Essays, field notes, conversations. Most of it written between 10pm and 3am after the kind of day that does not have an obvious end. None of it for sale.
On the strange domestic problem of having had a vision and now having to make breakfast. Notes from the kitchen at 6am.
Read →A loving rant about Sanskrit screen-prints, mass-produced mandalas, and what happens when reverence stops paying rent.
Read →We asked: what do you wear to your own integration? Three honest answers and one really, really good t-shirt recommendation.
Read →A short, slightly impatient piece about why the morning routine isn't going to fix what 14-hour days are doing to your nervous system.
Read →A short, honest dispatch on the strange feeling of selling out a small thing very fast, and the weird ethics of restock culture.
Read →In which we take ourselves much less seriously than the post-ceremony integration economy seems to require, and try to explain why that might be the work.
Read →The cotton, the dye lot, the cut, the wash, the print, the tag, the box. Including all of the small unglamorous steps in between.
Read →We sat down for tea with the woman who actually sews most of what you wear. The conversation turned out to be mostly about her grandfather.
Read →Spoiler: a discount. Sub-spoiler: anything. A short note on why the answer to a sale season is sometimes nothing at all.
Read →The Letter is the slow, single best thing we put out. One essay, one song, one quiet update. No discounts, no funnel, no act now. Just a piece of writing that tries to be worth your time.