What The Hell Are We Doing? [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

Sometimes it pays to look up. Cutting the tall grasses, cleaning and preparing the flower beds, I was hyper-focused on the task at hand. A distant rumble caught my attention so I looked up from what I was doing. Dark dragons were flying around in the sky. They breathed lightning, a flash followed by thunder. I dropped the metal clippers and headed inside. I thought it best to finish my task another day.

Once seen, the dragons in the sky were obvious. The lightning they breathed was unmistakable and dangerous. The action I took – dropping the lightning rod clippers and exiting the scene – seemed prudent. Easy and clear choices.

This morning I heard a distant rumble and I peeked at the news. The danger to our nation is obvious. A single delusional man, a retribution dragon encased in sycophants. A convicted felon, found civilly liable for rape. Does anyone really believe that he does not figure prominently in the Epstein Files? The Supremes granted him absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for all official acts and one wonders why grift falls under the umbrella of official acts. Is insurrection an official act? Is obstruction of justice an official act? Is threatening an entire civilization with annihilation an official act? Is falling asleep on the job or slurring speech or incoherence covered under the umbrella? They’re not crimes but would certainly be grounds for removal from any other job.

One wonders when the republicans will stop pretending that the sky is blue when they can see – as we do – that it is filled with a dangerous swirling delusional dragon? Will they drop their clippers in time or will they continue to hold tight to their metal rod and wave it at the lightning-filled-sky? You’d think they’d have the good sense to head for the door. You’d think that they might consider that the lightning they tease could be – will be – the death of us all. One wonders what must be lost, what lightning must strike, what line must be crossed, before they ask themselves, “What the hell are we doing?”

read Kerri’s blogpost about STORM CLOUDS

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Number Matters [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I took a week off from political commentary and general ranting about the current kakistocracy and my stats took a dive. I derived two conclusions. First, studies ad nauseam show that complaining is much more attractive than satisfaction. If a human being has a bad experience at a Disney theme park they will tell at least 18 people. If they have a good experience they might tell 3. Blame is like candy. It’s the reason fox news is so successful: victimization (blame story) is yummy and a great organizing principle for a club or a cult. Blame is delicious and once eaten, people can’t stop talking about it. It’s a great abdicator-of-responsibility which is why it fits maga and the fox-mind like a glove.

Second, it is a marker of the current era that even the least among us – someone like me – has stats. I have blog stats and weekly screen time stats. The steps I take on planet earth are recorded, compared to previous steps and offered back to me as stats on my health. We moderns locate our successes and failures through numbers. If I felt it important to chase blog stats I’d find it necessary to rant on a daily basis. As Kerri can report, I need no encouragement in that department.

The numbers are useful but the challenge with reducing everything to a number is that it simplifies the complex, it sanitizes the unconscionable. We’ve read that 13 servicemen and women have been killed in the war with Iran. We know that at least 160 school girls were killed by a US bomb during the first days of the war. The number allows us to distance ourselves. Violent death reduced to a stat. I can be outraged at the number while not having to deal with the actual savage death of a school child, let alone a school full of children. Faces and names and hopes and dreams. I’ve been a teacher. What if the 160 students were mine? What if the soldier killed was my son or daughter? Would the number matter?

A number is easier to swallow. Blame is terrific hand sanitizer.

I have a friend who intentionally keeps herself close to the margins. She doesn’t want to sleepwalk through life. Chasing comfort too often cultivates complacency. She wants to be awake. It’s akin to taking a cold shower to wake up. It’s the reason that when we walk our trails I often leave my phone and my stats behind. Kerri draws my attention to the living things, the smallest of buds, the trout lily bowing its head. A field of trout lilies. It’s visceral and wakes me from the numbers. It opens my eyes and ears and heart to the beauty and the inevitable roll of seasons.

It reminds me not to become what I hate, not to reduce myself and others to a data point, not minimize my life to the numbers. It reminds me to create a rich conscious life, to stand in my experiences, eyes and heart wide open and not measure the worth of my days by the number of people who know about it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TROUT LILIES

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Dancing On The Periphery [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The light plays on the water. I imagine it is the quick glimpse of a spirit, shimmering at the corner of my vision and then vanishing when I try to look directly at it. It was our last night in the village so we walked on the dock to wish it farewell. My imagination of spirits was not random; all day I’d been saying things like, “We have good angels,” or “That was more than serendipity.” Helping hands seemed to surround us.

