The other day I received an email: “I feel left out of the craft community and I know that it’s part of my insecurity…Also, I am also seeing a kind of heirarchy in relation to crafters. It feels a bit like high school where there are the cool kids and everyone else. ”

The email brought up some very very important points that often go ignored, even though as the craft boom continues, they grow larger and larger.

Lately I have been getting more and more frustrated with issues surrounding cultural production. With issues regarding the cultural production of crafts in particular. What started out as a way to nurture creativity and circumvent materialist culture has lately inverted itself. A few years ago as hipsters everywhere were beginning to knit and craft it seemed like heaven, as all of a sudden people were embracing skills that many of us had never been allowed to fully enjoy.

After a few half-assed attempts in Girl Scouts to macrame or bead, I was urged to play sports. It really didn’t matter what sport, as long as sweat or lycra were involved. It also didn’t matter whether or not I was very good. I remember one horrific soccer game (in high school, no less!) where I played against someone I had babysat for the week prior. My grandmother taught me to cross-stitch, but one slightly awry bookmark of a cow later, and I had lost my enthusiasm.

I still don’t know why I had the sudden urge to knit in 2000, other than it seemed like a good way to volunteer my time at convalescent homes and learn something new at once. So I learned and tapped into a vein of creativity that I hadn’t been united with since sometime in the early 80s. I was overjoyed to discover Get Crafty months later, where I ravenously learned about how to make marble magnets and record bowls and lip balm.

A part of me was awakened that had been dormant since the early 90s when I discovered Riot Grrrl and was for the first time ever allowed to express my anger safely and honestly about being assaulted and abused. I created zines in my bedroom that never saw the light of day, I listened to 7″s and screamed along with Christina Billotte, but I never fully felt part of the action because my rage, while seething, didn’t subside or heal.

All that anger was trapped inside of me, and wasn’t until I picked up knitting needles and yarn and saw something positive coming from the work of my own two hands that I began to rechannel all that energy into something good and restorative. Like I did with being alternative (remember that?) and then grunge and then Riot Grrrl, I knew that one day the craft bubble was going to burst and that negativity would leach into my happy little world where I not only came to peace with myself, but with my past.

And as I hear more and more stories of companies and individuals blatantly stealing the ideas of my friends and peers, I can’t help but think of how we’ve come full circle. From the onset where we were trying to escape the mainstream and delve into uniquity and cheering each other on, to 2005 where individuals are stealing others ideas in hopes of a quick and easy profit. Instead of co-opting ideas from the megamarts and making them our own, we’re robbing from our own microculture and microeconomy.

As has happened before, I am watching intently as the craft world slowly begins to implode into itself. And I am sad for all the people being copied and disheartened and for all the negative energy that is being created. But I am happy that no matter what occurs, I will have emerged from this craft resurgence with a wealth of friends and colleagues larger than I ever would have imagined as a 17 year old poring over the K Records catalog and crushing on Calvin or as an unhappy benchwarmer for a basketball team I could have cared less about.

It is for those of you who continue to touch my life with your kindness and creativity who make all my creations that much more dear. Your wisdom, your honesty and your joy has not only reunited me with my craft tools of the early 80s, it has allowed me to turn that anger into beauty, for which I shall always be indebted. I just hope that you continue to connect with that creativity once the hip factor has come and gone, because you help make the world more beautiful.

With things being as emotional and frustrating as they have been lately, I came across a small arsenal of songs that have made my morning that much better. Thanks to The Hype Machine, I now have a plethora of James Bond theme songs in my mp3 collection as well as a newfound appreciation of Dame Shirley Bassey.

As a child, Bond’s exploits always had me wishing that I would grow up to be a spy- not so much for the killing, but for the gadgets and the travel. Seriously, his frequent flier miles must be astounding as well as his vacation package. Via the passage of time, however, it seems I have more in common with Bassey than Bond, and truth be told, she does have a flashier wardrobe.

The problem with wanting to be either a spy or a diva is that it’s a lonely road- my main hitch with these career options. I need community and the ability to connect and exchange ideas with them frequently. And it is from within the craft community that I have found such. Lately, I have found my inbox full of queries and advice and love and courage, which is more than I ever expected to have discovered when I started crafting several years ago.

I never would have guessed then, that in sharing my thoughts and ideas and questions regarding my own journey into discovering and awakening my creativity would have introduced me to such exquisite individuals. I’m still not sure how much of it was sheer luck and how much was right timing and a willingness to give in to my creative side.

The emails and submissions I have been getting regarding the Crafter Documentary Project have invigorated me anew as I continue to meet people who are challenging themselves as well as others in vowing to listen to their inner selves. It is my hope that the map I am working on that will connect all these crafters and makers will reinforce the notion that even when you may think it is a lonely road to go….you are never alone.

You just might have to readjust your mode of thinking and look around at the wealth of individuals who are bravely listening to their creativity and reconnecting with their childhood dreams. Because more than just a reconnection it’s also a reappreciation for the past….a remembering of a time when you used your hands to create with wool and thread instead of steel or plastic. As Dame Shirley reminds us, “it’s all just a little bit of history repeating.”

