Source : little juice boxes on a hillside

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First day in the big kid school room. On the bus up the hill, passed the church, huffing down and over to ABC when we really just want a counter seat at Frankels. Its unreal how not necessarily fast, but how efficiently a bubbling baby turns into the capable kid. He has his moments of madness - think of those poor ants with the spores infecting their brains on Planet Earth, where the bad juju shoots out taking down everything around them. But at his core, his everyday, his is a sweet, stable, joyful adventurer. 

Needless to say I need lunch ideas for this little Gulliver. Its a nut free zone and I'm always trying to avoid sugars .. including the apple juice boxes so I'm off to a great start. What do you outfit your little ones lunch boxes with?

Email smallhome.studio@gmail.com or leave comment below. I may share your ideas in future posts. You can also DM me @shopsmallhome

 

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SOURCE : trail signs

A green composition notebook with some Lisa Frank stuck on the front coveting my felt-tipped adolescent scribbles... it was journal-ling (because somehow the word diary felt wimpy and too 'girly' to be taken seriously). Looking for signs of which way to go, what to think of the world, frantically recording every observation, every detail that passed by. I knew there was importance to be found everywhere but didn't grasp editing or the concept of less is more powerful. 

Once journaling turns toward work and work is done at a computer its renamed and soon I was blogging - DIY tricks, museum trips, household design and my latest lamps. It was fun and freeing to get it down out of my head and soul and onto screen. I didn't obsess, few people read it, but I felt in control of my thoughts and geared them to be publically helpful. Pushing through snares and dodging limbs I was going down the right path. My brand grew , my writing shrank, you can see the original smallhome blog here.   

Now It's under this heading SOURCE and you all can read it and not because it slipped behind the couch cushions like that green composition book did in the 90s. And therein lies apprehension : To write is one thing, to share is another; but to link it with your store is branding and branding can become a real mess.

Follow these blazes of memoiristic streams of consciousness, homelife design, parenting pitfalls and artlife details and we will meet at the scenic outlook together. I will try not to lose sight of you, or me, down these public trails.

 

 

SOURCE : a short look off a long pier

A place, a person, a smell, will suddenly become so precious, that I’ll stop walking and step aside desperate for recollection. Despite its weight in the past, the memory is delicate enough to float right out over my head or tear in my hands when I try to trap it. How is it that people and places that meant so much, become ghosts with only the power to flirt with reality and tease the child you once were?   

My mind wanders, eyes blinking to a hazy day at the end of some Rockaways pier … or did we drive further? The memory is foggy - No, we took the train with a backpack and my red thrift store thermos that kept our tea steaming long after our toes crippled with cold in our ridiculously inappropriate footwear. Poured by the cap-full, the hot tea turned iced and the faraway glint of the boardwalk diner reeled us in.    

The dingy entrance, the over sized empty bar, I remember being led to the booths bathed by cold February light.  Whose hand led me? One of two boys who still occupy rooms in my mind could've been partner on such a day. He undoubtedly, was my whole world at the time, and now which boy somehow doesn’t matter.  To focus on him would allow other information to tamper with this memory. The happened that night? for instance, or why did we ultimately break up? The whole of the relationship would suddenly bully and shove away this already slipping and shrinking away day. 

Stretched thin by everything that’s happened since I wouldn’t be surprised if my memory is all wrong and I’m just a frantic romantic groping at sepia sea air unable to think clearly. Attempting to remember something so past feels like trying to open your eyes in the middle of a dream and failing to do so, the dream itself changes into one about blindness or injury.

I often strain to remember a suddenly precious memory that despite its weight I haven’t thought about in years. But like looking at a star - memories seem clearer when you gaze at them sideways.  What memories play around behind your eyes? Are they still apart of you now, or do they remain holding hands with a past self?  

  

S O U R C E : beginings to ends

S O U R C E : Those 6 capital letters on the page and the baby monitor blips red. I hear my son's dream whines from the other room just as I put this blog into action. But there could not be a more realistic scenario actually and while he seems to have stopped I will continue and tell you that there will be no perfectly filtered, picture-framed white wall photography here. Crying and devastation will be documented just as often as smiling toddler teeth and juicy bums. Raw portrayals of past lives will mix with paragraphs of current failures and attempted triumphs. We'll see similarities in each other's bests and worsts, when inspiration and work ethic has left and we sit together just staring into the virtual void. As results are reached and writings read, we are reminded and ruled by the source of all our beginnings. 

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