Throughout the day, I develop and revise lengthy to-do lists, and usually feel somewhere between inadequate and overwhelmed when I eventually set them aside for the formal activity of sleep. And then I wake up every morning and realize that my expectations for production are rather high and, quantitatively, near impossible. So, as my list of things to-do is altered from day to day, the few remaining items on the bill that aren’t accomplished roll over into the following week, eliciting an exponentially growing chart of chores. And at the current percentage rate, I’m accumulating much more rapidly than I am completing, which means some things on the list never really get done. I guess you could call this selective process “prioritizing,” but there comes a point when certain tasks loose relevance and you move forward. However, I feel that I can’t really move forward in my position as student until I finish this blog. (which I promise you, I’ll do tonight.)

Week after week, I repeatedly transcribed “purchase dental” and “research yoga studios” and other things that are certainly important and, as I just realized, health related. “TT09,” has snuck it’s way onto to the general “chore chart” sector of my datebook. I’m a firm believer in following through, and if I fail to complete a project in every regard, from the archiving of the budget to the transmission of thank you notes, I might never actually feel satisfied with the overall outcome. Thus allowing these mostly finished activities to bleed over and infect more current aspects of my life, which indirectly affects my health. “Closure” they call it. So although this entry is pretty much rendered obsolete by time and the physical completion of the tour, I still see this ancillary, casual relaying of information to the public as important and deserving of final attention.

Having a considerable segment of time between the completion of the tour and the writing of this entry isn’t a terrible thing. I’ve since entered academia, and the period of adjustment has given me a more accurate perception of the project and clarified the methodology used to produce it. The diverse and rigid scheduling of educational systems, the substantial twice-daily commute, the thin distribution of my attention and responsibility….all have contributed to my rejection of the popular, illusory perception of “artist;” one that I had so recently (and blindly) assumed. I do not say this bitterly, but with critique. Having lost the freedom to navigate the romantic, anti-routine “artist lifestyle,” I’ve begun to wonder if I’ll ever execute a project of such scale. But in exchange for this loss, I’ve realized that, although beneficial for the selfish perpetuation of tipi tour, solely focusing on one project and its mechanics is a formula for ignorance. My previous position as artist-in-residence had propogated the suspension of disbelief, allowing me to luxuriously compose without limitation, without considering the larger boundaries within my work exists. My new surroundings have re-introduced me to a few vital components of effective art-making. Like context: the “real world” is real, and I am not a separate machine. Without thrusting myself into the society, the environment upon which my work is founded, how will I ever be an effective cultural producer?

In an attempt to reverse my previous occupation as “uninformed, one-dimensional artist,” I registered for 15 courses. The sheer thickness of the newsprint course catalogue gave me shivers. Hours of considering subjects and calculating the artistic research potential of each one left me in a state of utter confusion. But I was determined to foster some sort of trajectory by sucking in all the tempting riches of the academic world. (And to read the paper every once in a while.) After 3 mind-numbing weeks of attending classes and exposing myself to innumerable paths of knowledge, ranging from astro-aero engineering to genetic neurobiology, I feel exhausted. But also more defined in my integrity. I cannot disregard the spectrum of systems in which I operate, the uncontrolled interpretations of intention. I cannot unconsciously create and expect autonomy. But I also understand that as a human being, I am not omniscient.

So, in reflecting on the all-encompassing immersion of myself in this last project, I think I had the right idea. But such dedication led to an inability to understand and learn the true scope of immersion necessary in executing a public, political work. And now, confronted with the typical division of tasks and time that define a student’s life, I can see how the foundation is built. I have a stone laid in the ground. The process of construction might be slower and the results not so voluminous…but I have no doubt that it will be imbued with research and bolstered with pure spirit, eliciting a strong, solid structure. A fort perhaps. One in which I can fully defend my work.

And now for honors, or an acknowledgment of the debt I’ll never be capable of repaying:

Thank you to those who haven’t yet received recognition as hosts. In Chicago: Connie Spreen of the Experimental Station, Rebecca Zorach at the U. of Chicago, and Theaster Gates, a community activist and artist for whom I have a deep respect and admiration. In Braddock, PA: Mayor John Fetterman, Jed of the Braddock Youth Project, and Emily Katrencik, our gracious friend of enormous hospitality. In New York City: David Koren of Figment* 09, the Imagination Station crew at Governors Island, and Shalin Scupham, our spontaneous event coordinator and shelter-provider. In Rockingham County: John Gamble and Jennifer McNure for providing rehabilitation facilities and services.