What makes the city you live in work?
What is its persona?
How does it differ from other cities?

These are the things that I wonder as I walk down the street. These walks fuel my creativity as I watch and look and learn and listen.

***

Even though it may be awkward at times, I am constantly seduced by the dance of the urban. I am amazed at how I jerk and jolt at the touch of certain things and enjoy that of others. Walking down Oxford Street, I find myself weaving in and out of the human traffic- twisting my torso, bending my arms, stooping beneath umbrellas, it all takes an a certain grace that is unparalleled.

As Jane Jacobs wrote in Marshall Berman’s, All That is Solid Melts Into Air, �The stretch of Hudson Street where I live is each day the scene of an intricate sidewalk ballet.� There is a sort of dance that goes on during certain times of the day like rush hour on busy city streets, everyone trying to get to individual destinations without touching anyone else. Like some sort of waltz that involves extra steps, careful judgment in regards to timing and the precipitation of the actions of others around you.

Of course, there are always the individuals who want to gain contact, and suddenly you find an errant hand on your ass and no �excuse me.� Elbows are always the best weapon in this situation, but I have heard a nice Thatcherite handbag works a treat as well. As we all navigate and manoeuvre away from each other en masse it takes on a certain sense of beauty. Briefcases and cups of coffee being piloted to nearly miss umbrellas and carrier bags full of shopping. Urban life takes on a quick minute of joviality that is breathtaking.

But do we remain mainly unaware of this urban dance? Or are we just in denial with our hands in our pockets and eyes on the ground? Why? Because as Gargi Bhattacharyya writes in City A-Z, “In the city, who knows whom you might meet?�Every new face which turns to us unexpectedly might signal a new start, a life-changing revelation, the one we have been waiting for, the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

Or perhaps that along with forgetting about our sense of touch, we have forgotten about the possibilities around us as well. We lock ourselves in our houses, secluding ourselves from our environment. Once tucked away in my bubble, I can turn the radio up, pull the blinds down and dance- unconsciously mimicking what is going on in the street outside. I am hidden away from the gaze of others, I can shimmy and shake around the flat, sing off-key and with the wrong words.

There is no one to watch me, I am alone. But it is such seclusion that keeps us sheltered from the urban, although home is a nice place to relax, all too often I forget about the performativity of the street and watch television. Even when I venture off of the sofa, society is working against human-to-human contact with ever-widening grocery aisles, self-checkouts, automated everything. Sometimes I actually flinch when a cashier�s hand touches mine as I purchase something, not because it is necessarily unwelcome, it is just becoming rarer and rarer.

We are becoming more alienated through less access to touch. Building on the work of Desmond Morris, Anthony Synott argues that in light of this we seek touch through various methods such as �professional touchers� (masseurs, hairstylists), household pets and fur coats. Touch is becoming less and less of an importance in our lives as we get busier and busier, so we find ways of soothing ourselves.

At night, if we venture out of the house, we rely on streetlights to guide us to our (or others) front stoops, but sometimes they are not as well placed as we would like. So we step out carefully in order not to misjudge a kerb or a pothole, gingerly navigating a city that suddenly becomes troublesome and no longer something for us to master. In darkness, the city masters us, its supposed architects.

We built this city, not on rock and roll, but on dreams and visions. The darkness levels everyone, making everything more mysterious, sometimes more terrifying. It is this darkness where the importance of the visual becomes apparent. As it has been taken away, we begin to realize just how much we depend on it. �All will become clear in the morning,� is something that people often say when a ready answer is not apparent. Is that because the darkness impairs our judgment? Our sense of invincibility? That its cloak envelops us into either a frenzy of fear or a false sense of security? Or is it that our reliance on our other senses is not steady enough?

By taking away the visual, we are forced to see our environment in new ways and development new strengths, at least until dawn.

***

I wrote the above last year, but I always think about it when I’m out in town amidst briefcases and suits and the hurryhurryhurry that has become so characteristic of modernity. How the city’s persona creates how we live our lives. In the neighborhood where I am now, people are afraid to walk on the street at night. Not because there is any real danger, just perceived danger. I like to imagine that one day people will drop that shield from their eyes and open their doors when night falls daring to be enveloped by the coolness of the night and by the light of the moon.

Part 2 of the 4 part Friday correspondent series from my friend Kerri, on raising a child ethically in modernity. I just want to add that you can find more about knitting in Harry Potter here and to make sure to notice that Kaleb’s t-shirt is a wee Sonic Youth t of my favorite SY album. Yay!

Holy crap the week has flown by! What have we done?? Saturday Kaleb, Daren and I went canoeing on a nearby lake. It was fun; we saw a few turtles sunning on rocks and low hanging branches. We wondered how many fish and snakes were swimming nearby yet unseen, hundreds maybe? The biggest thrill was rocking on the waves caused by motorboats speeding past. At some point in the day (not in the canoe) I was knitting which K accused me of always doing. Then somehow we ended up in the “yes boys CAN knit” discussion for the millionth time, noting AGAIN that Hagrid (Harry Potter) knits. I think this talk is becoming a bit of a game.

