It’s cold around here, the wind, the wind, the wind. Ah the wind, it swirls and penetrates, adding a toothy bite to whatever cold keeps in northern ice. The wind turbines spinning above corn stubble are gathering energy for comfortable utility of modern types, living past the wind; however in the tent the heating is last-century archaic. We found pot-belly stoves in the junk delivered by the locals. Outside its’ the cold, inside it’s drafty warm, pot-belly coal stoves are roaring rusty orange hot.
Everybody’s amiable around a pot-belly stove, warming hands. It is very communal, especially for those with storied pasts who have come to exhibit and perform. Mystic memories, darkened poetry of personal and ancestral memories, cultural agrarian memories, the darkened reminder of industrial memories, times we understand by virtue of “back-in-the-day…”memories. Unquestioned veracity memories, the warmth of old thoughts in a cold world memories, the warm antique junk rag-and-bone shop memories; the, oh so cool, film noire memories.
Memories (and conversations) come out with the smell of hot boiling coffee the color of soot (and about as dense ), snapping spattering crisp burnt bacon with hot-cakes and syrup, and the nostalgic dusty envelopment of burning coal.
Anachronistically speaking winter in a dusky cave probably started the whole “art” thing; constant babbling and bother, blackened marks on walls.
Stop by next Saturday let’s see where stories and scribbles might lead.