CLICK PLAY TO HEAR SHANNON READ THE POEM
I am an Odd Fellow in The Tribe of Individualism and America is my Great Spirit.
Most Americans and probably most people in the Western world, have no real concept of how secret societies have truly underwritten the architecture of modern day civilization for good and or for evil. Which is not what I’m really here to fulfill as an understanding today. Nope, that’s next week! This writing is but a mere peek into a facet of one branch and my own reflection within the workings of that group.
In my own humble opinion, The Odd Fellows, were one of the more charitable in the history of such societies, and were part of what could be likened to an offshoot program of Masonic traditions but were “friendlied” up to make them more appealing to a nation full of working class people. The Odd Fellows became part of what were called The Friendly Societies and they, along with others like The Elks, Knights of Pythias, Order of Rebecca, Order of The Eastern Star, Alee Temple and dozens, became charitable arms of the nation embracing many causes. They assisted in the building of orphanages, asylums, hospitals, schools, and so many wonderful things that in my opinion, were at the height of advancement until Robber Barons captured the American dollar and in so many ways, gave control of welfare over to the government. I will also write about this in coming days to highlight how this radical and yet, subtle changing of the guard was an abysmal failure and today we have the crime, the ghettos along with the hate movements of the “have nots” to prove it.
By 1910, The Odd Fellows were the largest of fraternal orders in America, with 5 million members and raising 100 million annually in charitable revenues. The Odd Fellows were comprised of workers, actors, comedians and quite the “odd mix,” hence their name and are credited with being America’s first insurance salesman and notably, were the first whites to institutionally harbor slaves and teach them to read and write. In fact, there were black Odd Fellows who were still slaves and all of that collaboration was dangerous to say the least but shows the heart of such organizations. Furthermore, we typically hear the conventional narrative of Harriet Tubman and The Underground Railroad, but what is strangely lacking is how the The Odd Fellows were greatly instrumental to the movement and helped organize the “tracks” for which slaves could travel. In such reading? The “safe houses” that are often discussed and the symbols built into chimneys that designated them as havens for hiding were homes of Odd Fellow members. Quakers too, but lots of Odd Fellows. In fact, some of the marks on the houses were the symbols of The Odd Fellows. Every now and again, you’ll go through a Southern town and can still find those symbols in the brick design of chimneys and exterior woodwork.
Respective of myself as a storyteller in cemeteries, one aspect that is of great interest to me is that The Odd Fellows were a part and parcel to new thinking about cemetery layout in The Victorian Era, working hand in hand with city fathers as far as where they would make sense to create and how they should function in times of pandemics and the processing of the dead. Many “Stranger Sections” were courtesy of The Odd Fellows for burying indigents and “persons unknown.” It was not uncommon to find an Odd Fellows Lodge in very close proximity to a Victorian cemetery in the period. And for those who are in the know about such things, a good many of the symbols found on Victorian headstones, stem from The Odd Fellows’ canon. Their motto was, “Visit The Sick & Dying. Educate The Orphan: Bury The Stranger.” My kind of people you could say.
In part what moved me to write a few things about them today was that I unboxed my 19th century “Red Race” ritual costume and hung it up on my living room wall. Complete with quiver and arrows, a traveling bag, medicine pouch with flint rock and starter stick and then a rather creepy mesh mask that is smiling adorned with real hair, probably horse. I’ve had it for couple of years and decided while house cleaning it was time to show it off.
Seeing this costume also recalled that in a time when people didn’t have much education, a part of the role of lodges, was to give their members an opportunity to role play in order to better understand other cultures, and to learn something of the history of the world, and how certain pivotal human events became part of America. And as The Odd Fellows were certainly very Christian in their operations, and probably more diversely than the actual churches near them, role playing was also a way of teaching scriptures and their deeper hidden meanings not revealed to them in churches. By putting members in the roles of Biblical figures and letting them embody a sense of what those people did as individualists, along with some of their ritualism, they could feel more participants in the mystical world than just “average Joe” as they were outside of the lodges. Most key is that The Odd Fellows believed in teaching respect for other races and cultures, or at least in the parts of them, like any, that were worthy of respect.
