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.

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.

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.

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

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.