So on Monday, I gave out an assignment. I admit it was a little silly, but sometimes silly things can be good. I wasn’t sure if anyone would do it. But you did! And it was awesome:

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I’ve been thinking of writing more about creativity on the blog. I’m not quite sure how to start. Even though (god help me) I have a degree in philosophy, I feel rather silly saying, “And now we will discuss the nature of creativity!” But at the same time, that is what I need–someone telling me what to do, a place to start. There is so much to talk about and creativity is so hard to pin down.

People think creativity is a thing you have or your don’t have, like blue eyes or curly hair. There is even this trend to say you are part of the creative class or that you are “a creative.” Oh barf. I think simply being a human being means you have to be creative: to stay alive, to raise your kids, to like your job, to get dinner on the table every night. But recognizing your creativity, understanding how it works, and accessing it is difficult. It’s like a muscle and muscles get weak when we don’t use them.  (more…)

the last day of color week. I had a nice time playing with my new camera and taking pictures around my home–I don’t do either as much as I should.

There are four of these shelves above my sink. I feel like an ass setting up little vignettes, but the shelves aren’t good for much else.  And really they are nice to look at while I am up to my elbows in dirty dishes.

(Don’t worry the beetle is long dead.)

hickety pickety my black hen

she lays eggs for gentlemen

gentlemen come everyday

to see what my black hen doth lay.

This is the first of a series I hope to do. Obviously it’s based on the nursery rhyme “Hickety Pickety.” Though I recently discovered that there are two more lines: Sometimes nine, Sometimes ten; Hickety Pickety my black hen. So I guess some eggs are in order. I’ve always liked nursery rhymes, but now that I say it, it sounds strange. My mother would read to me all the time when I was little–from the big, black and white checked Mother Goose book. And because my sisters are much older they had babies when I was the perfect babysitting age and so I read to my nieces and nephews from the same book. And then came high school and college and cigarettes and boys and I forgot completely. But having kids made me remember how lovely those short, little verses can be. They aren’t as intricately constructed as Lewis Carroll’s books and poems, though he did have his way with some (queen of hearts, tweedledum & dee), but the language is still silly and bizarre. And they haven’t been boobified by disney like the fairy tales and really they couldn’t be–some are strangely violent. They are an odd mix of drinking songs and counting rhymes passed down orally. Which I think is fantastic.Jack Sprat and his wife are in the works, but as of this moment are headless.