All of these reflections today spurred me to write this blog because whether or not most people see it, we are living in a time where very skilled politicians and dubious social engineers who with their millions and billions, are intent on hurting relations between people and using “racism” and “bigotry” as their buzz words to divide The Tribe of America. And yes, we see the spirit of that hatred taking root in so called “educated” people who for some insane reason, probably self-hatred, are happy to brandish those concepts of ill will as their own monikers and run out to do the dirty work of such nefarious souls seeking such ends.
I don’t expect everyone to totally process everything I’m saying here. These are complicated subjects and I won’t claim to be their greatest author either! I just know that part of the goal of America, by its own history of say, The Odd Fellows, has been about We The People as a “tribe,” working together to solve our society problems. And without a largely infringing government and us running to them for the answer to every little willy nilly or major difference we have had with others. Constantly pandering to them and their media really, is to empower them with guns and force. This will only be to the destruction of us all and all “human” customs. Its actually our differences that makes us so unique in America but we have to make ourselves more self governing in our lives and deal with our brother’s like fellow members of the tribe. My message really here is that The People must be their own government more than ever if we are to really survive as a nation, and quite possibly a planet. In many ways, we must disenfranchise the government by being greater people.
So yes, I’m an odd fellow in my views, even if I believe I’m just being traditional. It is my love and understanding of history that makes me think I’m onto something not so odd here and is definitively American. Funny what unboxing a collectible evokes in one’s self. Putting it up on a wall to admire for a bit. But this is why I collect such things. They are like my flint and striking stick in the battle to survive and keep alive what is so integral in the war now and the battles to come. Especially in a time when most arguments lack historical perspectives and facts which is why everything is so lopsided between people. Many days it feels the rifts are less than a “The Haves vs The Have Nots” and is really more of a war between The Educated vs The Uneducated. I am also wise to know that we have been dumbed down to be this way by these leaders and their shadow government movements. They only want highly emotional people embattling so they can push, prod and enslave. All while claiming to be doing the collective good of course. For those reasons, this Indian costume is woeful in some ways but it also strengthens my spirit. Because of it, I cannot forget that people before me suffered much and fought hard battles for freedom so that I might inherit their spirit and live and understand them and pass it all along to others. Or as Oglethorpe duly printed on The Seal of Georgia, “Non Sibi Sed Allis” He too was fascinated by the Indians but that is another story for another writing…
Some people who have my personal email know that I go by the handle, Dr. Buzzard. Although I ease people minds when I tell them I’m merely a conjurer of story magic and not dark magic. Dr. Buzzard was the most historically famous Root Doctor in The Low Country South until the novel, Midnight In The Garden of Good and Evil came along and made Lady Minerva, an aquaintance of Dr. Buzzard, more internationally known. Even if they were really operating on two opposite ends of the 20th Century more or less so they each have their own distinctions. And strangely were described as being married in the novel itself even if that was just fiction. Minerva was married to Buzzard’s rival is my understanding, either called Dr. Eagle or Dr Hawk. They always have great names like that. In my lifetime I’ve met Dr. Gregory, Dr. Frog and Mama Tilda who was 102 when we met and was the dream interpreter of the people on St Helena’s Island, SC. I also have in my personal collection some very important root doctor artifacts from very important famlies of that trade, and my prized possession is one cobalt blue pair of Dr. Buzzard’s spectacles given to me by a man who knew his family and purchased some of his belongings. As I tell people, if my house was on fire and I could run out with one thing, it would be Dr. Buzzard’s pimp’n looking specs! The article by my friend Beverly Willett was originally slated to have photos of a ritual I discovered in Bonaventure and dismantled after a year right before the city workers trashed it. I knew I had to preserve it to teach others about their culture. In the end, the photoshoot where mosquitoes ate at me for awhile was a bust, but was glad the article turned out so colorful and yeah, I got a little nod . One day I’ll share more of my own adventures with root doctors and consider the inclusion good juju for my directional mojo!