I also imagine that the very real good angels in our everyday-lives do not like to be seen. That must be the reason they hover at the edges of sight. They prefer to stay out of the limelight. Service is its own reward. I learned this from a lesson I used to adore assigning to my students: be an angel for someone with the single strict caveat that their angel-ness needed to be a secret. “What does it mean to be an angel?” they’d ask in a panic. I’d shrug.

“Figure it out.” And they always did. Their angel experiences were electric, eye-opening. Dare I suggest life-changing? It is profound to intentionally focus goodness on another human being with no expectation of reciprocity – and discover that goodness itself is intensely fulfilling. Life is empty if self-serving. “Find a need and fill it,” Ann was fond of saying.

Hovering at the edge of sight.

We’d returned to the village to reclaim a piece of the past and, standing on the dock, I was suddenly overcome with the realization that the good angel might be – just might be – that long lost piece, that younger version, beckoning, “This way! I’m over here.” The older version and the younger, angels to each other, each responsible for guiding the other home. Dancing on the periphery of sight, reaching through time.

‘It feels different now,” she said and I smiled. Surrounded by warm memories of our days in the village, we stood still on the dock. The sailboats swayed in the harbor. The light played on the water.

“It feels like coming home.”

read Kerri’s blog about THE VILLAGE

likesharesupportcommentthankyou

It Follows [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In our house it is possible to accidentally lock yourself into the bedroom. It is simple, really; there is an old doorknob on the outside of the door but the matching inner knob is missing. Close the door too hard and the door will latch just as the old knob falls. Instant bedroom prisoner. We used to keep a screwdriver in the bedroom for face-saving escapes but I looked for it after the last lock-in and couldn’t find it.

It is useful to keep in mind that our house is nearing its 100th birthday and is alive with the quirks and issues of age. I admit that we could fix the bedroom door problem but we see it less as a problem and more of a character trait. Besides, it gives the person on the outside the satisfying opportunity to play the role of rescuer. Note: the rescue always comes with the mixed message of a smirk and an admission. We’ve both been on the inside in surprise lock up.

We keep a knob on the kitchen shelf. It is placed near the antique coffee pots that serve as tea containers. The knob is beautiful so it serves as a decoration. Another glass knob sits in the hole next to the kitchen faucet that once was a soap dispenser. The dispenser was problematic so it was retired but that left a hole. One morning I found a knob plugging the hole and knew Kerri was trying it on as a solution. It catches the morning light and occasionally casts a rainbow on the backsplash. Kitchen performance art; it’s a keeper.

You might be asking why we use the extra knobs as decoration or as sink-hole-fillers instead of fixing the bedroom door – and it is a fair question. Neither knob works as a knob; the inner threading is stripped. They have no internal grip so have transcended mere function and live beautifully in form. You know the old saying: form follows function. Isn’t it glorious when the function of a form evolves finally to become beauty in the world? Or, maybe it is better to ask, isn’t it glorious when we evolve and see beyond mere function and at last are capable of seeing the beauty available in our lives?

read Kerri’s blogpost about KNOBS

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

If I Look For Them [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

If I look for them, there are signs of normalcy in these abnormal times. This week the striped squill popped up in the front yard. They are always the first comers, the flower-harbingers of spring. I am grateful that the plant life does its best to maintain nature’s routines. As far as the squill and day lilies are concerned it’s business as usual.

It’s a surprisingly powerful phrase: If I look for them. The striped squill would run amok in the front yard whether or not I decided to see them. They bring their promise of warmer times with or without my appreciation. Most years I look for them. I watch the patch of grass where they always first show themselves. I like to witness the pioneer squill, the early risers that poke through the winter grass and unfurl their striped-hope-petals. “Spring’s-a-comin’!” I sigh.

This year they surprised me. Lost in the daily crazy, the national nightmare, I simply forgot to look. In fact, I didn’t see them until the full striped squill chorus had arrived. There were so many that I couldn’t miss them. “Hello, old friends”.

