There’s something about color that sets my heart on fire.

The way that they play on one another, aid one another, evoke emotions and evoke memories never fail to inspire me.

As I recall the somewhat the pastel nostalgia of my 80s childhood and the somber grunge-tinged tones of my 90s teen years, I am happy to currently have a wardrobe saturated with teals and deep pinks and lively purples.

This is precisely why on my list of books to read this spring is Victoria Finlay’s Color: A Natural History of the Palette. Because no matter what avenues I take in life, they all seem to go back to color…my memories take shape from a certain shade of green or I walk through the city noticing the way hues bounce off one another or I keep experimenting to find the shade of brownish-blondish hair dye that closest emulates the color I naturally had the summer of 1984.

This return to color can be partially blamed on London circa 2004. I would walk around the city and take in all the wardrobes being shown off around Kingsland Road or the way that boat hulls would reflect in the Thames or how the sari shops in Whitechapel would display their fabric so it was most pleasing to the eye.

One day I walked into a fire hazard of a fabric shop on Brick Lane. There was only a small walkway free in a store which was stacked to the ceiling with silks and cottons and rayons and wools and fun fur. On all sides I was met with nothing but color and more color, like nothing I had ever experienced before. Less like an explosion and more like a sort of baptism. It was like being in one of those kaleidoscopes you probably had as a kid that when you spun it created myriad designs with a quick spin of your hand.

England didn’t teach me how to properly drink tea or how to spell correctly or how to perfect my already well-developed sense of irony. England taught me that color is to be enjoyed and toyed with and used wisely instead of cautiously. It is a lesson I am most grateful for back home.

As I search through my yarns for that one special slub shade of blue, my eyes meet colors that radiate warmth and creativity and beauty. I can’t even begin to believe how I overlooked its presence for so long. While January may be a month of hibernation or quiet nights or few parties, that doesn’t mean that we should forget what good a little color may bring.

The mixtape badge in the picture is from demoderby. The scarf is from the $1 bin at my local charity shop.

When I was a child, I was taken by that song that goes, “…he’s got the whole world in his hands.” Ever since then I have loved imagery of hands, especially two cupped together. They speak to me not of emptiness, but of possibility.

Many years ago I worked for one of the world’s biggest publishing houses. While the job wasn’t exactly glamorous, I did enjoy office perks like being able to take home advance copies of books. One of the best books I grabbed while I was there was Everyday Mind: 366 Reflections on the Buddhist Path. I unearthed this book right after the new year started, and have been overjoyed to have found this book once more in my life.

Today’s entry was especially poignant, either if you read it as intended or replace “meditation” with something else, in my case it was “a new project.”

If you do decide to start meditating, there’s no need to tell other people about it, or talk about hwy you are doing it or what it’s doing for you. In fact, there is no better way to waste your nascent energy and enthusiasm for practice and thwart your efforts so they will be unable to gather momentum. Best to meditate without advertising it.

Everytime you get a strong impulse to talk about meditation and how wonderful it is, or how hard it is, or what it’s doing for you these days, or what it’s not, or you want to convince someone else how wonderful it would be for them, just look at it as more thinking and go meditate some more. The impulse will pulse and everybody will be better off- especially you.

-Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

Last fall, I was excitedly talking about a documentary project I was undertaking, the Crafter Documentary Project. It was supposed to be up months ago, but I’m still stuck trying to figure out how to best use MySQL to my advantage and people involved are beginning to wonder what the hell I’m doing.

What I have learned from this experience is that the next project I have, I need to do a complete prototype and then tell people about it. Getting participants first and then working out the design, is not the best way to handle things, because you will just second guess your way through everything and it will lag.

But as I sift through old photographs and find this one of my hands cupped together, I am reminded that even though projects sometimes get lost and scattered, there is the distinct possibility that in time, they will be revived anew.

Over the past few days, there has been much controversy regarding the authenticity of the authors James Frey and JT Leroy, as it seems that one may be trading in literary lies (the former), while the other has been a figment of someone’s imagination entirely.