CLICK LINK TO READ!
If you’re ever driving up 221 from Augusta to McCormick, SC and you see a brown arrow sign with a tantalizing, “Long Cane Indian Massacre Site?” If you should follow it? Better have 4 Wheel Drive. What sounds like just a jiffy up the road is actually the longest, weirdest gravel dirt road in all of the woods of these here parts. You’ll also drive over 2 rather rickety old wooden bridges praying your vehicle doesn’t plunge below. But if that’s just your cup of tea? Then you may (optimal word here), just find a surreal and tragic place in the middle of nowhere that holds the remains of 23 women and children butchered by Cherokee who felt that the camp of 260 settlers was just too close to them 40 miles away. But when warning arrived, they felt it would be wise to track to Augusta for safer living. Unfortunately there was the dreaded bog in which their wagon became stuck and camping for the night was their undoing. There were 56 fighting men on hand but when The Cherokee assailed? The gun wagon was too far from them and after 30 minutes of fighting with what they could, a hasty retreat was made. Crazily, 9 children survived being scalped to the pleasure of some wig maker in Augusta I might think, but 23 women and children remained behind. Among them? The 76 year old grandmother of none other than John C. Calhoun (All Southerners must stand and bow for a moment of silence). Calhoun placed the etched marker himself to commemorate the spot. And if you do find it? You walk over a little metal foot bridge and stand among 100ft pines and it is so remote all there is in this place is the sound of wind whipping by you and through the treetops. Not a bird, not a squirrel. Just wind and it feels like spirits at war and even during the day, like screams all around you that you can’t truly hear, but you feel the force from the beyond clawing at your soul. I’m just glad it was the daytime.
Savannah says goodbye to one of our great characters in the 20th & 21st, Louis “Popeye” Green. He mastered horses, farming, being homeless and the Blues Guitar. As I mentioned earlier to a friend today, although he was “poor,” he had such a rich life and was very much like many of us downtown in the 1990s when we were much poorer and although he was pushing a homeless cart stacked to the gills with lane treasures, we were in solidarity as business dreamers and artists in the making. He represented hard work, dignity, perseverance, never-quit-attitude and much more that was old world human. He suffered much also at the hands of life and for a time with drugs. I always called him Louis in the barn of Historic Horse Tours, but noted that on the streets it was “Popeye.” Of which he became known more when an accident meant surgery with a plate in his head, left it see more strange in shape I suppose. Even before that I once asked him, “Why do they call you Popeye?” He said, “some say its my head and that I look like him.” I never quite saw it because I thought he was cute-handsome and so I always called him by his formal name out of respect. Popeye seemed too much of a street character name, and not that this was a bad thing, but I’d known him as Louis first, and I saw him as fellow resident vs just a vagabond. In my life, Louis became subject of one of my favorite stories that I still continue to share like a sweet morsel. Some 20 years ago, when I drove for Bill Royal and his family’s business, Historic Horse Tours, we were the underdogs in town as the 2nd ever carriage company and were up against the monopoly company in town and we had a barn full of characters like myself, Russell “Rusty” Browne, and Bill’s sister, Twila Delight Royal (real name), and Louis was a barn hand and kind of a side kick to everyone. He had zero body fat and every bit of his body was striated with muscle that looked as if made of barbed wire. As a comic book reader, I compared his handshake to that of shaking hands with Ben Grimm or The Thing” from Fantastic Four. It felt like pumice or a thick leather glove. I’d felt hands like that before with the men in my Kentucky family who’d picked tobacco and had worked the railroads and coal mines. But even Louis’ hands were tougher. And yes, he’d grown up poor and black in the most rural parts of Georgia picking cotton and breaking horses. Or so I’d been told and he’d hinted around too. He was truly “of the land” and shaking his hand was like being greeted by an old tree. And in spite of his street life conditions, was glad to have a job and the little horse