Part of the new film I'm making takes place in rural Pennsylvania, where the tank commander owned a dairy. Scrapple country. Sausage of my forebears. The joke is you're not supposed to ask how it's made. I don't agree. Scrapple is noble—there is no shame in wasting none of the livestock that gave all. Certainly could have a better name, though.
And this is also the scraps, shaped into something. Usually art is this finished, fully formed thing, but maybe this time I'll reveal the parts as I'm making it. I've been working on it for so long, maybe the story of the making of the film is as interesting as I hope the film will be.