the lettuce farm

from the dessert / dine bikeyah

2011-07-18T23:01:00.004-05:00

Somehow (through my colleague Dr. Hynd's internet exploration), Chip's work came to be in my inbox. Graffiti, public art, rural art, or whatever else it can be called, I had the opportunity to learn more about his art, work and him.

I spent a week in northeastern Arizona. Everywhere was a place to be explored and discovered. The people are beautiful down there. Chip opened his doors to me and welcomed me to the Navajo Reservation.

One of the many memorable days was when driving down Route 16 (?). A husband and a wife stuck their thumbs out in greetings on the side of the ride. I picked up the two hitchhiking Navajos; it turned out it was the gentleman's 47 birthday so I drove us all to go hiking down into a canyon to see old ruins and celebrate his year of 47. Somewhere in there, he promised a three-day horsebacking riding trip to return to the same spot the next time I visited and she promised homemade flatbread in exchange for an introduction to vegetarian cooking.

A more complete capture of Chip's work and my shadowing of him can be found at MIT's CoLab Radio.

To Begin: 3 x 2

2010-01-27T18:19:00.006-06:00

2010.

Welcome and hello. It's here.

There's an energy about this year. Everyone wants change. Everyone wants to embrace the good and start fresh -- to begin. Chris Brogan posted awhile back on how he sets a direction for the new year -- with three words. With hopes and optimism of new beginnings and new years, three words offer a fresh way to look at the new year.

For me, 2010 will be lived with intention, openness to what can be, and with simplicity.

With that intention, comes the beginning of three projects this year. I hope you'll join me.

The Junto is a story sharing project (the name comes from a group built by B. Franklin). I blogged about it before here. 10 people have signed up so far. You can be next.
The Traveling Book Club. Where you can read what you like, when you like, at the pace you like. Jot your notes the margins and send it on to the next person.
Laughter Collective. I am fascinated by and forever passionate about laughter. Its cause, the sound and how it spreads with enthusiasm. This year my fellow laughter-filled friend Mary Allmon and I will begin to record laughter samples and share current knowledge about laughter. There will be a spot online to share those samples with you. If you find laughter, please record it and send it my way. More collaboration opportunities on this to come.

Welcome to 2010. Where will you begin?

Welcome to the Junto.

2009-11-11T22:28:00.005-06:00

Conversations change based on the frequency of face-to-face visits.

I have found the conversations with people I see everyday are full of details -- how was your weekend, what'd you find at the grocery store, where did you walk your dog, who are you seeing tonight. I often missed the overarching themes in their lives because we tended to day-to-day topics. Conversations around big questions (life goals, life trends, life emotions) happen with less frequency because we assume we know the answers.

While conversations with people I see more infrequently carry a different tune. They're based around overarching themes -- what's going on in your world, where are you going next in life, how do you feel about where you are. And they focus less on the stuff of the everyday.

From that, I created a project. Each month for one year a handful of my friends and family (you) told me about something that had happened that month. Something that I may have missed. Be it a conversation with an old friend, a random find in the bookstore, or something newly discovered.

There was one stipulation: I wanted a physical object. I didn't care what it was, be it a toothpick from a dinner with the President, or a handwritten letter or an engineering project recently built. I provided stamps and a mailing address and they (you) shared stories. I learned a lot and met sides of friends and family (you all) that I wouldn't have otherwise known. My hope is you learned a lot, in turn; it's rare that we have to think about our entire month at any one point.

I'm starting my project again. I'd love for you to be involved.

This time I'm changing it up a bit. It was a conversation with a coffee barrista that inspired the change. He explained how each week he and his friends researched one subject, meet up and present their findings. And knowledge was shared.

That's the focus of my project -- the sharing of knowledge. Consider it the physical salon. If you're up for it, each month you'd send on what you learned that month. These stories and ideas can be shared in any form. It could be anything -- a book that taught you the ways of the world, a CD of music that inspired you, a letter about something you learned about you, a photo of the place where a provocative conversation occurred -- as long as it's somehow physical.

On my part, I will send you stamps** and envelopes in a nice little package. Each month, I'll send to you what I learned. Of course, you have my promise that I won't disclose any secrets.

And come next year, there will be something to show.* I'm not sure what that something is but there it will be in some shape or form. Interesting things are bound to happen when a group of people share their views of the world over the span of time.

What do you say? Drop me a line: mightymytty (at) gmail.com

* For those of you who so wonderfully participated last year, I promise there will be something soon once the dust settles from my move out east. Thanks for being part. I loved seeing and learning more about what was going on in your world.

** I called this Stamps for Stories before. And realized when sending out the boxes of supplies that stamps, in addition to the other materials, became too expensive for my present budget. That said -- if your budget is the only thing preventing you from joining in on this, I'm happy to send stamps your way. Just let me know.