Sunday all three of us headed out at the crack of dawn to work on the CSA we to which we belong. Kaleb helped Daren shovel compost into a wheelbarrow. K decided using his Tonka construction trucks was the best and most fun way of doing this. Why simply shovel when it can become an amazing and interesting game? Alas, after 2 hours Kaleb grew tired of this chore. He and D headed down the road to a bakery for a bite to eat while farmer Sara and I finished up.

They returned with a yummy croissant for each of us. Then all four of us harvested a bucketful of tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, chives and basil. I think we all appreciate and enjoy our food so much more after we’ve spent time helping to raise it. Kaleb is more likely to want to thank the earth, sun and rain for our meal when he�s helped bring it to the table.

Tuesday morning was root day at pre-school nature class in the park. We had carrots and potatoes for snack. When the instructor informed the children these are roots, several kids said “eeewwwww!!!” and wouldn’t eat. Kaleb said “yeah, I know” and ate up. Finally we all pulled weeds out of the flower beds and examined the roots with a magnifying glass before putting them in the compost pile. I don’t think Kaleb was overly impressed by the class.

Tuesday night was Stitch-N-Bitch at Starbucks. As we are all busy moms we only meet once a month and spend hours gabbing away interspersed with oohs and aahs over various projects we’ve brought to show off. I am coveting a really beautiful felted bag a friend made for her ipod accessories. I feel a trip to the yarn store for a ball of the same yarn coming on. Who knows what I’ll create from it.

Wednesday was a relaxed day at home. We spent a good deal of time playing with tangram pieces, but making our own designs. Thursday morning I dropped Kaleb off with my sister-in-law. He and his cousin played trains for hours (by far their most favorite activity in the whole world) while I went back to work at the CSA. I was brutally stung by 3 caterpillars hiding in the corn stalks today. The big bullies should pick on someone their own size!

Anyway, I went back for Kaleb, but he wasn’t ready to leave yet (never is). So we stayed a little longer so he could paint with my niece and nephew and I could get lovin’ the baby, my newest nephew. At home I had some papers in need of sorting. I put Blondie on the stereo and Kaleb danced while I sorted. If he stopped dancing I was instructed to ask “why” at which point he would resume dancing.

Coincidentally, Daren is on a punk message board, Viva La Vinyl, that had a vein running today about being parents. People were posting pics of their kids, one guy put up a video of his kid dancing! After dinner tonight the 3 of us did dishes together- D wash, K rinse and I dried and put away. It is funny how satisfying working together on a mundane chore can be; partly because Kaleb is so happy to be really, truly helpful.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how the book Off the Map speaks to my life just as much as the struggles of Helen Fielding’s recently returned Bridget Jones. Part of me wishes to set off for a squat in rural France while another part thinks that perhaps a nice flat with 2 toothbrushes by the sink would be perfect. Unfortunately, this is a running theme.

At times that makes me just want to through my hands up and quit, in the hopes that when left to their own devices, my arty political side and my neurotic romantic side will meld into someone more whole: neurotic and tender-hearted yet politically and creatively aware. However, for the past decade they’ve continuously battled it out for the top spot, rendering me wondering if perhaps the real problem is the way I view situation.

Perhaps the real problem is that I dared to listen to all the necessary punk rock dogma and need to self-label in the first place. Because not only am I equal parts radical activist and makeout queen and romantic nerd. I am also somewhere in between the preferred definitions between crafter and artist and academic and writer. Each time I have to fill in a tiny box labeled: “occupation” my face gets all squinchy and I break out into a sweat.

Does that mean I have to pick one over the other? And if I do, does that mean that choice is my preferred label? Or should I given them all equal status and smoosh them into the box leaving it illegible? As I get older I find myself blurring lines more and more, not becoming more complacent- instead becoming less able to mold into someone else’s system of definition.

What do you call yourself when you blur the lines? Because the answer has got to be better than something pre-contrived just for the sake of simplicity. Because as humans, we’re not simple. We exist more fully within a broader spectrum, one that our self-imposed labels often tend to obscure.

As I begin Off the Map, I’m pondering over these questions. Then right after the Preamble, there is:

Off the Map: This is what it means to be an adventurer in our day: to give up creature comforts of the mind, to realize the possibilities of imagination. Because everything around us says no you cannot do this, you cannot live without that, nothing is useful unless it’s in service, to gain, to stability.

The adventurer gives in to tides of chaos, trusts the world to support her- and in doing so turns her back on the fear and obedience she has been taught. She rejects the indoctrination of impossibility.

My adventure is a struggle for freedom.

As I was reading it, I added “and self-acceptance and creativity” to the last sentence. Because the only reason why I view my life contradictory or problematic is because I allowed myself to see my life as something that needed to fit inside a tiny box. When all I had to really do was open my eyes and realize that the box has no walls.