Not What, But Who

Today tastes like spaghetti sauce, the kind someone's grandmother spent the weekend simmering on her stove with tomatoes she grew in her own little garden, spicy sausage, and plenty of garlic. Maybe with just a little red wine to give it some earth.

I come from a long line of practically creative people. That is, people who think/thought outside the box as a matter of survival, rather than as a means of ego satisfaction.¹

So it should come as no surprise that I write (and have been published and paid for it, thenkyew veddy much) and that I design (and have been paid for it, thenkyew veddy much) and that I only regret that there are not enough hours in the day for me to pursue ALL of the things that I love.²

And it should come as no surprise, that my li'l brah, Lumpkin, should be interested in film. For, after all, what is film but another way to tell a story? A story in pictures and spoken words.

So Noir Chicken Studios is putting together a feature-length release film, In the Wind. And it turns out that they need a specific and particular prop--a scarf.

But not just a regular blue-light special scarf. As Lumpkin described it, "This is the Scarf of the Apocalypse. It needs to be kind of Mad Max meets Debbie Stoller."

And I thought it was hard getting suggestions for Adverb . . .

Fotunately, I own a little stash. (I can quit any time I want!!) Plastic bags are easy to come by . . . and rabbit skins aren't expensive. I have some nylon twine in the garage. And it's possible to make holes in knitting without adversely affecting the structural integrity (lace is stronger than it looks).

I've fired up the needles, and here's the first of the randomly-timed updates I've promised:



Not bad for a beginning.

1. The apocryphal story here concerns a great-aunt and her daughters left alone on the prairie while the men drove the cattle to Santa Fe. This was back in the day when we had open prairie, and just enough water and grazing for the livestock that provided livelihood.

Anyhoo, we had one grown woman and several girl children keeping house with the nearest neighbor many miles away. No phones. No police department. Nada.

A handful of sheepherders rode up to the barbed wire fence, and made to cut the fence so as to water and feed the flock off this woman's land. Not such a bad thing--except that the grass wouldn't grow back in time to feed the cattle. No cows, no money, no supplies--no family.

And as you've inferred, no menfolk, and no guns.

So great-aunt outfitted the girl children with every stick and pole she could find, and held up her broomstick to her shoulder, and they poked out the slit windows and cracked door, aiming them at the men and the sheep by the fence a couple dozen yards away.

And great-aunt called out as loudly as she could, "Now, don't fire 'till I give the word! You wait for me now!"

And the men and their flock left the barbed wire be, and turned around and rode off. History being written by the victors, we do not know if they were more afraid of getting shot . . . or of the crazy woman triying to kill them with a broomstick.

2. I love my money job. A lot. And it pays the bills without my having to chase it around and beat it over the head. I go to the office, and for about eight hours a day, I pursue someone else's agenda. I don't have to create a job every morning, once a week, several times a year. I don't have to market myself every day, write press releases every time I do something, or jury into shows or pack my studio to travel and teach.

Would I love to live by my art? Be a big name in a small pond? Yeeeeesssss, but. I've had a taste of that, and the answer is, "Not right now." I'm happy at the level I'm on--working a money job most of the day, and plying my trade a little at a time.