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….

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.

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. Check out the page of Rootine to learn about vitamins and minerals that are good for your health.

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.

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.

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…