Teaching Sewing Skills to the Unlikely
I’ve been contacted my Meta of SC. She is in dire need of an apparel make-over redundancy. She tells me, yet I am skeptical, of Luscious the Dammit Goat’s apparent fabric destruction. The Dammit Goat has been with us for over ten years and while we adore her, the wave of wanton destruction must cease.
Mama Lard gave me permission to tell MMG about the possibility of retrofitting some draperies – creating lovely ball gowns in the Carol Burnett-style. Heavy enough to stand firm and not be gone with the winds of hurricane force. For me? I need some drawers. Mama Lard says not until winter but waiting is a painful opportunity.
Today work on the Fluxus Phonographical Time Transporter continues. I managed to recapitulate a small spider but no progress with the larger items — the kitchen table is still here. This is no laughing matter. There may be laughing cows, yes, but no laughing goats. Check these goat trauma stats. Everyone this Goat Fluxus is a figment of my imagination. Everyone else will tell you I have no imagination. Meanwhile, thousands of children needlessly suffer goat trauma and here you are, reading this and not doing anything about it.
Back to work on the FPTT. While relaxing here with my Dammit Goat Peril Suggestions, forty-five premium dialogs have cascaded thusly, reducing the formula by η over ± accumulating the flux to θ≈.
Phonographical Time Traveler
It is time. The Flux Monitor reveals all. Yes, patrons of the assemblage rag, the most recent of days contains many puzzling conundrums. Can a conundrum not puzzle? Let me redact. I have assembled all the necessary proponents for my Correlation Phonographical Time Traveler. At the present moment, only the smallest of object can transport – specifically caterpillars of only the American butterflies, such as the Ozark Woodland Swallowtail. Soon, therefore, larger species will be enabled.
I've just completed Stage VII of the capturing device.
Dogs and Storm Fears
Today is punctuated by thunderous exclamation points and storm-scared dogs. Linus shivers, quakes with pain caused by barometric pressure responses of genetic value.
DNA. Dogs who fear storms and loud noises come by this trait genetically. Perhaps it’s like the circling before laying down. That primal urge to flatten the grass is built in and curiously remains, not driven away through evolutionary progress. So then, early canines sensed atmospheric disturbances. This could have saved lives, one supposes, if the animal lived in a hurricane prone or volcanic region. The trembling may have alerted other animals, told them to flee. This makes little Linus a sentinel dog. A warning system gone askew, wrought asunder by radar and TV channels dedicated solely to storm response.
But see… I will know. Technology doesn’t have to inform here. This will be a terrific storm with lighting and perhaps flash floods. Our weather dog quivers next to me, here on the bed as I type. He pants. He will not rest. The distant thunder begins to move more quickly over the coastal plain. Poor guy. Nerves shattered. A quiet afternoon of commas and ellipses turns quickly exclamatory in its essence. I’ll sit here with him until it passes. Sometimes I do this for hours, all through the night, with both of us worn and tattered by dawn. We’re trying Elavil, something to calm him, just a few milligrams. Benadryl doesn’t help. Soft words in gentle good boy tones do nothing to quell his fear.
Yes, I lived in the Dallas County jail.
Dallas County
We ran the jail in 1976-1977. Sheriff Joe Pennington, a distant cousin, gave us the gig. The jail was demolished a few years later but while it existed, it was intriguing and a once in a lifetime opportunity. Not for the prisoners, no no no, but for us, it was rather interesting. I have many jail stories to tell and will do so soon. Meanwhile, the photo above is proof I did exist in Fordyce, near Klappenbach’s Bakery, working at the Allied Telephone Company as an operator while John went to college at U of A, Monticello. Ex-John. Now-Rob.
The Fear of all Sums – An Artist Statement
My father Bob Heinold had some truly fantastic sayings to insert at the proper moment. This morning I remember a sly, sideways smile as he told me, “Some are born to lead,” in response to my winning an honorable mention for a science fair project in the 7th grade. 1967 or thereabouts. Mom used to say things like “They told me you weren’t fit to eat with the pigs and I said you were.” If she was particularly vexed with my attempt to clean up and appear respectable, she would ask, “Did you get dressed in the closet with the lights out?” or, the famous, “Did you comb your hair with a rake?” These were said with a laugh and a hug, and a complete acceptance of who I was and where I was going (like to a real barn to ride a horse or to the slough to make a frog dam.)
When Momma passed away last April, right on the heels of my sister’s death, it occurred to me that the stories were gone. No one wanted to sit outside on moonlit southern nights, swatting skeeters and swapping stories. My nephews don’t know the stories, my daughters are busy making lifestories of their own, and Rob listens – tolerant to a fault, but his mind is on other things. So Heinold lifestories rest in my head. My brother committed suicide in 1974, his life became a story before he was 23 years old. Aunts and uncles? All gone. Cousins reside in far away places.
I turn to art when there’s a good tale to tell. Collages tell amazing stories. Assemblages take those paragraphs and create 3-D representations of conversations. My favorite pieces are my Story Boxes. “Sister Begonia Saves the Orphan Train” is finished, all that’s left is the Artist Statement, whic in my case means “The Story of Sister Begonia” in text not figures. I think the studio calls to me today, it wants me to create a Bob Story with baseball as the center motivation. Photos of the Sister to be added later, but here you find a couple not-to-great photos of Sister Begonia’s story statement.