This year, instead of being the augury of spring, they served a different purpose, perhaps a far more important purpose: a reminder of an age old lesson: I have the power to focus on hope just as I have to capacity to focus on all that is amiss in this nation. Both are necessary and it is far too easy to miss the hope in the onslaught of abuse. The assault on our democracy may be immediate but hope is by far more powerful.

If I look for them, I see the bearers of hope everywhere. I see them in the No Kings protesters, I see them in the volunteers at the food pantries, I see them in Marc Elias and Heather Cox Richardson, I see them in my friends and neighbors. Everyday I see multiple acts of kindness – but only if I decide to look for them. They are easy to miss, especially in the multiple acts of violence that dominate the media, the ubiquitous language of violence that permeates our politics. And yet, if I paid attention, if I counted and compared, the hope and kindness far outnumbers the ugliness.

The striped squill put me on notice: it is far too easy to get lost in the horror show. It is, indeed, important to pay attention to the arsonist’s fire burning through our democracy but it is equally important to keep sight of the many hundreds of thousands fighting the fire, the legions of people supporting the firefighters, calling out the lies, lending helping hands, stepping up to help in any way they can. They are everywhere, bearers of hope, believers in goodness, guardians of decency, heralds of the coming spring.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUILL

likesharesupportthankyou

The Responsibility To Truth [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I just finished my read of John Steinbeck‘s, The Winter Of Our Discontent. If you asked me what it’s about I’d answer, “It’s the story of what happens when the responsibility to truth collapses.” It is a troubling story. It is perhaps more relevant now than when it was written.

“Responsibility to truth is a moral and intellectual obligation to seek, uphold, and communicate reality, exposing lies and maintaining integrity even when uncomfortable. It demands that individuals prioritize accuracy over popularity, ensuring that personal and public actions align with verifiable truth to combat deception and build trust.” ~ AI

We have phrases that provide cover for the abdication of responsibility to truth. Business is business. Dog eat dog. The twin gods of profit, Efficiency and Effectiveness, are not at all concerned with truth. The movement of the markets motivate our actions far faster than any impulse to truth. If truth was important to us, if we felt any obligation to it at all, The Epstein Class would already be in prison as would the current occupant of the White House. If truth mattered at all would we tolerate any of the many propaganda purveyors who daily justify, defend and spin obvious lies and grift?

In the free press truth is a casualty of ratings. Remember: business is business. If you wonder how we got to this fascist threshold look no further than the amoral anti-intellectual dedication to gain via falsehood. Democracy is concerned with the will of the people and is vibrant when built upon a shared responsibility to truth. Authoritarianism is concerned with personal gain and is built upon the exploitation of people and wild fabrication.

I took my “responsibility to truth” phrase with me on our hike. Sometimes stepping onto a trail is the equivalent of stepping out of the madness. The ick falls away. The reappearance of tender green, the emergence of new life, fills me with an undeniable truth of spring. It attaches me to the eternal and puts into perspective the momentary sickness of human political shenanigans. We make up reasons to go to war, we pull and push to gain control of “the narrative”, we hoard wealth as if there is not enough to go around, we imagine a pyramid and will kill to stand on the top or at least be interred within, our mummified bodies surrounded by heaps of gold, our faces carved into stone…and none of it has anything to do with simple truth. None of it bears an iota of responsibility to truth or integrity or basic reality. The ritual return of the buds transcends all of our illusions. The impulse to life reaches through the crocus, a ritual that precedes us by a many millennia – and will burst through the soil a thousand years after our carvings in stone and piles of gold erode and return to sand.

It’s hard to deny the truth of new buds. Our illusions of grandeur are passing. When future archeologists unearth the remnants of our civilization they will speculate about our society. Will they find us civilized? Will they find evidence of our societal collapse, our brutality and embrace of lies, our dog-eat-dog demise? Or will they discover the story of our transcendence of self, the reawakening of our obligation to future generations, our reclamation of the responsibility to truth?

read Kerri’s blogpost about BUDS

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Ready For It [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

For a bit of context it’s important to note that last week we were pummeled by ferocious winds and freezing rain, followed hard upon by a blizzard and icy cold. And then, for a few days, the temperatures rose. Stepping out the front door we were surprised to find Day Lilies poking their tiny green fingers above the ground. How is that possible?

