Don't Tread On Me

I see the weirdest things on my morning walk. Once in a great while, I remember to bring my camera along to record the more memorable moments. Like the above coiled, and apparently ready to strike, snake. (Which is actually a bank, as there is a slot in its head). Somebody carefully placed it on the lid of a sewer line at the juncture of the dirt road and the end of our road. It's been there since this summer. Only now do I get around to documenting it...
Anyway, I am deep in the throes of that jittery, quasi-anxious stage at the end of one art project and the beginning of another. I finally finished my "Hold Menu" collages and am very happy with the seven pieces that I made. They look great as a suite or series, but work on their own. And who isn't plagued by those bland, computer generated voices that encourage us to, "Hold the line; your call is very important to us". The project that I have just begun, have been conceptualizing for a couple of weeks, is taking me in some pretty uncomfortable directions. I typically do a bit of "research" and this piece (which will be an artist's book) has got me looking into an unpleasant subculture. I hate to be so vague, but when I'm initially involved in a new project, I often can't/don't want to divulge too much. I am not sure if it's superstition that I might jinx my plans, or whether it's just that I quite simply am very foggy myself about where I'm going and can't take others along on such an unplanned ride. Or something. I frequently go through a prolonged gestation period; it sort of feels like you have on someone else's damp socks and they're a size too small. Something to think about! But ideas keep coming.
Update on that accursed sweet potato. You will recall that Bob stuck one in a glass of water, fully eight days ago, now. Still no sprouting, so we suspect "Bud Nip". Heaven help us! Clorpropham is here! In or home!

It takes on a wholly new sinister look, sort of like the Dick Cheney of sweet potatoes. Already things to look out for in the New Year.