I suppose I don’t really know what this is for.
Is it a dairy?
Is it a diary?
A portfolio piece?
A workshop?

I’d like each image posted to be taken that day, which means there’ll be plenty of pictures of dogs and of trees and rugs or woodstoves or Abby.

At what point does the doing of something become a person? I make pictures, but I wouldn’t call myself a photographer. Would I if I were regularly paid for it? I write for money but I’m reticent to call myself that, even.

When I was blowing glass I’d often reflect on the stutter-stop memory of the hotshop. I’d wake early and light the fires, then I’d work and I’d go home before I’d do it again. Sometimes it felt like the only places I could sit and reflect were bed and the hotshop, they felt like the only places that were real.
Those real places change over time, I think. From a hotshop to a design studio to a forest. It’s a forest right now, for me. I walk in the woods by my house every day.


Between a ridge and a brook, the place would be difficult to log, and difficult to build in, too. Makes it no good for much other than walking, and I think that’s alright, good even. I like things that aren’t good for much else. 

Is the violin good for anything? I suppose if you play it to impress people or earn access to a club it could be. 

Bozo

Response from my best friend:
re: your blog post today—useless things are better than useful things, because useful things are (by definition) for the sake of something else, while useless things are for their own sake. there’s something useless as the reason at the end of every chain of doing-things. useless is best