Thank you to those who came along for the ride, either literally on the bus, remotely through the blog or temporarily as visitors to the installation sites. Thank you to everyone involved, particularly Jonas Criscoe, our 1st mate of utter humanistic understanding. And finally, thank you Ian…for driving nearly every one of the 6000 miles, for patient countenance and rational decision-making, for staying onboard and making sure I did too…for squeezing my hand and co-directing this (relatively) monumental event.

In short, thank you, tipi tour.

It’s been a wild ride. I hope to get tickets for the next one.

I think we left you hanging somewhere in Minneapolis, which isn’t a bad place to linger.  Apologies for the absence, but the tour from there on out maintained an extremely rigorous schedule, and our laptop charing cord just happened to light on fire one morning while preparing to post.  Drama, everywhere.  And as past tense would allude to, the tour has been completed.  We returned home safely around 4:33pm on Monday, August the third in the year of two-thousand and nine.  But seeing as I haven’t completed my memoir, the tour is far from finished.  Because I think it would alleviate some of my personal stress in being an irresponsible correspondant, and because I must record my thoughts before they wash away with the frequent rainshowers of Boston, I am going to give each “stop” its own blog entry.  We’ll begin today with Wisconsin, which was our destination post-Minneapolis.

Ahhh…Wisconsin.  I feel deeply, if remotely, connected to the dells and dairy of this darlingly shaped state.  My mother is from Wisconsin, and I have not-so-vivid memories of our regular summer vacations to some quaint little sector of the state, where we roughed it in a cabin for a week and spent most of our hours fishing.  Or playing “house” with the lures in the damp bottom of my father’s boat while he fished and patiently forgave my sister and I for scaring away the fish with our petty fights and cries of boredom.  (side note:  I remember as I child frequently proclaiming that I was bored.  I am so bitterly nostalgic for such perceptions.)

As we tumbled down the highway in our giant bus, vague visions of a 200 foot tall fish statue and squeaky cheese curds floated about, like our little aluminum boat on foggy “Star Lake.”   My most defined and complete memory of Wisconsin entails napping parents, ammunition and a perfect target, my sister Christine.  As was routine, my parents took an afternoon snooze in the cabin, and my sister and I were locked out, forced to enjoy nature, and one another.  Because I was the older sister, I usually determined what game we would play.  I had recently purchased with my saved allowance money, a bow and arrow kit (of the suction cup variety.)  It just so happened that it was slightly misty that afternoon, and my sister was clad in a slick, vinyl raincoat.  I directed her to a nearby tree stump and gave her instructions.  “Don’t move.”  Stepping back, I squinted and strung the bow.  Christine followed my directions impecably.  I’m not sure how long the game lasted, but I was terribly disappointed that the arrows didn’t stick to the jacket, and my parents were equally disappointed in me for simulating harm, and in Christine for succumbing.

But that was then, and this is also then, as I’m retro-actively (trying) to tell the story of Wisconsin via our tipi tour.  We weren’t as toursity as my family had been, I suppose.  But I did delight in a bag of cheese curds and a cone of custard.  We arrived at our destination, Michael Fields Agricultural Institute at a late hour, blushing as we growled through the parking lot adjacent to the sleeping quarters of dedicated farmers-in-training.   I had a hard time sleeping that evening, involuntarily focusing my energy on worrying about our potential “rude awakening.”

We were woken abruptly by a lanky, hairy fellow with a buyouant personality.  “Smells like a bunch of dirty sleeping hippies in here.  I like it.”  I had barely rubbed the sleep from my eyes when said fellow (Charlie Bob, we later learned) disappeared and a distinguished English gentleman parked aside our bus.  He introduced himself as Chris Mann, the founder of Michael Fields.   Aware now that I was on a farm, where early hours are praised, I decided we should probably work to disprove the “lazy-late-sleeping-artist” stereoype and immediately woke the crew.

Our stay at MFAI was delightufl, albeit far from my original intentions of harvesting and watering and meditating in a flourishing field of edibles.  We spent most of the day taking showers, discussing why and how we should change our “dried-food-pbj-banana-diet” and doing laundry.  We were lucky enough to graze the lovely gardens and hear a few stories from the young, in-training farmers.  MFAI is an educational institution that takes apprentices and teaches them ecological, ethical practices of traditional farming.  It’s a biodynamic farm, which is a self-sustainable method of agriculture, employing the theories of Rudolph Steiner, founder of the Waldorf school system.  As we pondered the humble life of growing food, Charlie Bob popped up here and there, numerous times, reminding us that a solemn, solitude lifestyle isn’t requisite for such a revered position.  Spunky guy.  Following suit of his fellowship-minded comrades, we shared a lovely evening meal provided by a true Frenchman, Leon.  He proceeded to prove his nationality by serenading us with an accordian post-dinner, in the bus of course.  I woke up with a cluster of blisters on my feet, recalling the aggressive ballroom dancing that occurred on the gravel outside our backdoor.  Leon, what a man.  He even gave Jonas his harmonica, which Jonas had previously and regularly lamented bringing on the trip.

