Little Pink Houses

I watched this documentary the other night and now I am obsessed with building my own earthship. I need, in a very primal way, to go to one of the seminars and learn to pound sand. (Hah, I said pound sand.) The bottle walls alone make me weak at the knees. I have images of Antonio Gaudi, Arcosanti and Nikki de St. Phalle all dancing in my head. I have fully visualized the bathroom already.

Seriously, I can’t stop thinking about Mike Reynolds and his work. I want to spend the night in the Phoenix house. I just need to figure out where to build. But I think over on the Florida Gulf, up the Little Manatee River, somewhere.

On another note, the pool tether is now installed and I can swim to my heart’s content. Or until I feel the burn in my butt, which took about 2 minutes because I am so freaking out of shape.

I’ve started a new quilt, taking apart the Sistergirlfriendgirl’s daddy’s ties and today I’ll wash, press and cut them up into the component parts for a log cabin block.

Thank you to NanV, who graciously granted me permission to wallow, but you know? Wallowing isn’t what I do best. Lolling around doing jack shit? Yep. Wallowing in self pity? Not so much.

I’m off, and the floor of my studio is mostly visible.