Yesterday, driving home from the trail, Kerri said, “It feels like spring is trying hard to punch through.” During our hike the sun was warm but the breeze still carried the winter cold. Not so long ago the winter cold was dominant but yesterday the spring sun definitely took the match.

“I’m ready for it,” I responded.

I sighed with relief when I saw the tender green Day Lilies break through. This winter’s siege has been metaphoric as well as actual. ICE. Epstein. A war of choice. Nonsense tariffs. The ugly return of 19th century imperialism, the whitewash of history, the eye-rolling invocation of the man-o-sphere and equally brain-numbing summons of the return-of-the-tradwife. An icy wind. A hard brain freeze. A fantasy fit for the stunted mentality of middle-school-bullies or white nationalists (same thing).

With the sun, sense is returning. Eyes dedicated to being closed are at last blinking open. Lies are fragmenting. Truth is breaking through the crusty soil and reaching for the warm air. It is a promise, a hope, that will one-day-soon blossom, a vibrant garden of veracity. The people have had enough of winter’s nonsense.

I don’t know about you but I am ready for it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAY LILIES

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Low Information Nightmare [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

We took down the chimes because we knew the blizzard was coming. We watched the monster winds , sleet and snow, approach on radar. I am forever grateful to have immediate access to weather radar so I know what’s coming. It saved us once-upon-a-time when we were caught in a tornado. Just after the winds lifted our car from the ground, we huddled behind a restaurant and watched the radar for a small break in the storm so we could make a run for safety.

Last night as the blizzard buffeted the house, as we ate bananas at 3am, we talked about all the things in the world about which we know nothing. Does ice on the tracks impact how the trains run? How do they move Anselm Kiefer’s monumental paintings from his studio to a gallery? In the age of Goggle it is possible to find out how to lay bricks but would I really know how to do it until I’d studied with a master bricklayer? At what point is abstract knowledge actually useful? At what point do we know what we are talking about?

Yesterday I heard a phrase roll through the news cycle that I’m coming to detest: low information voter. It’s sanitized language and brings up a number of questions for me. The first is obvious: are we mislabeling an intentionally misinformed voter as a low information voter? I’ve watched dozens of interviews with “low information voters” who are quite capable of regurgitating pat-phrases seeded into their brains from their source of misinformation. Are they then a low information voter?

The ghost of Neil Postman whispered in my ear:

“The question is not, Does or doesn’t public schooling create a public? The question is, What kind of public does it create? A conglomerate of self-indulgent consumers? Angry, soulless, directionless masses? Indifferent, confused citizens? Or a public imbued with confidence, a sense of purpose, a respect for learning, and tolerance? The answer to this question has nothing whatever to do with computers, with testing, with teacher accountability, with class size, and with the other details of managing schools. The right answer depends on two things and two things alone: the existence of shared narratives and the capacity of such narratives to provide an inspired reason for schooling.” ~ Neil Postman, The End of Education

Shared narratives. An inspired reason to ask questions and to seek greater understanding. These two things actually form a feedback loop. They are fluid and not fixed: greater understanding informs and evolves shared narrative which opens new questions. You might think that shared narrative and pursuit of greater understanding would be essential concerns for our democracy but we are learning – I am learning, much to my surprise – that is not true. Our narrative is intentionally divided. The current republican party openly and intentionally demonizes learning. Low information voters are easily manipulated and a political party empty of ideas and ideals relies exclusively on a voting public that readily swallows their rubbish.

If our democracy took itself seriously, would we tolerate highly profitable sources of misinformation? Would we so easily polish “ignorance” into a shiny phrase: low information voter? If we took our democracy seriously and intended to protect it, wouldn’t “low information voting” be unacceptable since the responsibility of casting a ballot is predicated upon knowing what you are voting for?

I live in the age of Google. I can see storms coming and that informs my choices: I take down the chimes. I secure anything that the wind will destroy.

I live in the age of Google. I can -and do – in a moment fact check any assertion that comes my way. For instance, I know that the Save America Act is not what it appears to be. It is a storm coming. It does the opposite of what it purports to do. It has nothing to do with voter ID and everything to do with preventing voters from voting. It is a straw man; incidence of voter fraud in the United States is statistically zero. Do low information voters know that? This wind will destroy our democracy.