In the morning we delighted in a plethora of baked good from the on-campus organic bakery and were presented with a bright box of wholesome vegetables, partly solving the previous days argument over nutrion and the possibility of vitamin deficiency, which I never cease to point out, can lead to many sorts of insanity.  Thank you, Charlie Bob, Shawn, Janet, Leon and everyone within the general vicinity of MFAI.  And then appeared Ellie, one of my fellow AIRS at HUB-BUB last year.  She had recently taken residence in rural Wisconsin, working on building a permaculture farm herself…and onward the four of us went, darting towards Chicago, South Side style….

Which we’ll save for tomorrow’s retroactive entry.

PS-I spent a few excruciating hours uploading the last 1/2 of the trip’s documentation on Flickr.  Check out Minneapolis here!  But don’t skip ahead in the atlas, because that wouldn’t be fair with my retroactive timing.

I am overwhelmed, positively.  We spent a few days in Minneapolis, and I have decided I must move there immediately, after a 2 year stint in grad school.  I have never been so in love with a geographic point where I don’t approve of the weather.  Although we were lucky to savore a favorable weekend in July, one in which the Minnesota weather too wooed me with whisps of crisp air and lashes of sunlight and lots of excitement in so many realms.

We set up on the front lawn of ART OF THIS, (and the neighboring businesses who were kind enough to allow tent-overflow,) and played games at picnic tables, like dominos and scrabble and patty cakes and ate homemade cookies.    I love Minneapolis.

We were escorted around the city by David and Chrystal, who took us to what I am sure  was the most exciting series of events happening in the lower 48.  I would like to share this list, elementary style, using commas:

We saw a post-high school marching band (complete with cheerleaders and sequins), attended a secret noisy bonfire in the downtown area, hopped a fence, danced to the sights and sounds of exotic sea creatures, hopped another fence, ate vegan soul food, and slept in our bus.  All in one night.  And it didn’t even feel too busy.  I can’t even believe how uncrowded our jam-packed evening was.  And the next day!  Bikes! Breakfast in a bowling alley!  Swimming!  Sights!  Bikes!  More bonfires!  Marshmallows!  Minneapolis!  I’ll say no more.

(I’ll also offer no photographic evidence of these events, as we’re having trouble uploading images from the card reader, however I have posted a lot of new photos from previous parts of the trip on our FLICKR page.)

This is J. We left him in New Mexico.

I am at a library in suburban Minneapolis, and the computer is notifying me that I have only 8 minutesleft for explaining an absence of updates this week, so I apologize in advance for unruly, runon sentences that might have various mistakes, in accuracy and grammar. 

Recap(itulation):

We were in South Dakota, where we spent a few days on the Rosebud Sioux Reservation.  We attended a few hours of a Sundance and spent a lot of hours cleaning and re-organizing the bus. 

We were in Mitchell, SD, where we marveled at the world’s only Corn Palace, ate fried delights in a bar outfitted with a sand volleyball court and video poker. 

We went to a drive-in movie theater and froze atop our bus, listening through a portable radio to the “corny” scripts of the doublefeature, armed with cans of busch beer and woven wool blankets. 

We also camped in a parking lot, which our high-school friend at one of the local tourist attractions told us was “ok.” 

We drove a lot. 

We also tried to camp lakeside in rural Minneapolis last night, at a boat launch.  Jonas and I cooked dinner on the propane stove.  We speculated over the legallity of our actions, pondering the “no camping” sign outside our door.  We hit the lights on the bus, and the squad car lurking nearby did too.  We had to leave.  Instantaneously busted.  Oh well.  We made it to a rest stop a few miles up the road.  (I’m still waiting for a real camping adventure, complete with a fire and marshmallows, which are tucked away somewhere in the bus, rendering themselves less edible with every decision to bus-camp.) 