Welcome back, world.

2009-11-11T19:50:00.012-06:00

That's my home at the top of many stairs. Thanks to Darren Cole for the photo.

It's now November. I keep hoping the world will slow her rotation down so I can appreciate and learn from all of what's happening around me. It's been an incredible, breathtaking year. I have lots to share.

I'm in Boston now; I've been building my home here for about a month. My bed was finally set up two days ago (for the first time in eight months!). It's starting to feel like home.

I'm getting paid to work with two grand and talented people, Nick Morgan and Nikki Smith-Morgan. Nick is one of America's top communication coaches and theorists; I gain a daily piece of communication knowledge working with him. Nikki is our resident graphic designer and molder of ideas; from whom I'm secretly taking notes on how to be an east coast sophisticate. And I come armed with my book knowledge ready to share and connect the world with ideas and their creators.

I have many projects in the works! All of which will be shared in good time. For now, I'll start with project one.

Las Ramblas

2009-06-11T06:51:00.003-05:00

[in Barcelona]

There's a street here called Las Ramblas. Everything and

anything can be bought or sold on this street. The

sunlight brings artists selling their wares -- caricatures,

paintings, inked paper, jewelry -- and vendors selling

hamsters, live chickens, fish, rabbits, flowers,

newspapers, souvenirs, what have you.

Lining the sides of Las Ramblas are the famous

street performers, dressed in Broadway-like

costumes. A man wearing white from head to

toe, perched upon a toilet, earns his keep with his

blatant toilet humor. Five feet away is a woman

dressed as Medusa, enchanting children as they

pass. And a clown meanders by, looking for an

audience. Musicians play down the street;

tourists and travelers wander about.

The sun leaves and the day's sellers close up.

A new group, selling different wares, makes

Las Ramblas their home.

Indian men walk around selling cerveza.

Five euros for one six-pack. It's like selling

Pabst Blue Ribbon, taken from the fridge,

on Milwaukee's Water Street. Some offer

more. Hashish. Coke, they whisper to

passerbys.

African women walk about selling

themselves. 10 euros, minimum. All

determined by beauty.

Las Ramblas becomes a world where

work visas don't exist. And all the

immigrants come to earn their keep

in the ways taught by those before them.

We waited. We waited.

2009-06-08T09:56:00.012-05:00

From Nice, we* debated: Barcelona or Paris.

* we = Tammy, Tony and I

Barcelona won based on price, which meant an overnight bus trip from Nice to Barcelona, estimated to be a 10 hour journey.

The bus was due to depart Nice at 11.45pm and arrive in Barcelona at 10am. Our last night in Nice, we wandered to the bus terminal, only to find all the lights off, no bus drivers in sight and a group of people line up. Waiting. Waiting.

11:45 came and went.

12:30 rolled around.

I sought out a Canadian with a French phone to dial the emergency number. He was the oddest duck. Like some combination of Pee Wee Herman with the eyebrows of Freida. My inquiry for the phone call was taken as a friendly introduction and he persisted in talking to me -- rather, standing by me and watching me intently. I tried my best to hold a conversation, while trying to motion to Tammy and Tony to interrupt.

No luck.

Nearly 2am, the bus rolled in. Two hours late. Everyone boards. It is packed to the brim. Half the passengers are under the age of 30, the other half are over 70.

We settled in. Tony, tried to fit his six-foot-something frame into Greyhound-size seats. And Tammy fiddling with the seat adjustments. We quickly learned the only toilet on board is out of order. All the while, the woman to my left muttered profanties and other things in Italian, while her cell phone alarm blared through the silence every half hour.

Hours later and bathroom break number one came.

We're maybe two hours from the border.

Checkpoint one. The French border patrol stopped us. An official entered the bus. Passports were pulled out;

some are collected. Questions directed at certain people. Three people were pulled off the bus. Everyone

waited in vain. All we see is the border control station

and a McDonald's bathroom calling to us, maybe 200 meters away.

We waited. Bus after bus drove by. None are pulled

over. We waited.

An hour passed. The three detained returned. The bus

started up. Each passenger, in their

respective languages, expressed a sigh of relief and we

inched forward towards Spain. We made it 100 meters.

This time, the Spanish guards pulled us over. Three more are pulled off the bus.

We all stared at the McDonald's and wished they release us. People were restless, now cursing in their

respective languages, and stirring in their seats.

And we waited. We watched the bus drivers chain smoke and yell about the ways of the world. We waited.

What seems like hours later, really only 40 minutes

or so, one detainee returned. The other two remained

behind while the bus started up.

We were off. Back on the road to Barcelona.