family down on the end of Savannah’s Fahm Street. One cold morning, around 7:30, our little crew was in the only warm place in the metal shed barn, the shanty office with its space heater. We were getting ready of course to ride out to City Market to sit for probably what would be hours in the “pre-tourist” town of Savannah, Georgia until we got a fare. Oh my those days when the wind from the Savannah River whipped through the desolate City Market parking garage and iced you to the bone! God forbid if your gloves got wet while filling the water bucket! I remember days when you’d see Rusty Browne in his vintage grey overcoat and laceless combat boots and dirty turtleneck sweater standing in an empty City Market with a fire and boiling pot of water selling boiled peanuts! I’m pretty sure you can’t do that anymore or probably even then! To think he’s the King of The Pedicabs today but it was VERY humble beginnings and these moments amused me now as much as they did then. We were all really Savannah’s Rat Pack and inspired each other even when we might not have known that we were doing that but I’m pretty sure I knew it. None the less, back to this particular morning of subject. I vividly recall Bill Royal, Twila, partner Tom Smith, Ruth Bodek, myself and one preppy art student, Scott all huddled in the office waiting on our reservation sheets. Per routine, Tom, Bill and Twila were smoking of course and I’m sure with the ether of dung and fresh straw in the mix, that the room smelled a little rich. But it was warm and this was story telling boot camp! This was still the days of land lines and barely a working computer so it felt a bit thrown together and by the seat of their pants. The most modern appliance was a Bunn Coffee burner with 2 hot plates and the classic orange and brown tipped glass coffee pots to signify caffeine or that other kind for the weak. Those pots were known to not only break at the slightest tap and cut you deeply, but also reached temperatures above 200 degrees and caused unforgiving burns at the slightest touch of the already life threatening glass. The company probably should’ve been known as Burn Coffee and not Bunn! But as coffee drinkers, we take such risks for the brown manna. Suddenly the office door opened, and with that suction sound that always pulled some air the door’s direction, moved some paperwork and a horse to look up somewhere, in coasts Louis who was in search of the freshly brewed elixir. We all say, “Morning Louis,” and he replied in his usual chipper tone, “Morning every-bawdy!” Being that we were all so jammed into the room, and that such an action moment is thus hard to miss, we were all just unconsciously watching Louis shuffle through this small room. It was literally about 100 sq ft and yes, some of us had to shift to let Louis get past. What happened next will forever remain burned into my brain and I have told the story often with a great tone of amazement and like someone who’d seen something epically freakish. I liken it to the same feeling someone has when witnessing a magician’s illusion that defies reality and leaves you speechless to the point that you hear your brain thud against your skull while trying to decipher the physics. And let me say this. We might argue that when these glass coffee pots are full they are supremely hotter across their glass surfaces than they might be if just partially full. Hence why most of us, ok, 99.9% of us know the value of the thick plastic handles on those pots. When Louis found himself in front of these coffee pots, I had a perfect eye line on the unexpected super human feat about to occur. In the same manner one might just pick up a pen in which to write? Louis picks up the coffeepot with both hands FROM THE BOTTOM — then slowly walks over to the other side of the office (maybe 10 feet), like he’s holding an average object, and proceeds in a very gentle, pouring type manner, turns the coffee into his cup like he can’t spare a drop and when done, he about faces, walks unhurriedly back to the hot plates as if more concerned by breaking the glass than the atomic heat on his hand and then rests the pot softly down, picks up his coffee cup and walks straight out the door without a wince or a word and a smile on his face. When the door once more did its sucking noise, there was silence across our faces. Scott actually looked nervous. We were frozen with dumbfoundedness and for a moment stared at each other in silent disbelief and I think there then came some “Holy shits” and