“The ladies love me. On the subway I think I’ve got about at least over 300 numbers — and I’m not lying, I’m so serious. You know there be a lot of good-looking 30-year-olds. That’s why I can’t wait ‘til I hit 21.”
Damn straight.
Mildly obsessed with this hand-felted baby mobile. The Etsy shop has a veritable Noah’s Ark of charming little felted animal mobiles (and, um, Star Wars figures!), but I love the simplicity of this one best.
Mary Miss is an artist whose work seeks new means of engaging the public in the world around us. In the course of her career she has expanded from temporary site installations to larger scale transformations of infrastructure. She’s currently working on an ambitious project for New York City called “Broadway: 1000 Steps,” that will explain New York’s new green initiatives — many of them part of PlaNYC –at multiple sites along Broadway. The goal is to make New York’s forward progress even more tangible to citizens.
Mary Miss explains:
I thought if artists, over a period of time, could incrementally work on this corridor, people could begin to see the city not just as the home of Wall Street, not just a 19th or 20th century place, but really a city that’s looking to the future. I also thought it would really be an interesting way to get the initiatives of the city’s PlaNYC down at the street level so that people could have access and begin to understand issues that were being talked about between city departments. How do you get the support of citizens?
As I understand it, we will soon be seeing installations along Broadway that highlight the unseen or unnoticed efforts toward sustainability that are right under our feet or above our heads — the green roofs, the LEED buildings, composting, urban farming (or potential places for urban farming). Keep your eyes peeled….
Fund It: Heterodyne by Fiona Hallinan (Fund It is the Kickstarter of Ireland, fyi)
I’ve told you about my friend Fiona. She is an artist, a partner in crime, and a woman who faces tragedy with the sort of quiet yet probing bravery that begets profound wisdom.
When I was in Dublin last, Fiona told me about a project she was beginning work on.
It blew away.
It was one of those straightforward, instantly appealing ideas that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard of before.
Her idea is to commission original music for roads.
Imagine: pushing play, driving on a Sunday afternoon, getting completely immersed in the experience.
I can imagine it vividly.
In the video above Fiona describes Heterodyne over footage of what will be the project’s first road — Ireland’s Military Road, a nineteenth century defense route built by the British army that passes through the Wicklow mountains, surrounded by a desolate, changing landscape.
If all goes well (and knowing Fiona, it will), this will just be the beginning. She’ll add more roads in Ireland and internationally — and this is what really excites me.
Of course I want her to come to America. It’s a perfect fit.
America is a country of roads.
We’re obsessed with our roads.
There are countless songs about roads, but none (that I know of) that are composed for roads.
How incredible would it be to experience Highway 1 in Big Sur with music composed for the landscape? Or the single-lane drive across the sparkling keys to Key West? Or Route 66? Or any nameless ribbon of highway under any nameless endless skyway (with thanks to dear ol’ Woody)?
I just love this idea. I’m thrilled to support it.
If you’d like to join me, all the details are here.
And if nothing else, do watch the video. Between the winding, sun-dappled road and Fiona’s soothing voice — it’s better than Xanax.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” (via awelltraveledwoman)
(Source: oliviacirce, via cherylstrayed)
William Wegman, “Contemplating the Bust of Man Ray,” 1978 (via heparisreview)
Looks like a certain 6-month-old mutt I know….
(via exbestfriend)
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