[typed on a keyboard that is missing the letter "o", a necessary vowel.]

The Hamptons of Europe.

2009-06-08T09:39:00.002-05:00

From Cinque Terre, we headed to Nice (passing through Genova, the birthplace of Christopher Columbus). Nice is what I imagine the Hamptons to be like....full of ts of wealthy people gathered on the water and pricey. There´s a walkway on the water called the English walkway. 100 years ago, the walkway was rebuilt and covered in black marble at the request of the wealthy English visitors. The black marble kept their hems and shoes from the dirt and grim of unpaved roads.

The walkway has since been redone with concrete or asphalt. Casinos, restaurants and shopping line one side of the walkway and private beaches line the other.

We took a day trip from Nice to Monaco, the second smallest country in the world (the first being the Vatican) and Grace Kelly´s home for years. There the Grand Prix was being disassembled and I imagine the people were recovering from an influx of visitors from around the world. The Monte Carlo casino was made of all the luxuries you can imagine, including an admission price to get into the casino. We skipped the casino in lieu of the aquarium.

Built by or for a prince of Monaco who´s passion was sea life, the aquarium is home to numerous species around the world. There´s an eel that sleeps during the day and feeds at night. While he sleeps, shrimp enter his mouth and clean his teeth. And we met the seahorse, famous for its unique pregnancy; the man seahorse carries the baby, leaving the female free.

The town's folk

2009-05-31T11:02:00.001-05:00

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Five italian towns.

2009-05-31T10:47:00.001-05:00

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

(Full) listings.

2009-05-28T17:57:00.006-05:00

Ng pointed earlier that I missed a page with this posting....here's try two, ~~still with one crooked page added for character...tilt your head~~...

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry, pictures edited from Nebraska :)

Listings.

2009-05-27T01:54:00.008-05:00

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Offering in Amsterdam.

2009-05-26T15:38:00.007-05:00

Catching you up on passed time.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry, edited in Nebraska (vertical pictures)

Write. Scan. Send.

2009-05-23T17:41:00.000-05:00

let me know if this works...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

oh, and the photos!

2009-05-14T07:51:00.001-05:00

See them here.

Time swims by.

2009-05-14T07:01:00.002-05:00

I am in London.

Time swims by extraordinarily fast here. I have been here for a week; it feels like I've been here forever and yet, barely at all.

I lived here once in college. My returning to London feels like putting on an old sweatshirt. One that feels familiar but whose stories are lost in memories stored in dusty cabinets. It's taken me the past week to quiet my brain. At times, I wake up and feel as if I should be climbing mountains or writing novels rather than spending my days wandering about the city without anything to show at the day's end.

But here I am, getting evermore accustomed to the freedom that's been given to me.

Most of the museums and some of the major sites in London are free, a price which fits well with my nomadic budget. I'm staying with a friend from college, Lora; while she's studying for her exams, I wander about. She lives in a small flat near Russell Square, conveniently located near Charles Dickens' home, the British Museum and the British Library. In the museum I saw the Rosetta Stone (a sight more impressive than the Mona Lisa), a piece of the Pantheon rebuilt stone by stone, and the evolution of the alphabet. In the library, I listened to speeches of Adolf Hitler, Roosevelt, Churchill and Irish writer Edna O'Brien.

This past weekend took me to Brighton, a city on the coast of England, to see another college friend Marcella. I liken Brighton to the Madison of England, with a bit more history (if you go, visit Bill's for good food). King George IV once took this city underneath his wing and built the Royal Pavilion in the style of Indian architecture. Marcella, who should be a tour guide rather than a marketer, tells that it was here where George *entertained* numerous women and engorged on 28 meals a day. He supposedly died of a heart attack, high blood pressure, or perhaps too much excitement.

On Tuesday, I took the train to Ramsgate, also on the coast on the England. Ramsgate is a town built nestled in a break in the famous white cliffs of England. Michael, who's originally from Wisconsin, who I know through another Michael, moved to Ramsgate with his partner. He was my tour guide of the day through the Caterbury Cathedral which holds the famous Black Knight and the remains of the only King to be buried in a Cathedral (maybe another of the Henrys?). On the train, we saw the town of Sandwich from a distance. The town/county next to Sandwich is Ham; on their shared border is a sign that reads, Ham Sandwich. I think Michael has a picture of it.

The wind was cruel that day and our walk up the beach along the White Cliffs required an English ale at the end. We indulged around the corner from another of Charles Dickens' residencies, which is on the market for a mere $800,000. (If anyone would like to help with the down payment, I should think it'd be a perfect spot for my pancake restaurant I've been meaning to start.) The White Cliffs are made of chalk and flint and still hold some of the tunnels dug by smugglers years ago. I've never seen anything like them! Even the wind didn't detract from their greatness.