I’m eager to set up the tipis today.  We’ll be at ART OF THIS in Minneapolis today and tomorrow, and then head towards Chicago, where we have an extensive extravaganza on the ticket.  Be sure to check the EXPEDITION PAGE for event updates.

tipi in cul-de-sac

more photos of tipis in suburbs (courtesy of Gavin)

We’ve long-since completed our tumbleweed act, barreling our way West out of Texas and North into South Dakota (in a few hours.)  I don’t want to sound like a lagging, out-of-touch journalist, relaying the highlights of each day that are no longer relevant, however if we treat this like a chapter book, maybe it won’t seem obsolete.

Now, where did we leave off?  Somewhere between two crisp sheets, a glass of milk and a tray of biscuits, gently accompanying the lullaby that mother/father/babysitter/sibling is reading as your lids fall heavy and visions of tumbleweeds scurry past your lashes.

West Texas.  We crowded onto the bus, 8 of us, and chugged down the road to Marfa.  We didn’t make it there that first night, as predicted.  Instead, we made it to, what we thought was a rest stop, but really was just a roadside gully, a perfectly measured cutout for our bus.  This is not the first time we have camped without a tipi.   Analyzing this disappointing notion, I settled next to a few droopy New Orleans voodoo candles and wrote out postcards, mimicking (and laughing at) my former hopes for this summer:  candle-side, antiquated moments, donned in a prairie frock, communicating by way of feather and ink.  Why I had imagined it this way, I am not sure.

The other 7 made bus-beds in the bunks, hammocks and on the roof.  I, however, could not.  None of the choices the bus provided seemed fit.  I tried the asphalt and was awakened by my sensible side, screaming that we were only slightly removed from a Texas highway with no speed limit.  The tall grasses seemed a comfortable choice until a nearby sassy rattling (probably cicadas) jogged my imagination and a small creature sprung onto my chest, propelling me into a vertical stance.  I tried the roof, but woke up shivering to the blare of a sluggish freight across the road, and eventually landed a wink on the astroturf floor of the bus.

But enough about sleep, for the waking (and I’m running out of time as we are headed to the Rosebud, SD in a few minutes):

We made it to Marfa, Texas (population 2,021) and toured the Chinati Foundation, which houses permanent installations by Donald Judd and a few of his minimalist cronies (Chamberlain and Flavin.)   The tour is done in 2 parts, so after the morning stroll around its campus, we met up with Susannah Mira, a fellow Elsewhere artist.  And to answer a possible question of yours:  why might you meet up with a fellow artist friend in rural Texas where Airstreams outnumber houses?   Because, Marfa is an enigma.   A bizarre, arid outpost, flanked by nothing but nothing, populated by plants with names like “bad woman,” native Texans, Mexican immigrants and escapists from the New York art scene.

Speaking of evading the art scene, we opted to use our time in the Southwest as opportunity to relax and sight-see.   West Texas, New Mexico, Colorado.  And a good choice it was.  A mini-vacation before the rigorous schedule ahead (see updated tour page) presented us with myriad moments of excitement and discovery.  J and I tried to fly via lumber tarp para-sail at Monahan’s sand dunes.  Tiff took on the role of archaeologist at Petroglyph National Monument.  Jonas played chef at Balmohrea springs.  Dan and Ian were scolded like children as they scaled the not-so-flat walls of Carlsbad Caverns in NM.

And now, we find ourselves in Colorado, visiting with Grant and Peggy, founders of Colorado Art Ranch.  We were introduced to members of their board over a scrumptious meal, and were convinced to set up a tipi in the cul-de-sac of their subdivision.  A new backdrop for the tipi.  It’s fascinating how each environment infiltrates the installation, breathing new life and interpretations from each flap of plastic as it soaks up the landscape in which it sits.

And now, as we’re weening ourselves from Grant and Peggy’s hospitality, we look forward to a visit with members of the Rosebud Sioux Tribe.  South Dakota it is.

Woah, horsey.  We’re packing up again.  And again, it seems all too soon.  I feel somewhat guilty and privileged as I’m situated in an air-conditioned facility, saturated with iced espresso and bombarded by the comforts of Mellow Johnny (Lance Armstrong’s bike shop/pit stop).  Meanwhile, the crew is breaking down the site and tightly packing the landship yet again.  (Again.  I’ve used the word too many times.)  I suppose I’m preparing myself for a “real job,” one in which you must diligently check email in luxurious conditions.  I admit, I’d almost rather be the object of the relentless sun.  (ALMOST.)

