It's super duper hot here.  Which means great berry weather.

We are the weirdos pilfering the berries on the sides of the paved paths in our small city.  We brave the hobos, sudden long boarders and, sometimes, a bit of awshucks embarrassment to have a little warm berry snack, about the most delicious thing you can imagine eating.

We've had people say, omg, you can't eat that.  Because it's transgressive to just eat food without the intermediary of a vendor.  Without the permission implied by the paying for a commodity.  Like we consumer animals and we eat products, not food.

I think that we have an obligation to ourselves to maintain some autonomy from commercial interests.  Saving seeds, growing a garden, trading with your neighbor, growing fruit trees, learning what wild edible species you can forage in your area (particular invasive species or crazy prolific like dandelions).

But I think that about everything.  Making your own clothes, your own art, your own fun.  Not all of it, but some.  Enough to know you can do if the alien lizard monkey beasts do take over and we have to live exclusively by our own efforts.

Ten years ago people used to ask why bother sewing clothes when you can anything you want at Walmart instantly for less money.  People don't ask anymore; DIY has come into it's own since then, and there are plenty of manifestos out there that have explained it better than I ever will, but, generally, everybody gets it now.  That's why they spend money at Walmart to buy home décor and clothes that look handmade.  Culturally, there is value (or even just aesthetic) in doing it (or appearing to) yourself.

I'm still in the actually doing it for yourself mode. It's what, to me, constitutes freedom. 


  1. My dad used to take us berry picking when I was a kid. Some of my happiest memories are of serenditipous blackberry thickets and makeshift berry buckets made from grocery bags. Sadly the area surrounding my city has become more shopping center, less nature. We grow gooseberries, blueberries and currants in our front yard and I hope Wub grows up with that same kind of simple joy of warm berries and no cash exchanged.