Just Over Here Building Sh!t

I make things. I always have. I don’t wait until I have the “right” skills. I usually have little more than the audacity to start (see last month’s article on the audacity to start). I’ve made kick drum mics (fun project), guitar pedals (despite having been electrocuted—twice), and a dragon costume out of a shoebox and masking tape for a kiddo I once helped raise. It was AMAZING. I’ve built battery cables for my 1970 Ranchero…

Pro tip: Really want to recycle? Drive a car over 50 years old. Take that, Elon. You’ll get my combustible engine out of my cold, dead hands.

My pool turned pond.

I like keeping friends around who tinker and invent, who aren’t scared of crafting something from scratch. This past weekend, I had a ranch emergency. It’s monsoon season in Santa Fe, which means the weather changes by the hour—or maybe by the minute. It was one of the hottest weeks we’ve had since moving here (90 degrees, which I know sounds mild to anyone outside Santa Fe because you all think it’s so hot here. It’s not). And I’ve got a couple hundred fish in a pond I built out of my old pool. That kind of heat plus pond water? Instant algae bloom. Suddenly, 200 little souls were racing the clock as oxygen levels dropped.

I needed shade. And I needed it fast.

I ran to Harbor Freight (they still support DEI, so they’re always my first stop) and picked up tarps, steel wire, grommets, bungees, rope…

Pause…
I’ve actually made half a dozen trips. I’ll probably make another one today. Because when you’re inventing, designing, and building things you’ve never built before—your creations are drafts. And we are always allowed a sh!tty first draft!

It’s pure Brené Brown—perfectionism kills creativity. Progress, not polish. Drafts are proof you’re in motion.

Does it cost money to learn? Yes. Does it cost even more to hire it out? I think so. I’m competent. And if I slow down and strategize first, my creations are usually better and cheaper than someone else’s. And I always love them more.

The first canvas tarps tore in the wind. I had to reinforce the grommets with duct tape, fabric glue, and patches. Learned that after a structural failure.

Did I panic? Nope. I smoked a little dope, regrouped, and got to work.

I have never tied a fancy knot like a sailor. I just made this up. Looks legit though, huh?

I’ll admit—there were moments I imagined those steel tension wires snapping loose and thwapping me in the face. So, I put on sunglasses. Then I pictured the whole pergola giving way and braining me. So, I ran a safety line and told myself, if I die building something beautiful, that’s a pretty good way to go.

But I didn’t die. And neither did the fish.

These days, I sit with my feet in the pond most afternoons, letting my nervous system settle while a few regular fish keep me company. Out of the 200, just a handful hang close. One of them has a tiny, crooked fin—my own little Nemo. Every time I see him weaving through the plants, I feel like his savior. He was probably bound for turtle food. Now he’s here… in this funky, oxygenated, reclaimed sanctuary.

Not too different from me. Okay, did that get weird? See, this is why you don’t wait until the end to share your drafts (Note: foreshadowing). Ha!

And pivoting…

I have a tattoo on my inner forearm that says Forever Incomplete. It’s a lyric from the Alanis Morissette song “Incomplete,” and it’s part of my creed. Alanis sings about how she’s spent her life running toward some imagined finish line—and how, in doing that, she’s missed the rapture of being unfinished. Of being ever unfolding, ever adventurous, but never done.

I can’t afford to wait for “one day.” I can’t wait until I can “afford it,” or until “I have time,” or until I “get better.” I’ve arrived because I’m here. I showed up in the arena, ready to try. I’m not waiting for someone else to greenlight my ideas or teach me how to do them better.

If they wanna jump in and help—great. If not? I’m just over here building sh!t.

I said those exact words to my new friend DezBaa when I sent her an early cut of the music video I’m making for my next single, “Not Like You.” The song’s about queerness, yes—but also about not becoming like the people who belittle you. It says: I have my own damn voice, and it’s my choice to walk away.

The video opens on extreme close-ups of eyes—something we all have. And when the chorus hits, it pans out to reveal joyful, beautiful queer people. Just existing. Just being. It’s intense. Quiet. Defiant. Real.

Still from music video, called “Not Like You.”

When I sent the rough draft to DezBaa, I said, “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just over here making sh!t.” She replied, “Me too!” and sent me a stunning micro short she created through a Native filmmaker initiative—an inaugural summer workshop co-hosted by NYU Tisch and Santa Fe Community College. The program brought together Indigenous artists to explore storytelling through film, and DezBaa’s piece was the result of that journey. She’s planning on showing it at this year’s Santa Fe International Film Festival.

More than just an assignment, her work reflects a process of deep personal alignment—one that mirrors everything we’d been talking about: building from the inside out, creating before you’re “ready,” and letting like-minded folks find one another by putting real things into the world. We weren’t formally collaborating—we were just witnessing each other. The next morning, we had breakfast and scribbled ideas on napkins. Art to check out. Lyrics to look for. Sentences to pocket for later.

That’s what community is. That’s how art gets built. You show the drafts. You create a culture of improvement, not perfection. You hold space. You inspire each other to go home and keep creating.

I’ve always shared drafts. I grew up in a family where that was safe—where sharing early wasn’t punished. “Too soon” isn’t really a thing for me. I don’t show everyone, but there are people I’m always a little anxious to share with—because they’re the kind who’ll see something in it that I don’t. And I want to catch that while it’s still wet enough to shape.

That’s one of the big myths of creativity—that you need to be fearless. You don’t. You just need to be willing to be seen. (Brené Brown calls that wholehearted living. Funny, that’s just living to me. But I guess folks need to work on it? Maybe I’m working on it too, but I’m having so much fun I don’t notice.)

If you wait too long, you start defending the draft instead of developing it. But when you share early, it stays flexible. Someone might offer a shift you never saw coming—and instead of resenting it, you get to say: Yes. Let’s build it that way instead.

Sometimes drafts get weird. That’s cool. Just keep building sh!t.

Homework:
• Listen to “Incomplete” by Alanis Morissette.
• Then listen to “Life Uncommon” by Jewel.
• Then listen to “I Choose” by India.Arie.
• Then read The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown, or at least the part where she reminds us perfectionism isn’t a virtue.

Ask yourself:
• What songs make up your personal creed?
• If you’re feeling brave, send one to someone.
• And see what comes back.

Bonus points:
• Explore work by Indigenous creators. Start with DezBaa’s film and photography at dezbaa.com. She’s one of those artists building in alignment—quietly powerful, fiercely honest, and definitely one to watch.

P.S. Wild weather updates! We also had flash flood warnings yesterday and wild storms! My sails for the pond held up! Not a single tear, and the mounting brackets are sturdy! Also, the rain goes right through the canvas into the pond! It’s the PERFECT invention! Go me! Today, I’m Bob Vila!