Mr. Vollis Simpson of rural North Cackalackey is a respected heavyweight in the field of whirligigs - gigantic metal contraptions usually made of scrap things that spin or turn or wobble with the wind. He has a farm with a ton of them on display somewhere in the eastern half of Carolina, and I've been meaning to road trip down there to catch up with the assorted friends from different segments of my personal time line who all seem to be in the central part of NC nowadays, and make a Saturday afternoon sidetrack through Mr. Simpson's way to check out his allegedly oddball compound, probably the wackiest self-taught artist spot in Carolina now that James Harold Jennings is dead. Of all the ones on this list, I'd say if we had a sizeable chunk of discretionary income, Vollis Simpson would be the most likely recipient of our scrilla because a giant whirligig could kick it in our field where we're gonna build my wife's herbal studio and where by next summer I hope to have pigs trained with electrified horse tape to wander pseudo-wildly, and a big, moving, metallic contraption would be perfect. In fact, if we're gonna imagine imaginary shit, might as well work something out with Vollis Simpson where he come up and incorporate my old Datsun which is still sitting in my side field road frontage, rusting into the ground. Never did make the giant forsythia planter out of it by cutting the top off, and the Christmas lights don't work on it anymore (which, apparently, saddened a lot of locals who knew that on Kidds Dairy Road there was always the junk car outlined in pink Christmas lights every December), but I did find a fake yellow siren in the woods walking around one day and set that on top, to pretend it still does something important, other than hold my dad's old shitty shotgun and some homebrewing supplies in the trunk.
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