Yes, it is now safe to go to the bathroom. Toilet paper at last.

There is something to be said for clean kitchens, white tile showers, a shortage of unshowered stangers. An apartment of ones own is nothing to be sneezed at. At the Greenhouse the smell of compost holds noses in the kitchen hostage. Greenhouse floors constantly yield dust as if the earth my housemate activists want so deeply to save is coming up, growing like their other miraculous, anti-Miracle Grow plans unconnected to firm soil, out of the second and third story floorboards. But not all Greenhouse thought is disconnected from New Haven streets, suspended in mid air. There is dirt and grime and grit (I'm going for my first dumpster diving expedition ever Tuesday). And here at the Greenhouse we believe everone should cultiver notre jardin. (Notre an important word, communal, the only way to set up commune with the earth.) There's the farm share. We groom organic lettuce and rope up organic baby tomato plants. When there're utopian organic vegetable beds to tend to (idealists need to be fed by these ideas that have grown into rows and need weeding), beds don't get made, dishes washed, mold discouraged from growing. It seems things are always growing here. Clouds of flies blossom out of the kitchen sink. The sixties psychadelic shower curtain, formerly clear with pink and yellow flowers, turned brown. The flowers weren't hydroponic happy; they needed to root themselves in earthy flowerbeds. Usually soil grows flowers, but at the topsy-turvy greenhouse flowers grow soiled shower curtains. Then there are the excrementals who grew in the common room. Seeds blown along their course, plotting the march from the DNC to the RNC, Adam and Mikey plotted themselves right down in the bright stripes of the common room usually only known for it's fertile crops of couches, chairs, peace flags, and pillows that sprout buttons of the family "No Nukes," the rarer variety "Support Kyoto," and the common (room goes wild) flowers "Local 35: We're with you!" and "Jews for Change at Yale." Adam and Mikey seemed like they were mulched with manure. The excrementals, experimentals, extra-mentals, they were hydrophobe hippies. When their smell grew too great, they had to be transplanted out of the House. But they and the other passing and staying activists tended to thoughts, planted seeds of insurgencies, hoed out patches of rebellions. We're growing revolutions. Home-grown revolutionnaries taste best and are more nutritious than your sterile supermarket vegetables. No pesticides, deodorant, or razors ruin these crops. Incidentally, not so coincidentally, I'm helping out a housemate, selling organic vegetables for a farmer friend of Marina's while she's out in Cali next weekend. Wooster Square Farmer's Market July 17th. If you're in town stop by to see me and the beginning of the City Seeds organic revolt.