And now I'm back in London, sitting in a coffee shop while the coffee waiter is anticipating my departure or purchase of another beverage.

The Grotto of the Redemption

2009-05-01T16:09:00.004-05:00

In West Bend, Iowa lives the largest grotto in the world.

A German immigrant, Father Paul Dobberstein was the man behind the grotto. He promised the Virgin Mary a shrine if she would see him through his life-threatening bout of pneumonia.

For 14 years he gathered stones from around the world -- crystal, ruby, stalactites, shells, fossils, agate, amber, and more. He convinced farmers to haul stones from their fields. I can imagine wagons of stones being dropped off on a weekly basis to the priest's house, much like the milkman once came.

In 1912, the building began. It continued for the next 45 years of Father Paul's life. His vision painted nine grottos (caves), only eight are finished. I estimate it's somewhere around 1800 square feet and three stories high in places. The value of the stones is near $4 million.

News stories found in the Grotto museum, report that Father Paul ignored all the skeptics and cynics and built on. I can't even imagine the dedication and conviction required to build something of this size; it's humbling, for believers and non-believers, to be in its shadows. How often do you come across one life dedicated to one project?

(If you like this and are in Wisconsin, visit Kohler Arts Center, the Sheboygan-based location. There you can step inside the Rhinestone Cowboy house.)

Through a Nikon D60 lens.

2009-04-21T16:32:00.000-05:00

New camera. New shots.

Yes, there are lakes in Nebraska

2009-04-20T17:14:00.003-05:00

Every time I return home, somewhere along the line a conversation will be had about the merits of Nebraska living. The other day, I'm out for happy hour with a few friends. A New York native (mostly raised in Nebraska) remarked that Nebraska's too flat and there are no lakes.

Me, ever full of home state pride, explained that few lakes existed because the largest lake in the world is found 400 feet beneath us. That lake is the Ogallala Aquifer.

While not a lake as you and I would think of lakes--you can't see it--it's there in lake form. I imagine it to be something like an underground Lake Michigan; with a whole lot more lake. It's nearly 8 times larger than Lake Michigan.

Or maybe it's like a giant underground swimming pool
So this New-Yorker-cum-Nebraskan-native whose name I don't remember, my scientist friend Jenny, and I are all discussing aquifer. I've never seen an aquifer. (Has anyone?) My imagination paints it to be this huge scuba diving mecca. Somewhere there has to be some sort of entrance point to this aquifer. Perhaps it's a long waterslide down to the water level with a rope ladder out.

Wikipedia tells that it provides 82% of the drinking water to the people around here. Which leads to another question. The water-level in the aquifer decreases faster than it can be replenished. What happens when all the water is gone? Does the aquifer then become a giant vat of air threatening to collapse?

I hope not. Then my state pride would take a hit. Keep an eye out for the Ogallala Aquifer; if you find the entrance, let me know.

Pillow fight in the heart of the financial district.

2009-04-17T02:57:00.017-05:00

Saturday, April 4th was the annual World Pillow Fight Day. Elvis and I attended the NYC based fight on Wall Street. New Mind Space, the group that devised this day, suggested pillow fighters wear suits and coats in effort to protest the current economic situation. By the time we made it down to Wall Street, NYPD had closed off many of the surrounding streets and were herding pillow-ists to the area beneath the subway. The disparity between police officers and pillow fighters was humorous and odd -- that police officers even bother; pillow fights are supposed to be harmless.

Here's some footage taken on the scene featuring an Elvis, a suitcase with a golden, a man who farted on his pillow and then wipes the farts onto unsuspecting passerbys, pillow fighters and a small glimpse of me.

Pillow Pummelage 2009 made by mitts on Vimeo

Welcome to the farm.

2009-04-10T00:14:00.000-05:00

It was my last day at work. Meg walks over. Dylan's sitting next to me.

Meg : I’m not worried about you, Mytty. You’re going to end up in Brazil somewhere working on a lettuce farm.

Dylan : Yes, and then you’ll end up consulting for the lettuce farm.

M : And then you’ll end up owning the lettuce farm.

D : And then you’ll end up selling lettuce internationally.

M : And then you’ll end up the President of Brazil. You’re going to do just fine.

(Dylan and Meg, feel free to correct my recollection of this exchange.)

This little corner of the web, known to some as the lettuce farm, is where you'll find my random observations, photo captures, and stories of the people I stumble across/upon or into as I wander about for the next few months. Feel free to follow along. Join in – either here or in person (come travel!). Stay in touch. Familiar voices and friendly faces are always welcome in my inbox and along the roads I travel.

And if you send me your address, a postcard might find its way to your mailbox.

See you on the farm.