Austin, thank you.  We’ve been presented with remarkable kindness and I feel that “thank you” isn’t an adequate expression of gratitude.  Randy and the Austin Green Art crew provided a delicious and fortifying meal on Monday night.  We were joined by a few guest campers and were able to enjoy/employ a surprise amenity delivered by Green City Solar–a solar powered generator!  We hooked up our sewing machine, charged our electronics and at last, stored a few perishables in our normally empty refrigerator.  Thank you, Green City Austin, of the solar division!

Yesterday we set up at a tipi at MASS Gallery on the cement parking lot and outfitted it with all the necessary home furnishings found in the nearby Goodwill dump: a cot, a cooler, an oil barrel and an uprooted fire hydrant as its centerpiece.  (And anchor weight.)  We held an artist talk in the evening, which successfully unfurled as a discussion and later developed into a late-night dip at Barton Springs.  59 seconds in a 59 degree natural pool.  I was pretty disappointed when my swim was truncated by a whistle, blown as my flailing limbs hit the cooling surface.  I thought I had done something horrible, but realized that the pool closed at the very moment I plunged.  Oh well.  We might take a quick rinse before getting on the road (momentarily).  I think that’s a great idea, because we now have a crew of 8, and a drive of 8+ hours to our next destination–Marfa, Texas.  I’m looking forward to a rooftop ride, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.  (Now is when the 200lbs of old seat belts and webbing come in handy.  Strap me in, captain.)

So, Marfa it is.  We won’t make it there tonight, which is good, because we’ll have an opportunity for a wilderness camping adventure in a wildernesseque park with a wilderness campfire.  No rest stops tonight.  We’ll be in Marfa for only one day, tomorrow, so we won’t set up camp, but look for us in Albuquerque on Saturday, where we’ll be installed alongside some other tents at the Saturday farmers’ market.

And now I’m getting a breakfast call, which means I need to exit.  But before I do so, I’d like to send out a raging applause to Austin, particularly Randy Jewart of Austin Green Art and Xochi Solis of MASS.  Y’all make me smile–more than a gooey box of delicious donuts.  It always comes back to that, doesn’t it.  (Exit stage left, west to WEST TEXAS. )

Folks, we’re in Texas. It’s true, everything is bigger. Even the, well, everything. But, before I gloat the glamor of Austin, let’s backtrack a bit…Many exhuberant thanks to City Park and The Front Gallery for hosting us in New Orleans, and to our most gracious hosts, Billie and Jessie, who saved our wilting vessels from the indestructable heat. And to every creative soul pulsing through the vibrant veins on the Louisiana coast. Ayo! (bAYOu!)

And ode to the road! And new crew! We now have Dan from South Carolina with us, and Tiff from Florida. Also, we anticipate an evening arrival of Billie and Jessie, who are previously stated saints based out of Nola.  AND Sara(h) Lee and Eliza from Greensboro.  Ahoy.  Landship at capacity!

So yes, back to the bus….yesterday was incredible. And an incredibly long ride over to Austin. But we learned more about bus living, including: how to use a typewriter, suspend and swing ourselves from the interior ceiling rack and how to ask fellow roadsters for donuts. (With proper signage.) I admit, I left Nola with one very poignant disappointment, which is that we never stopped for a plate of those delicate, delicious donuts from Cafe Du Monde. (I think they call them beignets.) The donut hunt is on though. I was just informed that there is a very scrumptious ring of dough waiting for me at “Ken’s” in Austin.

Meanwhile, we’re feeling very lucky to be here with Austin Green Art. We’re situated on an idyllic, expansive vacant lot, sandwiched between aisles of traffic and skyscrapers. We had a few media personelle on site this early morning. Catch a glimpse of the unfolding tents, which wouldn’t have happened as smoothly without the help of a local summer camp

http://www.myfoxaustin.com/dpp/good_day/070609_from_trash_to_tipi_village

Thanks, Randy, Dave, Romeo and pals.

And now, back to the tents.

Well.  We had quite a time in New Orleans.  I don’t feel the need to ever go to a sauna again.  We spent the last day exploring.  Originally we had planned to stay at the tents, guarding them and fielding questions from inquisitive visitors.  I don’t know why I thought that would actually happen, but I’m glad it didn’t, because so many other things were able to happen while the tents managed themselves.  For instance, we were able to prevent passing out and enjoyed airconditioning.  We bought some local produce at the market, we enjoyed air conditioning, went to a 4th of July fiesta, went to another 4th of July fiesta, went swimming, rode bikes, not bus.  Also, I got my tarot read.  There are 2 guardians watching over the bus, so now I know it’s ok to take the vehicle over 50 miles an hour and ignore some of the vibrations.

