Free Ideas


Here are some

free ideas,

in case you're

not busy.

love languages dating app

The five love languages describe how you like to give and receive love. They are: quality time, words of affirmation, touch, acts of service, and giving gifts. Giving and receiving are matched up between people and, voilà, hi-dating-etc.


Apple Cider Vinegar Shooters in biodegradable packaging

I like the taste these days.

I like the taste these days.

We’re not entitled to like everything
we eat.
— Fat Mike

Job search by Myers Briggs type


Sub-idea, dating search by Myers Briggs??

Fight Cubby 

Like a phone booth with a punching bag. Maybe you put in a quarter and the money goes to meditation resources for the public. Meditation cubby?



An older woman told me about how back in her day, they used to wear brooches or pins in certain spots to signal their relationship status. The first definition of swipe  isa “sweeping blow or stroke." Wearing a brooch is much more exciting and beautiful. And what are we going to do with all those brooches anyway?

 Holographic eBay dressing room

Chances are something already exists that meets your needs, and maybe exceeds them. Clothing is one example of a huge creation of waste. I needed eyeglasses recently, and thought of all the beautiful ones I saw that people couldn’t love because how the hell do you buy glasses online. eBay had an income of $2.265 billion dollars in 2017, I’d say at the very least they could check in on it.




Once, I yawned and an archivist said there should be a "bless you" for a yawn, a solidarity and acknowledgement of our mortality. Samael was the angel of death—giving us the great sleep before the yawn. We’re all going to die. Why not give it a nod here and there. Besides, it seems polite to say something to someone when they make a silly face.


 Sponsor A Sad

Being sad makes everything harder, especially making money, which is what we’ve chosen to go with for now. Here is a depressing article about how basic income is a mental health issue. I'm sure you know someone who experiences behavioral health issues. Imagine a world that allowed you to be sad, that even supported this.

Like people sponspor people in other countries, or micro loans, this is a way for A Sad (depressed, manic, mixed, psychotic, blue, black dog, etc) to get some resources to help with their time and needs. I don’t think the answer is to rely on the government, but of each other, because we are the ones who know what it is like. Maybe there is a chat app, or a pop up everyone in a while that asks how you’re doing. If you are doing well, then it asks you to give a buck or two. One of the hardest parts about being In It, is time. It is difficult enough to deal with those emotions, and it is another to be poor alongside it. Healing takes time, time takes money (ugh). A few bucks could give someone an afternoon in the sun, or a long bath, or sleeeeeeeep.


Wife Eaters

You’ve heard of wife beaters. They are called wife beaters, and everyone complains about the name, but what to do? New name: wife eaters. Let’s promote the right thing.



I live in a place where the population will double within 15ish years. My family has lived in this land since before it was America, and before it was New Spain. With the increase in prices of everything, it feels like I will never be able to afford to buy a home in my home, a longstanding dream of this Taurus. The bottom two levels of needs from Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs are rest, food, water, warmth. The next is shelter and safety. There is freedom in the steady.

Plot twist, the ___insert tribe name here___ American Indians are the owners of the company. This land was taken over and over again. What better way than to return control of it to the people who were here first.



Yours, Maya

The Passion of Joanie of Arc

This is a story about three miracles and three objects. Objects are symbols moving through time. "Miracles are expressions of love and all expressions of love are maximal."  

I answer nothing from my own head; what I answer is command of my Voices.
— Joan of Arc

Miracle I


St. Joan of Arc is a martyr of France and the Catholic Church. She was illiterate and uneducated. At a young age she had visions from God which lead France to victory in the Hundred Years’ War. She travelled with the army dressed in a men’s uniform with donated armor. She carried a banner instead of a sword. She was captured by the English, tried illegally and convicted of heresy in 1431.

She was 19 when she burned at the stake. Her choice was twofold: recant her testimony and unify with the Church, or die. Under pressure at her trial, Joan did it—she took it all back, and who can blame her? The call to save your homeland seems daunting enough. Four days later Joan returned to her truth. She said her false confession was for fear of the fire that would engulf her. She said, “One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are, and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.” I’d like to know the conversation she had in her head when she decided to die rather than live a liar. What did she tell herself?

Ms. Bergman in 1948.

Ms. Bergman in 1948.

Leelee eeeleeleeeee

Leelee eeeleeleeeee

Tits / Chiconi.

Tits / Chiconi.

Joan is the patron saint of captives. I think that includes captives of ourselves. She was a captive of herself too, as she held onto her understandable desire to live. Instead, she surrendered everything and said It. A commission of inquiry described her as being “of irreproachable life, a good Christian, possessed of the virtues of humility, honesty and simplicity.” Helluva a gal. How did she do that?

She has remained a figure of sanctity and controversy as the most prolific figure of the medieval period. I’m only beginning to understand my gravitation towards her and what her I can take from her life into mine. What I notice about her is that she was able to escape death by freeing herself. I don't know what this means.


My obsession began after seeing a film telling her life. It began a journey and a collection that keeps going.



