I made a little book and I'm feeling pretty good about it. Making a book like this has been a goal of mine for-perhaps-ever.

I write a lot. When I'm writing regularly, I feel a little more aware of myself. Though it can sometimes exacerbate my feelings/problems/obsessions, I'm pretty sure that no real thought-maturation happens internally, and nothing concretely becomes part of my behavior, until I've first written it down.

But I don't write poems the same way I write for myself. There's probably more than a few parallels between poem-making and arrangement-making, and I won't bore you with old school metaphors, but I will say that using stolen material is pretty intrinsic to both. There's a certain deviance I lean into when I'm making. (And maybe when I'm doing lots of things / / I don't know.) And there's a loss of self, a forgetting of boundaries, a kind of empathy with the future reader/observer but really a great, abiding, transformative empathy with the material. Flowers or language: doesn't matter. The point is to rest for a minute inside a different kind of container.

So maybe none of this makes sense. Just like poems! Just like playing with decaying plant matter and calling it art.

What concretely does make sense is that you can hold this little book in your hands on FRIDAY, that is Black Friday, that is GET AWAY FROM THE MALL and DON'T EVEN DRIVE ANYWHERE, but show up between 5 and 9 pm at the Superior Merchandise Co. Holiday Market in the little city of Troy.

There will be so many great makers there, and we'll be chilling and feeling holiday-ish and smiling sweet nothings at each other. Come fondle this book and maybe buy one if you want! I'll also have wreaths, winter bulb kits, houseplants, 'lil sage bundles and a host of other stuff.