We’re about to get back on the bus and head to Austin.   I’m not ready to leave, because New Orleans is sensational, and I feel the burgeuning creative front charging from all directions; maybe it’s the force behind the buckling sidewalks and glossy lush vegetation, eager to creep beyond its curbside home.  I’m also not ready to leave because I’m in my PJs.

Please visit us in Austin at MASS Gallery and at our downtown campsite on 5th and Nueces, or thereabouts.  We accept all popsicles and most cold drinks.

(City Park set-up, photo courtesy of Billy Brown)

Let’s go back in time.  2 whole days.  Has it only been 2 since we puttered and gurgled down a North Carolina dirt road, marking the first tenth of a mile?  It feels much longer, but that’s only because we’re joggling and sweating in a bus all day.  At first, I was worried it would be too bumpy to do anything on the ride.  But I believe it will work to our advantage, oh yes.  Whittling?  We won’t even have to flick our wrists.  Chopping vegetables?  Just let your hand hinge at the arm and you’ve got a fancy tray of crudites.   (I think that will work.  I did grind some coffee with a hammer using this principle.)  But actually, we did learn that we can sew with a machine on the bus by manually turning the wheel.  It’s a little slow going, but makes for neat and even stitches.  I made J a pair of shorts yesterday out of rainbow florescent fabric tagged with fake graffiti: “Alley” and “D-zone” are my favorite of the expressions.  I’d label it early 90s.

On with business–today is our first official tipi event.  We’re setting up in City Park this morning and then moving over to The Front Gallery this afternoon to set up 2 additional tipis.  We’ll have the tents on display at the park until early Sunday morning, and we’ll be at The Front this evening to give a casual talk. Come find us at one of our homes.  We’d love to host you:

New Orleans HOME 1:

WHERE:  CITY PARK, between Victory and Dreyfous Streets, located in the Southwest corner of the park.

WHEN: July 3 and 4 (all day)

and

NEW ORLEANS HOME 2:

WHERE: THE FRONT COLLECTIVE, 4100 Saint Claude Avenue

WHEN: JULY 3, 7-9pm

In preparing for the arduous bus ride (and to attend my sister’s wedding), I drove my un-air-conditioned boat of a car from Greensboro to the approximate middle of this country last week.  1500 miles round trip.  A bout of restless leg syndrome. Sing-a-longs with an antiquated collection of cassette tapes.  (Namely The King and I soundtrack and an obscure Dan Fogelberg album.)  It wasn’t unbearable, but I believe body conditioning of the static variety should take a high priority in our last two weeks before departing.

Both Ian and I are continuing to work on the bus and the itinerary.  Struggle on both ends.  It seems that there are some mechanical complications with the vehicle, primarily pertaining to the WVO system.  At the other end of the spectrum, I’ve struck a dense network of red pipelines to navigate in order to receive a permit for occupying public spaces.  Part of the problem is the height of the tents (15-22 feet), which towers over the standard 10 foot allotment.  The other part remains ambiguous, but I’ve been told by officials that they haven’t had a proposal like this before, and I’ve concluded that we’ll just have to avoid using land under the tight control of  intricate government systems.  But not to be a downer, because I’m not.

We’ve been greeted with heaps of luck and punctuated proclamations from welcoming arms.  For example:  4th of July weekend we’ll be in City Park, New Orleans and have a smaller cluster of tipis at The Front Gallery.  And from there we’ll find ourselves in Austin, Texas, where we’re partnering with Austin Green Art and the MASS Gallery.  I am very excited, in the plainest of terms. (!!!)

In other news:

1.  Ian and I are having a bamboo roast in his field this Sunday.  We still have a few sets to cure before the trip.  All are welcome.  (This is also my birthday, so the event will double as an excuse to eat cake.)  Camping, roasting, aging, sweating over a very large open fire pit.  A “birthboo.” What more could one want?   Except a donut. (!)

2.  I love donuts.  This is a recent discovery of mine.  I’m thinking about adding a donut hunt to tipi tour, which would give me permission to have a few in each destination.  Also, if you’re ever in the South Elm neighborhood, please bring a dozen or two over to Elsewhere.

3.  We’re still looking for in-kind donations, particularly of the solar-panel kind.  We’re not sure it’s an asset we can afford, but we would definitely be grateful recipients of such items.  Contact ian@plasticparade.org for specifications or if you have any ideas to offer.

4.  Dinner is ready.

(Greensboro, Center City Park, Earth Day 2009)