Occurances: Too Many

You're a mysterious body I can't quite coordinate.

And yet everything is laid out before me. Don't say a word.

What is it? Why this impulse, this magnetism surrounding the atmosphere? And. With one baleful glance on the corner street: flashing by yet again.

Thoreau of "House-Warming"

The perfect recipe for a home:


"I sometimes dream of a large and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread-work, which shall still consist only of one room...a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping, where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, store-house, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thing as a barrel or ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments...where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eights of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home there--in solitary confinement."

Thoreau of "Solitude"

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself.


I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence of and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is you.

A Home Not a House

A house. A home with one shut eye. The other spies out, keeping in contact with the world. Making sure the Coriolis Effect's still working and that life goes on. A home keeping house. Keeping everything in check while the owners sign off; disconnect. They have a right, right? It's their home acting as house--engaging with the world, its people its elements. Every weight rests on its wooden shoulders, its almighty rooftop which is God. And God isn't always perfect. No--sometimes the weight just falls, collapsing, crushing, screaming on top of all it ever loved.
But this home looks out onto the world, unafraid.

Costumes Encouraged

Races. Trunk craft show. Kinetic sculpture. Public art. Music. Beer & Wine & Fine Food. Costumes encouraged.

"A terrifying steam-punk orgy!"

Check it out:
The Great Handcar Regatta

Kaleidoscope Street

Looking out upon that sky-bright ceiling-blue space--
Doors blend,
Concrete and dizzy smells
mixed up the hill-tops
which we pace.

From Emerson's "Nature"

But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate between him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent with the design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which has been shown! But every night come these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.



It is this which distinguishes the stick of timber of the wood-cutter from the tree of the poet. The charming landscape which I saw this morning is indubitably made up of some twenty or thirty farms. Miller owns this field, Locke that, and Manning the woodland beyond. But none of them own the landscape. There is a property in the horizon which no man had but he whose eye can integrate all the parts, that is, the poet.