The woke folk on my side of the divide read Project 2025 and learned from the chaos and grift of the first four years of the authoritarian wannabe. We screamed, “There’s a storm coming!” The necessary information – like weather radar – was readily available. It was easy to see. Low information is, in actuality, the unwillingness to look.

What’s happening now in our nation is not a surprise. The campaign to create low information voters was -and is – successful. Eliminate education. Demonize truth as a hoax. Create “alternative” facts (legitimize lies) while labeling actual news “fake”. Split the people.

If we survive the attempted take down of our democracy, an item high on my list of things to address is the elimination of the possibility of the low information voter. One need not have a mass of information in their brain to be educated, they only need the desire to question, the dedication to discern what is true from what is dross. One need only understand the need to check the radar and act accordingly.

“Because we are imperfect souls, our knowledge is imperfect. The history of learning is an adventure in overcoming our errors. There is no sin in being wrong. The sin is in our unwillingness to examine our own beliefs, and in believing that our authorities cannot be wrong.” Neil Postman, The End of Education

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CHIMES

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Jiggle The Eyes [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I inverted the canvas. Turning a canvas upside down jiggles the eyes and loosens the grip of a mind that is fixed on seeing what it wants to see. It helps to pop the assumptions and see what is there and not what I think is there.

If the United States was a canvas it is a fair assertion to make that we’ve been inverted. Our eyes are jiggled. Our assumptions are popped. We can clearly see what has been here all along and it’s not what we thought. Power protects the pedophiles and threatens the lives of those abused. The Justice Department refuses to seek justice and, instead, covers-up the crime. Thugs in masks brutalize citizens, invade homes and kidnap people from the streets, all the while claiming that they are making our cities safer.

We are upside-down so we can see it.

We clearly see the lies of those who insist that all is as it should be. They stand and applaud the liar. They attach themselves to the lie and so create a very low bar to jump, wrecking democracy and giving rise to authoritarianism. The enthusiastic embrace of an obvious lie. Huzzah! The felon convicted of over thirty counts of fraud concocts a “war on fraud” to distract from his ongoing titanic swindle. His party pumped their fists and cheered. And then he started an actual war, Operation Epstein File Diversion.

Have you ever for a moment mistaken the sun for the moon? The disorientation is temporary but inspires an immediate question: What time of day is it? Later it might seem a silly question but it is, in the moment, necessary for reorienting in space and time.

As a nation we are upside-down. We were momentarily disoriented. Now, it’s only a matter of time before go to the polls and remind the liar and his sycophantic tribe that we see what is there, that we reorient to the Constitution, the rule of law, and give boot to the clown-car-cult of the would-be king.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN/MOON

likesharecommentsupportthankyou

Conscience Totems [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In a roiling stream of consciousness, the limbs at sunset evoked a memory of watching a master of ink and brush, a fluid stroke, a guided hand that for some reason pitched me into Robert Motherwell. I scrolled through selections of his work and was taken by how many of his pieces are direct descendants of Henri Matisse. I was taken by how many times he returned to a theme Elegy To The Spanish Republic. The atrocities of war.

We heard the phrase “conscious avoidance” but thought we heard “conscience avoidance”. The confusion was fantastic! If I someday paint a series of pieces about the un-United States during these authoritarian years I will name the series Conscience Avoidance. Pam Bondi refusing to look at the Epstein survivors. The republican congress emasculating itself, refusing to deal with the obvious truth. The conservative members of the Supreme Court refusing to look at the Constitution. The Constitution stares, mouth agape, at the justices who try not to look at it. My massive canvases will be pocked with oppressive black strokes. Soul holes. Void.

There will, of course, be a parallel series. Conscience Totems. An homage to the people who take to the streets. Keepers of the promise and the light. Bright swaths of vibrant color evoking guide stars and torches and courage. The fluid strokes mimicking a master of ink and brush, a hand guided by something grander than self-serving-money-lust or personal-political-gain. The living branches of a tree reaching one to the other, interlaced and interconnected, reflective of their roots, drinking deeply from the earth so it might touch the sky. A celebration of those unafraid to look power in the eye and ask, “What happened to you?”

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE TREE SILHOUETTE

likesharecommentsupportthankyou