nervous laughter and I seem to recall that Twila with her raspy smoke laced vocal chords exclaiming a, “Fuck man, that Louis has worked hard his whole life!” Louis sure did. And I knew that although I’d worked Illinois farms and painting barns, that it would be unlikely I’d ever work as hard or suffer as much as Louis Green. And I don’t like to use the word suffer around such a man. He wouldn’t want to me associate that with him either. Even though he was hard knocks, he did it with an impish smile and an infectious sweet, gritty laughter. He was also very very loved by me and some great souls around him and hope he passed on feeling content and blessed for sowing some seeds. He definitely planted one in me as a human being and I’m especially grateful now. As years went by I would see him around Savannah and seemed like he was doing better even if he seemed to like what the streets gave him a sense of, which was being real and keeping it real. I respect that. There’s too much fluffy anymore and that wasn’t his style. Funny but I get that. Sometimes staying just above homeless gives you an edge of charge and challenge and motivation that being a fat cat can’t. I remember seeing Louis at an “old folks” home on Tybee some years ago and thought, “well this is cool, he’s near the beach. He deserves this.” I don’t think that probably lasted as that was probably too soft of a life for him and although Louis looked well aged, he looked younger than his age and never struck me as a guy who’d ever “be old.” His body was bent over years ago by a hard life but he made that cruel human form of his own a beautiful machine. It would also be later that I learned Louis was a master guitar player and yes, even with those calloused hands. I bet vibration was all they could still feel and maybe God made them that way so they could slide more perfectly around them as he transmuted all of his soul through them. When I heard he’d play in City Market or jam out at some bars with people this caught me off guard and prompted some momentary disbelief. Yet any disbelief was replaced quickly by more awe of Louis and made my heart extremely happy. I’m one of those people who loves to be surprised by human nature and then am never surprised what human souls can do. Which makes me even more sorry to hear of his passing and that Louis will play no more. You see in the star chart of The Savannah Universe, there are these distinct planets in our solar system of personalities, and Louis Popeye Green was a huge star and the rest of us in the galaxy feel dim today even if we will all shine a little more brightly for the rest of our days for having him near. He made beautiful music and made an instrument of himself and gave of it fairly and freely. Rest In Peace Louis. 10/12/44 -8/29/16
Special Thanks to Rusty Browne for his letting us know of his passing and being a constant for him on behalf of all of us…
Video Credit Rusty Browne.
Strange as it is, but several years ago I found the home of a witch doctor family in South Carolina. Straight up vodun and creepy ritual rooms. Multi-generational group of them too. I salvaged hundreds of photographs that 140 degree heat beating through the ceiling was about to destroy. Among them? Candid 1974 Polaroids of Ali and his mistress Veronica Porsche in Zaire for “Rumble In The Jungle.” How uncanny to end up nearly destroyed on the floor of a witch doctor’s house in South Carolina who’d seen him rumbling in Africa…life is amazing. He was everyman’s hero really and his mojo had no rival. The photo below is just one of a few and has never been published. And yes, snapped by a root doctor.
“He was a sorcerer of the ring, witch doctor of the mat, and when he conjuh’d demons with his fists, his opponents went flat!” — S. Scott
Click Link To Hear Full Interview FRIDAY THE 13TH INTERVIEW ON GPB Radio
Conspiracy theories have a bad name in general. Or anymore. And some who do connect dots badly, deserve to be criticized but I think its too dismissive to abuse the term “conspiracy theorist” in doing that. It lumps the other true thinkers, those who can connect the dots and “follow the money” as is often the case, a bad name. But that’s what the social engineers want. They want everyone scoffing and being cynical and giving no credence to those who think critically. As laughable as it might seem? There is a literal conspiracy against conspiracy theorists. They want the word to mean the worst possible thing at the end of the day so yet again, they can control the narrative.
