood as a welcome reminder. To not get stuck in the negativity of the past because undoubtedly, there is beauty that has been misplaced.

Lately I have been taken into confidence by several individuals regarding doubts about their chosen paths, both in life and career. I am honored and humbled by the fact that they have come to me for advice, especially when I certainly don't have any clear answers for myself. And I keep finding myself repeating the same things over and over again, 'take a deep breath, listen to yourself, hold on to your strength.' Although I wonder if it means I've read too many new age texts, I know it's true.

So as I work on various art projects, I hope that I can keep memories such as that night on Houston close to the forefront. Because all too often, it gets left behind in clouds of doubt and needless worries. I need to remember what happens when you take a moment to revel in the present instead of worrying about what lies before or behind.

(Rain photos by Katherine Bourke, from a rainy day on the London Eye. It was rainy, but boy was it beautiful. I love the way the raindrops look on the little bubble you're stuck in.)

friday dispatch v11.0

Even though it's Saturday, here are some links...for yesterday! Hopefully it's not too blistering hot where you are like it is here! Wow!

*Summer is for popsicles. I never knew until today that we have 11-year-old Frank Epperson to thank for its invention! Thanks Frank!

*If you've ever indulged in a pity party of one, Crying, While Eating is for you. I think there are some stale chocolate chips in the back of my cupboard...

*It's no secret that I love music, therefore Large Hearted Boy is one of my new favorite things. Ever.

*Ditto for the Hype Machine. Thanks to this site, I am now loving Yo Yo Ma. Hot!

*Lately I have become obsessed with fashion iconography. Which led me to the work of Diane Pernet. One day my hair will be this big, I swear.

*Diane's site reminded me of my complete adoration of Zandra Rhodes. Somewhere in her photographer's archives is a very wrong photograph of me attempting to teach people crochet at her museum, even though I was there to teach knitting. (I am *really* bad at crochet.) It's a good thing we never met because I just would have asked her where she bought her makeup and hairdye...

*If you ever needed any information on how to stencil, look no further than here. Everything you always wanted to know and more.

*I like Lee Walton's projects. Even if the red ball makes me think about cherry tomatoes.

*Thinking of starting your own business? Check out the resources over at Work Happy.

*In case you haven't already noticed from previous posts, I am in love with art that is found on the street. See more here.

'it all will fall, fall right into place'

After much deliberation and Modest Mouse listening (not to the new album, I suggest The Moon and Antarctica for any sort of relatively in-depth thought), I have found a farm that is willing to take me on for a few months to learn to spin, dye and process wool.

And all I can really say at this point is a) phew and b) after being told my whole life that I need to get an office job, this is an entirely new direction- but one that I am excited about, if only to see where it takes me.

But I have a few weeks to get things together (like the Crafter/Artist Documentary Project I posted about last week) and work on getting some freelance gigs in order to boost my income while I'm on the farm.

I'm still working on the photo-a-day thing, and by far this one of my friends' cat Max is my favorite. The point of this undertaking was to document the mundane bits of everyday life, and it's been more enlightening that I thought.

bound.

Lately I've been thinking about the paths people take. Are we conditioned to take certain roads? Expected to go one direction instead of another? If we diverge from one path does that make us disingenuous or impulsive or foolish?

As I look at my options ahead of me, the safe and secure path versus a less stable (but possibly more rewarding if it works out), I wonder about all the people I talk to who hate their jobs, their lives, their situations. How did they get there? Hell, how did I get here?

I do know that I would not be moving forward if it wasn't for my friends (many of whom are linked at the right)- their encouragement, their wisdom, their advice. Everytime I turn on the television (generally a mistake in and of itself), the channels are full of sitcoms and dramas about people who don't quite know how they got to the present. Such a sign of cultural malaise frightens me.

Because if that is your life, then you go to a job you hate, come home and turn on the television to drown out the 9-5 grind, only to be pacified by a simulacrum of your life, only you're watching someone else at work acting the part of a character who is living a life much like you. Somehow it doesn't seem like much compensation or reprieve, especially as they are getting paid more per episode than your yearly salary.

More and more craft friends of mine are throwing in the towel, while many keep on making the world a more adorable place. And I wonder if soon even more will will quit, feeling like that path has run its course and has ended unceremoniously. But that's the quagmire, isn't it? Running with what inspires you now, even if you're uncertain that you will continue down this particular road forever. Because who knows what you're going to discover along the way.

As a kid, there was no question. My life was going to go like this: High school. College. Job. Marriage. Kids. Grandkids. Retirement somewhere sunny with canasta and floral shirts.

But it hasn't quite panned out like that. And ludicrously, I feel like I failed along the way because I haven't lived up to some contrived notion of my life that was scripted for me while I was still in the womb. Everyone else in my family had done the same, so that was how it was going to be.

And most of my summer has been me struggling with the question of 'who's right?' So I apply for jobs and then some more jobs and find myself become more entranced by art and research and conceptual ideas.

Last weekend I flipped through my high school yearbook at a friend's house. I looked at all the familiar faces and thought about how we used to ask one another, 'what do you want to be when you grow up?' I was never quite sure. Flipping through pages of the past I wondered where all of those people are now. If they're on the right path or have found their life's calling or have valued their hearts and dreams instead of financial security.

All I know is that in starting several art projects lately I've felt less contradicted about where I'm going and more sure of the fact that I'm the one navigating. For better or for worse. And writing all of this here is less of a confessional, and more because I know for a fact that I'm not the only one feeling this way right now.

I just wanted to let you know that it's not just you.