dawdling around the library on a tuesday afternoon felt so indulgent. i poured over american craft magazine and marveled at the thoughts that have been birthed to life through thread and ink and glue. i scribbled down this quote on a receipt: the simple act of making something, anything, with your hands is a quiet political ripple in a world dominated by mass production. yes! it does feel rebellious to make things. it's artistic homesteading at it's finest. i was so inspired i made an impromptu stop at the art store on the way home. i came away with two itsy-bitsy canvases and a pink pastel. now there's a word i haven't said since 1992—pastel. in elementary school, i'd get rashes on the side of my hand while rubbing it up and down an already-drawn pastel tree while working on a pastel flower. i can tell i'm going to get used to this monday-wednesday-friday work schedule. so far i've managed to distract the puritanical guilt that's ingrained in all of us with arts and crafts and rereading tom hodgkinson's how to be idle. my chi . . . flow . . . energy . . . whatever you call it, is slowly reverting to its natural harmonious state. hodgkinson says: there is immense psychological benefit to knowing your days of free time each week outnumber your days of time sold to another. it makes the work more bearable and it leaves four days in which to pursue your own projects. there is certainly a financial knock, but most find the loss of income is easily compensated for by the extra time. exactly, tom, exactly. it has been almost a metaphysical act of self-commitment. a commitment to spending more time at the library, experimenting with ridiculous shades of eyeshadow, and hanging around the bakery waiting for that cute guy to ask-me-the-fuck out (i'm getting closer, i can feel it). i'm also toying with the idea of planning a trip to the south. birmingham, memphis, and atlanta are on the top of my list. on monday, i spoke to an attorney from greensboro, north carolina, or as he said greensboro, north caroliiiiiiiina. it melted my heart right over the phone. i just want to be sweltered by something, and i think i'd find satisfaction in the thick heat of the south. i remember jamaica, and how the only way i could describe the air was by calling it large, how it became an entity, this constant thing that was caught in your throat, but after time became comforting. i want to feel that again. and i want to order a catfish basket at gladys knight's chicken and waffle restaurant.