In a fun way I was asked to do this interview for Georgia Public Radio’s “On Second Thought” program as something light for recognizing Friday The 13th. The subjects ranged from the serious, “Atlanta Child Murders (1970s-80s)”, to The Georgia Guidestones and their possible New World Order connections, to the topic of The Altamahaha, a sort of Low Country “Nessie.” The interview was all of about 12 minutes and the host did an exceptional job running it and the people behind her also did a nice job of organizing sound clips and video clips so wish to thank them all. For me personally it was fun because they opened the interview with The X-Files’ Theme and then played a soundbyte from the INFOWARS.com network and in particular, their journalist, Paul Joseph Watson who I very much admire as a thinker and cutting edge gonzo sort of journalist. He’s got guts but his commentary is more for adults and that’s a good thing.
I think what the interview could not do in the short time, but no fault of its own as it was a nice stab towards things, is that it did not permit giving a complete picture on the more serious areas of the child murders that were clearly related to a massive child slavery network with Satanic & Witchcraft touches all over it. And that Atlanta is still a major center for child trafficking and human sacrifice. Just because George “Skull & Bones” Bush comes to town to create a distraction story, throws a CIA patsy in jail and gets President Jimmy Carter to create more distraction nonsense with blame on the barely relative KKK, doesn’t mean it all went away in real life. It didn’t. It hasn’t. It is estimated right now in 2016 that 1,000,000 children are involved in child slavery in the USA alone. And we’re talking about The Kardashians? Transgendered bathrooms? You do the math. The people running the child slavery run what happens in the media at the end of the day. In so many ways they overshadow it. Its all about keeping YOU distracted. I’m thinking 1.000,000 American children are in trouble? This is a national crisis that takes precedence over any trillion dollar, never ending conflict in foreign countries.
I think the other serious subject that the interview again scratches surface of but doesn’t get full fledged, is around the Tuskegee Experiments where thousands of black men were intentionally injected with syphilis by our government just to see how they died. The government later admitted this and paid out reparations. It reminds me of what a short term memory Americans have when we get into these vaccination debates. Do homework on them. Really. Their history and present and future is very checkered. The blood work of those Tuskegge experiments were handled at Oatland Island in Savannah, Georgia when it was the “Pre-CDC” building. You know, that government organization that supposedly “LOVES” you and wants you to be healthy? The CDC was and is still under the watchful eye of the Department of Defense. Gee wonder why? Naturally they wanted to weaponize this or that and from what I can tell, ultimately did, and have many times over. I had a friend who worked on Oatland Island and found himself doing dirty work for a then classified operation called “Operation Paperclip.” Read up on it sometime and then you’ll start to see how the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing inside of our country when so much happens in secrecy. Our own government brought in over 20,000 Nazi scientists to this country, many of whom would go on to head major organizations like BAYER, Johnson & Johnson, IBM and a litany of others. Don’t throw the Nazi baby out with the Nazi bath water right? Granted, there are various levels of culpability inside of regimes but I guess they did all of that secretly because they knew the public wouldn’t go for it. And even so, they took our tax dollars that we trust them with to make it all happen. This is what Eisenhower warned of when leaving office. The monster of the Industrial Military Complex. But to finish on the subject, my friend was given a poison acquired by the “less culpable” Nazi scientists. This poison was to be used to poison an entire water system of a town to kill everyone there if need be. A small vial was all that was needed. My friend was instructed to make something more deadly out of it. And he did. Boy did he ever. It ended up being 990 times the strength. Sounds like that might have the capacity to wipe out New York City possibly. No wonder he smoked a lot of pot. He also invented the formula for the flea collar sold to Hartz but DOW chemical made all of the money on that one. Wonder if they made money on the other one? Hmmmm……..