The silent film La passion de Jeanne d’Arc, directed by Dreyer, was released in France four years after St. Joan’s canonization. The film is historically accurate, based on the existing transcriptions of the trial, yet arranged as if the proceedings happened in an hour and a half. Lead actress Renee Jeanne Falconetti’s Joan was heralded as one of the finest on film. “I don’t know what it was that I saw in her face, but I felt I couldn’t find a better one anywhere. She didn’t act for me; she just used her own face,” said Dreyer.

The set was enormous and expensive, yet director Dreyer rejected establishing shots, save three. Of the film’s 1500 cuts, fewer than 15 constitute a continuous match on action. The film has been described as feeling more like a documentary than a drama. I first saw it in 2011 and began a quest to curl up inside it and know everything about Joan, Dreyer and Falconetti. 

The battle for this film to exist has occurred at every level of production, release and archival. After censorship, being lost in fire after fire, it still survived in it’s own corner waiting to be seen. It's miraculous that we get to see it




I began at the end of Dreyer’s work. His last manuscript, Jesus was a long-term dream for him, and unaccomplished at the time of his death in March 1968. Three essays in the book explain his aims on the subject and story of Jesus. He made films in Europe during wars and was particularly affected by the anti-Semitism of WWII. Asked about his intent for Jesus, he said, “I think it will aid in lessening the antagonism between Christian and Jew. For this reason, among others, I know that I want to let Jesus be shown as a Jew. The masses have a deeply rooted conception that Jesus was blond and Aryan. It is a good turn I think, to see to it that this prejudice is stamped out.”

He did like Jesus—he aimed to unify what was separate. It was story about Jesus’ life, not his death. Dreyer said that film was his one great passion. I don’t know my one great passion. I don’t know that’ll I’ll ever choose. I share his aspiration for peace, for closeness of what is only perceived as separate. I should be so lucky to have a project like that to leave behind when I die. 


Object Two: Falconetti by Helene Falconetti


She dropped all of her inhibitions and allowed her feelings to well up from the unconscious level and be recorded on film.
— Carl Th. Dreyer

The most interesting, and coveted character in this journey is Renée Jeanne Falconetti. She was a French theatre actress born in 1892. Jeanne was Falconetti’s only film role. Her portrayal of Joan is stunning and singular. She was committed to the role in the most beautiful and heartbreaking way. She famously shaves her head in the film, coaxed by Dreyer with an “appealed to her as an artist.” A few days before the cut, her doubts crept in. The day of the scene everyone was sent away and she sat in the chair. “I felt as if I had been condemned to death. I felt as if I were about to be executed. I didn’t need to play that scene; I could just be myself,” Falconetti said. 

Almost nothing about her exists. She is found in clips and pictures here and there but much of her life is lost. She went to Argentina with her child. After her benefactor died, she gave elocution lessons to manage. There is evidence she experienced mental illness. She killed herself in 1946.

She said that film sets made her tired. They took a lot out of her—they take a lot out of me too. I felt a kinship between her and viewed her as a mentor from the past. I felt like we were the same type of crazy. The kind that creeps up and sinks you while you don’t even notice. I wanted to know the secret error and living artistry of her life. I wanted to discover her life and to live for both of us. I wanted to have her over for tea and talk about what makes us feel love. I want to not go crazy and die myself.

I found a rare biography written by her daughter. It’s in French, but I was sure there was an answer in there. I watched the price fluctuate online. My friend Kick works at a used bookstore, and had mutually joined the obsession of the film. He was following the status of the book and notified me that the few copies of it online had disappeared. The nearest copy to me was 800 miles away in an Illinois library.

A few weeks later one copy appeared for sale. I bought it without regard for my nutritional needs for 52$. It is full of pictures I’ve never seen of her. Someday I’ll translate the whole book, simultaneously learning French. I'll go to Montmartre to set flowers on her grave. I'll give up wanting her secret. 

— Renée Jeanne Falconetti

miracle III

Object III: The Passion of Joanie of Arc

Short film


Child's play + La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc = The Passion of Joanie of Arc

Production design department selfie.

Production design department selfie.


The culmination of these experiences and objects led to creating a short film. When a friend asked me if I ever engaged in play, I knew that I didn’t. I felt resistance to my inner child lurch in my stomach. He was on to something.

I’ve started sitting on the floor more. I go to the park to swing. I sing or skip around at work. I bought a coloring book. My approach began to change from rigidity to a do-anyway ethos. The idea of remaking Jeanne aims at the perfection of the film by imitating it, and accepting imperfection—serious and silly. It was terrifying and necessary to complete. Also Kick and I needed haircuts. 

The piece was performed mimicking several elements of the original film. Like Dreyer, I simplified and cut up the story and script to meet a shorter timeframe. It avoids establishing shots with lots of close-ups. We it is subtitled in English as we spoke (shitty) French. No makeup. We shot in one day with a small crew due to the extreme tonsure haircut I gave Kick. We used cardboard for our set and spray-painted it pink, just as they did for Jeanne. I tried to make this piece like Joan made her life, with humility, honesty and simplicity. I tried to make it like a child. I’ve been trying to make everything like a child, a nod to the earnestness of first tries with the hopes of having a second.