What does that say about modernity and the way we traffic in information? Should I feel duped? Should I feel shame that these individuals are capitalizing on people’s emotions in order to make money? I liked what Susie Bright writes in her journal here, regarding recent events, but can only hope that this (very public) betrayal will not cease the belief that her heart was in the right place all along. She was acting for the common good, which is highly commendable to say the least.

I don’t feel either, although I will say that it does make the market of those of us who talk about our lives look a little bit shiftier. Given the gift (or the curse depending) of the internet, there is no way that I or anyone else can prove that my words or more authentic than anyone else’s.

The beauty of this endless space we call cyberspace is that not only does it allow for connections to be made, but it also allows us to realize that we are not alone in our thoughts, experiences, beliefs- even though we may think we are. As it makes geography obsolete and brings light into the backwaters of the world that were formally isolated, it also widens us to the breadth of being human.

Now no matter what time it is, in an instant I can find stories that elucidate joy or hope or sorrow or beauty from like-minded individuals who deal in making the world a better place by focusing on what can happen instead of what has already happened. As theories and scandals regenerate and fuel the literary fires of authenticity, I choose to remind myself of the real that is constantly put in front of me.

Because while the stories of Frey and Leroy remind us that trading in lies can be profitable, what truly is the gain when we hurt the hearts of those that believed in us? Despite all the negativity, I am heartened by the fact that these authors (for awhile) reminded their readers that living honestly and strongly and with hope is nothing to be scoffed at, and something that we should all strive for everyday.

Despite the bad lighting and the blurriness, this photo is one of my favorites. It was taken in the stairwell looking up to the landing out the window, with jackets resting at the top. For me it always conjures a sense of “home,” even though that particular house is due to be torn down soon.

One of the themes I keep returning to is the notion of “home.” Is it a place? A feeling? A person? An idea? Just when I think I have a grip on what “home” is to me, it changes form like a shapeshifter before my eyes. This is not to say that it is constantly eluding me, but to say that it is constantly evolving.

At current, “home” to me is the feeling that you get down in your belly when you’re breathing deep and clear, present in the moment at hand. “Home” is when my mind is free to wander with ideas of new projects…quiet enough to let the good stuff filter through without doubt or second guessing.

2006.

Here we are.

The other week I cropped this picture taken from the hallway of my old house in London. It was a grey day and there was a single crow perched on the roof of the children’s library next door with a rainbow behind him. Somehow that moment encompassed my feelings regarding life, how the simplest of things can bring you joy- the trick is keeping your eyes open.

I finished the cabled hat for Head Huggers today, as my grandmother presided over my learning of cables during the holidays. It’s always lovely to learn a new stitch or skill and remind your brain that learning is everywhere. I would post a picture of the hat, but my camera decided to break last week, allowing me to get reacquainted with the non-digital world.

Lately I’ve been told about craftivism being mentioned in the unlikeliest of places, which is lovely despite feeling like a baby bird I’ve coddled has left the nest, with me wondering where exactly my place is now. That’s what the new year is about isn’t it, reassessing where you went last year and where you hope to go this one?

This Banksy piece used to greet me everytime I was in Shoreditch, and I was saddened to see it had been painted over when I was there in November. Sometimes I feel like that mural reflected what life in the west is all about- scurrying through a maze to find that piece of financial gratification that will finally allow you to live the life you’ve always wanted, even though your life has been there all along.

I used to have a hamster when I was young. And he had a wheel. He loved the wheel. And died next to the wheel. He was still a hamster who lived in a birdcage that we had modified for his house. Is it possible to get off the wheel? Or to get out of the race? Is it just a cultural entrapment that we’ve all been told to believe in, even though we never get anywhere different in the end?

I don’t know.

But I do know that it is the beginning of a new year. A new year with possibilities and moments of clarity and ideas full of art and bad days and good days and inbetween days. And that craftivism has become more to me over the past few years than just an idea, it has become a way of allowing myself to relinquish my belief in the wheel while also moving forward (albeit slowly) towards having a life where I notice the small tiny things of everyday life that bring joy more and focus on the race less.