So to the interview. I’d like to do more of them. We’ll see. For me, this was my first public step out. Oh no, I mean I’ve been on national TV dozens of times and done things on ghosts on NPR even. But that was all truly light and pure entertainment. This was a bit of that today, yes. Yet it was more. This interview meant something else to me. I call it my first shot across the prow of a vessel called The Illuminati on the high seas of The New World Order. I want them to know my name. I want them to know the good guys are in town and that we are here to take back the good things they’ve hijacked, including the minds of the American public. Basically I just hate evil and I hate the kind of evil that’s dressed up by those who do it using terms and processes that are actually good things but have been twisted and manipulated to deceive us. I want humanity to wake up to the reality of being human experiments at so many levels….
So the interview was playful air time on Friday The 13th. But on a high holy day of darkness, you might say I was ritualistically using the interview to incantate white light inside of the dark.
So when after the interview I went on to my cemetery tour and that black cat ran across the road in front of me? It wasn’t bad luck. It was darkness trying to flee.
I’m joining the war. Will you?
I can honest to God say I’m friends with a mermaid, a doll, a cartoonist, banjo aficionado, a witch and a ghost. And her name is Dame Darcy. Yes, you read that right.
We first met just a few years ago at an event she was connected. Nothing ordinary of course. It was photographic exhibit called The Legendary Children and was devoted to transexual themes. She was very doting on me and I remember her saying kind of drunkily, “You’re adorable.” And that was it. Dame Darcy was my new spirit crush. Artists tend to do this. We adopt people who we see as kindred and in Savannah you really appreciate the value of that.
As an artist of sorts myself, I envy people like Dame Darcy because they’re very driven to do what they do and they’re always doing it. Now and again you meet these sort of savants who simply eat and breath their craft. If Darcy isn’t illustrating her own works, she’s illustrating someone else’s. If she’s not writing a novel and illustrating it, she’s writing something for someone else’s work. If she’s not doing any of that, she’d playing banjo and singing or making dolls or painting tarot card sets to sell in her Etsy store. Or she’s writing, casting, starring and pitching a treatment for a movie or TV show about mermaids and pirates. And then in her spare time like some people might drive for UBER or Lyft, she’s playing a ghost for the incredibly popular group-think-tank-game called “Escape Savannah” that’s like a CLUE game with a haunted twist. Dame Darcy moves at the speed of light and is almost her own artistic elemental. But at heart she’s kind of like a little girl who refuses to “grow up” by continually piping the adult world through her child like sense of the universe and then giving back to the adult world through her art, her child like sense of the universe. Its a gift for the world and she has a lot to say and amuse with via her many talents.
Which is why it was such a special thing to “capture” her before she headed out on a promotional tour. We sat down in my makeshift studio in my kitchen to talk about growing up in Idaho town with a population of 15 and how her family emigrated there as they were the family of John Wilkes Booth. We delve into some of her mental processes around her art, where some of it stems from in terms of influence and style and along the conversational path hit on a wide range of other subjects regarding working with sensations Neil Gaiman (Sandman Chronicles) and the legend Alan Moore (Watchmen) and a laundry list of other artists and performers like Tiny Tim. The interview ends on an interesting leg as I address a controversy that whipped Dame Darcy’s name through the media last year in that she legitimately had in her possession some of Kurt Cobain’s hair and nearly sold it for a significant sum of money before the auction was pulled because of Courtney Love’s protest. The story has an interesting finish and I invite you to sit for awhile and listen. I can assure you that no one in this world will ever accuse Dame Darcy for being dull and I am always eager to see what she’s making next!
Dame Darcy’s Etsy Store where you can buy fabby artsy things!
CORRECTION: During the interview I mis-stated that Dame Darcy might have been one of the earliest or first female comic book artists to be published. This was a distracted statement of mine in the preliminary part of the interview. What I meant to really say was that she was the youngest female comic book artist ever published at 17 years of age. No offense to the many female comic book artists going back almost 100 years now!