To believe yourself brave is to be brave; it is the one only essential thing.
— Mark Twain, Reflections on Joan of Arc



Aide toy, Dieu te aidera
— Joan of Arc | "Help yourself and God will help you"

Dress-Up with Bailey

Dress-Up is the best game I know. Bailey is the best 7th grader I know. Bailey is down.  He's down to rock a wicker hat, down for an adventure or a new instrument in band. He says, "that's chill" a lot. He calls almost everything fun. I want to be more like Bailey. We played dress up sharing each other's clothes because, because.

BAILEY: Maya's silk chartreuse top and Jesus bag; his mud boots and mom's skirt

MAYA: Bailey's parrot shirt; her silk beaded dress and sneakers 

Everything would be better if people didn’t have opinions.
— Bailey

BAILEY: Maya's wicker hat, space sandals, foamy crop top and league jacket; his cargo pants

MAYA: Bailey's monkey shirt, wool coat and Converse sneakers; her Stevie Nicks pants


Favorite Bailey text


BAILEY: Maya's blazer and belt; his mesh sports crop-top and man's pants

BAILEY: Maya's silk scrap, carnival pants and hand basket; his Lyric shirt and sneakers

MAYA: Bailey's button cap and ancient marching band bolero; her Hawaii jumpsuit and sneakers  

"Magenta is the silliest color I know. Other than nerple." -B

"What's "nerple"? - Me

"It's a secret." -B

BAILEY: Maya's nurse's romper, his cape and necklace; Bailey's braids by Wildrose Hamilton.

MAYA: Bailey's cape and mega-wellies, her dress.





Art requires neither complaisance nor politeness; nothing but faith, faith and freedom.
— Gustav Flaubert


With a Homeless Friend of Lester Bangs

short story

She began to tell me a story just as we were finishing lunch. I tried to keep her as long as I could knowing I rarely get to see a woman like her up close. She had someplace to be soon after.

She said a man of the streets and the Other came into the cafe where she worked, "Way back when I was 24."  I've been 24, I thought. He was in his 40s and looked like he shaved with a knife. He smoked two hundred cigarettes out on the sidewalk. He kept his bags in a corner. He was polite and lonely.

She and Ruth closed early on that slow Monday night. The thought of sitting down by him was the only noise in her head. She felt obliged, so she did it. She thought about bringing a notebook with her but decided not to. When she told me this story she said she didn’t remember what they talked about in the beginning. “It was one of those ones that are so real you get amnesia because you’re meant to feel it, not think. After a moment of silence he said, 'Tell me something that weighs heavy on your heart.'"

"I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it so much I had no idea what to say,” she said.

“What did you say?” I said.

She complained to him, going on about how no one cares about your pedestrian problems when youre in your twenties. “I hate this place and I want everything and it feels impossible to start because it seems meaningless before it even begins.” He listened to her in stillness. She felt like a jackass even though his eyes weren't judging her. He leaned back in the sofa and said, "Someone once told me that the only thing that matters is what you share with others when you’re uncool. It’s not about being cool, it’s about how cool you are with being uncool.” He sipped his coffee.

She didn’t remember the end of the conversation, which I was disappointed about but I liked what he said. I liked what he said and what he asked her considering he had no place to sleep that night. "It broke my heart and restored my faith in humanity at once," she said.

When he left she gave him more coffee and a leftover bagel. She went home and opened the drawer of all her supplies, her half-schemed ideas, all the pecked-at notebooks and unused pencils. Her camera, paints, cloth and clippings. "It had always been the problem of not knowing what to do next," she said. I knew exactly what she meant.

    “That’s when I started. That’s when it all really changed.”

    “What changed?” I said.

    “ I kept going.”

I could hardly understand what she meant but knew that I wanted to feel that way too. I admired her so much and she had gone so far. I wanted what she had. As I stood up to leave she said, from her seat, “I hope you find it. I think you will.” I wasn’t so sure. She smiled and walked me to the door. I watched her walk down the street after she left me graciously with a kiss on the cheek. She did not turn back.

 Later that night I walked into my apartment and saw my roommate rearranged everything. The first thing I saw was myself in a mirror across from the door. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it was statistical inevitability, maybe it was everything or nothing or both. I stood there for a moment with myself. Then I went to my desk and did the next thing that came to my head.

Liberty Enlightening the World with child's crown

I ask the students to set themselves up in such a way that they'll learn as quickly as possible. I'm teaching spontaneity, and therefore I tell them that they mustn't try to control the future, or to 'win'; and that they're to have an empty head and just watch. When it's their turn to take part they're  to come out and just do what they're asked to, and see what happens. It's this decision not to try and control the future which allows the students to be spontaneous.  -Keith Johnstone, Impro




I know that I want us to be free. I know that freedom is an action. I know that I know nothing.

The Free Corner is  a mixture and  mirror of what-is and what-could-be reaching for that-which-we-do-not-know.  It's what knocks on my skull, asking to Be in the world which I do not understand. In that action, we time travel together forward-- closer to The End.

mirror | mixed | make | monthly




If you want to know

You follow thru the circles 

And then, who knows what

Nina and Watts ____ US

This is the real secret of life — to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.
— Alan Watts