The Urbanmonks Thinktank progressing well. The chai book design is almost compete and looking outstanding.

The plan is to sell books on the street this summer as well as sell some chai or other healthy and tasty beverages, like iced green tea and honey. Check out my sketches for a bike-drawn wooden cart (with steel frame) that functions as a mobile bookshop and street cafe. Simple. Classic. Street culture. Engaging in the public, and the public space. Perhaps have a little soapbox for a mini-stage for musical guests or vaudeville-inspired variety show.

I hope to carry a few folding chairs as well so that I can really create a street cafe. Trying to decide whether to paint the cart a bright color or to go with the classic wooden finish (the notion of a a bright cart is influenced by recent trip to Mexico City, while the classic wood finish is inspired by early american ben franklin-esque local press/local business vibe).

Any thoughts?

Porch Wisdom

Grandfather had many personal theories
On deer, on soil, weather and human relationships
These were seeds he would toss onto the fields of our young minds
The truth was amorphous, it was deeper than fact, he would say

On deer, on farming, weather and human relationships
Long evenings on the porch were his natural home
The truth was amorphous, it was deeper than fact, he would say
The sweetness of his cherry pipe stained my plaid shirts

Long evenings on the porch were his natural home
The bible, his journal and a stack of old field guides beside him
The sweetness of his cherry pipe stained my plaid shirts
His eyes re-reading the clouds

The bible, his journal, and a stack of old field guides beside him
Each day he’d present some new riddle
His eyes re-reading the clouds
When you have a fever, the depths become shallow and the shallows become deep

Each day he’d present some new riddle
A stone tossed into the pond, a barn swallow surfing the evening air
When you have a fever, the depths become shallow and the shallows become deep
When you are little, you don’t yet know the world, but you know the soul

A stone tossed into the pond, a barn swallow surfing the evening air
When we are little, seven or eight or so,
We don’t yet know the world, but we know the soul
We want little more than to smell that cherry tobacco in the humid summer evening air