Today we’d like to introduce you to Rusty Grindstaff.
Hi Rusty, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
I’ll do you one better and spin you a fable: Before setting out in the world, the moon bestowed upon a young weasel three treasures: a burden, a gift, and a curse. The moon burdened the weasel with an obligation to question all things, gifted the weasel the ability to steal any knowledge or skill, and cursed the weasel to feel the magic of nothing and no one. And the weasel took these treasures and set out into the world.
And the weasel questioned every tree, rock, and animal it came across, and the weasel filched many skills and many truths, and the weasel learned how magic was made, but was bewitched by nothing and no one.
Yet the weasel’s burden made life quite difficult, for the weasel questioned all things ceaselessly. This rankled the other animals, who couldn’t use their usual magic to distract the weasel when they wanted a break from questions. Unable to enchant, bewitch, or entice the weasel, the other animals got annoyed. The weasel grew very lonely, asking many questions, knowing so many things, and having so many skills, yet cursed to feel enchanted by nothing and no one.
The weasel tried desperately to connect to the other animals. It used the skills it had stolen and the knowledge it had burgled, hoping it had acquired something to bridge the gap left by the curse. But though the other animals admired the weasel’s talents, they had nothing they could give the weasel to fill the hole.
So the weasel shut out distractions and worked harder and harder. The weasel grabbed many books and learned more and more. And though the weasel shared its many stolen skills and questioned the many unquestioned things, it still felt the magic of nothing and no one.
The weasel searched deeper and deeper through obscure and arcane pages until it found the works of others who had shared this same curse. And these books had neither conclusion nor consistency, and these books were full of contradiction. And the weasel saw how his damned kin had preceded him: questioning cynically, learning habitually, and dispelling compulsively. And here, without answers, identity, or intent, the weasel began to understand something impossible.
And the weasel accepted nothing and turned to no one. And the weasel took all the knowledge it had stolen over the years and offered it back to the moon. And then the weasel came to see what had been true all along: The weasel was enchanted by those who acted like no one ever acted. The weasel was bewitched by things like nothing he had ever seen. The weasel felt the magic of nothing that made sense, nothing that was supposed to happen, and nothing that the weasel hoped for. And discovering this joy, this intrinsic connection to nothing and no one, this curse shared by cynics, misanthropes, and paranoids throughout time, the weasel came to understand its place in the world but no longer knew what it was doing.
Would you say it’s been a smooth road, and if not, what are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced along the way?
There are things that people would like others to do… things that make life convenient: following instructions, repeating procedures, and adhering to conventions. Do these things, and you might as well be on ice, it’s so smooth… scootched forward in a great mass of shuffling feet.
I have disdained and avoided paved thoroughfares like the plague and sought to make my way via shortcuts and hidden passages. Yet, despite abundant confidence, I have often found myself alone on the side of the mountain, scrambling through thorns. It is a romantic way of navigating—charging into the brush. I’ve lost sight of my peers and rivals. I’ve been marooned in fogs of grief and clouds of hate. I’ve drowned myself in the waters of oblivion. I’ve taken the hubris of humanity upon my shoulders while balanced upon the pillar of solitude, foolishly thinking it easier to carry the world than to move across it.
Death has taken family and allies. My choices have distanced me from my aims. The Spirit of Empty Pockets haunts me still. I struggle every day. I struggle to put my mind and body into motion… to act, to create… to share. I struggle against the part of me that wants things to be better. I struggle against the part of me that wants to wait and see. I struggle against the part of me that wants more skills, more knowledge… more secret practice.
I aim to charge into conflict, but I share a body with my cowardice. I aim to create constantly, but I share a body with my fatigue. I aim to share all I make, but I share a body with my disdain. I will fight with myself. I live for this struggle.
Can you tell our readers more about what you do and what you think sets you apart from others?
I can recall making three serious decisions. I decided I was to be an inventor. I decided to gild my tongue in quicksilver. I decided to wager my life on a partnership between uncertainty and self. I have learned a great many techniques, skills, and stories. I use all the tricks at my disposal. I live to serve. I serve my audience, be it a friend in conversation or a reader in text, a viewer, a watcher, a thinker, a dreamer, an analyst, or a critic. Whoever comes across the gifts I share, I am in their service. I aim to create in the syncretic intermediate space between all my capabilities. I prize secrecy, mystery, and anonymity as aesthetics. My medium is the surprise.
I work in bargains, gambits, pacts, trades, and gifts. Let my art be a trailhead into a dark wood. Explore. Go where no one wants you to go. You may use the cairns I left to mark my path. I offer you gifts hidden in the forest’s dark; do not follow me.
For the sake of clarity, I’ll open a gap in the poetic veneer for a brief moment and let you have a peek through the curtains of mystery that I’ve drawn up around myself. I’ve spent an excessive amount of time writing. I’m handy with pen and ink. I have a relationship with paints. I play with the materials surrounding me. I have extensive experience writing code. I design gizmos and print them on a mini 3D printer. I recite poetry. I can use a camera. I do stupid voices and make funny faces. I love puppets. I gather all my skills together and dance myself out of them.
We’d love to hear about your fond memories from growing up.
I remember grappling with the death of Einstein in the back of my mother’s mini-van. As a wanna-be inventor, I looked up to him. He was a genius; he flunked out of school; he had the best hair-do an aspiring gizmologist could imagine. He had been dead for many years, but it was the first time I’d heard of it. It was the first time I realized someone I cared about would be unable to take further action… to do anything else. I remember being sad. I remember crying in the backseat of the mini-van. I remember lamenting that there would be no more Einstein.
I like this memory a lot. It was a moment I learned something significant: that I, too, would end one day. I knew that all things die.
Pricing:
- Various Services — Rates Negotiable
Contact Info:
- Website: RussellGrindstaff.com
- Instagram: instagram.com/the_rusty_grindstaff
- Youtube: www.youtube.com/@RustyGrindstaff
