I pretended Boy George was my cousin and daydreamed of being a singer or a dolphin. I made ashtrays from mud. Two-lane roads and farmland scatter the landscape. Fake wood paneling and beige walls surrounded me. Fire and brimstone, and everyone else but us were going to hell. I never felt like I belonged, but I’m still here. Autobiography and the South inform my work. The conversations between text and material, nostalgia and current politics mix, creating conundrums that I play with and try to reconcile. This piece is a comment about our relationships with one another and how they have changed over the years. People rarely just stop to visit with one another anymore, nobody has time for that.