The Fire That Sustains [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It’s funny what a photo invokes. A contrail and the sun:

When he was young Beethoven wrote a ballet called The Creatures of Prometheus. It is too big for modern ballet companies to produce and symphonies have a difficult time adding it to their program because – well – it’s a ballet and the music needs something to tie it together. I had the great good fortune to develop a story based on original program notes and perform The Creatures of Prometheus with The Portland Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Yaki Bergman, in 2008.

It is a story of the creation of human beings. It is the story of jealous Zeus forcing the newly created humans to accept him as their god rather than their true creator, Prometheus. Zeus is an irrational bully. The other gods on Olympus go along with his brutality because they, like the humans, fear him. Apollo the sun god, the god of reason and light, despises Zeus and plants the seed of reason in the creatures in the hope that, one day, they would awaken to their true nature, they would recognize the old god Prometheus as their true creator.

At the height of the Black Lives Matter protests Yaki contacted me and asked me to rewrite the script to make it relevant to the events of the day. We were to perform the new piece, entitled The Last of the Old Gods, in the spring of 2023. There was a contract snag delay. Yaki was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and passed before we could perform it. I grieve him. He was a great artist with a big vision and even bigger laughter.

Art is meant to carry the conscience of a community. It is meant to express and explore the values of society. And, since society is mostly blind to itself, It is meant to be a mirror, a mechanism for people to see themselves. Yes, it needs to entertain but entertainment is the warmth that draws the community to the hearth fire. Art is the fire that sustains.

It is enough to say that we are currently living in a time of a false bully who would-be god. He must lie and fearmonger to achieve his desire, just like Zeus in the ballet. In re-reading both of my versions of the script I was struck how they are now more relevant than when I wrote them. The Last of the Old Gods will live in my files. It will, I hope, someday, find its light-of-day.

Here is a segment of text from The Last of the Old Gods, the final bit of story that leads into the musical Finale:

In an instant, Apollo sent a tiny spark, a thread of sun that wove through the spell of Thalia’s masks, that opened a possibility of release. A chance at remembering. As the creatures circled each other in their dance, one reaching, the other rejecting, like a drowning man, one pressing the other down to elevate itself, Apollo whispered into their souls a possibility, a pathway home.

His thread of sun ignited the seed Prometheus planted.

If someday, they could turn and face their fear, see through the false division, let go of the lust for power and belief in dominance and division, if one day these creatures could take a chance and reach toward the other, it might remember itself. Thalia’s masks would fall. The seesaw game would collapse. And the creatures’ natural iridescence would be restored. 

It might, someday, look in the eyes of the other, and remember itself. Whole. Prometheus’ touch would finally reach them. The last old god, Prometheus, and his creation would be free.” 

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUN AND CONTRAIL

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Make Belief [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“People must surely be afraid, without knowing it, that their hold upon reason and sanity is precarious, else they would not so resent being asked to look at visual experience in a new way, they would not be so afraid of not seeing the world as they have always seen it and in the general publicly agreed way of seeing it.” Joanna Field (Marion Milner), On Not Being Able To Paint

We saw the little green men at an antique fair. They come in peace. I wondered so asked the Oracle Google why aliens – peaceful or not – are always depicted as green. The AI master responded:

“Green has been associated with aliens in folklore and mythology for centuries…” Forest creatures, fairies and sprites. Leprechauns…

“The term “little green men” gained popularity in the 1950s, coinciding with reports of flying saucers. This imagery was further popularized by movies and other media.” 

“In summary, the “green alien” trope is a creative and cultural construct rather than a scientific expectation. It reflects how we use our understanding of life on Earth to imagine possibilities on other planets.”

A cultural construct. Imagining the possibilities of life on other planets has brought us to the common agreement that green is the color of aliens.

The term “common sense” refers to practical, sound judgment. In practice, however, common sense need not make sense at all. Common sense is not so much about feasibility as it is about group agreement. It is “common” sense, meaning that it is consensus. It need not be factual or practical.

When faced with overwhelming evidence that the earth is round, there are people on this round earth who adamantly insist that the earth is flat. They claim that it is common sense; one need only look at a flat horizon.

Similarly, conspiracy theories are rooted in “common” sense. Mob mentality is not rooted in reason. Lemmings regularly run over cliffs.

Common sense is not necessarily a representative of truth. Common sense need not be rooted in fact. Common sense is just as easily an agreement built on fiction or fantasy. MAGA is an example: a group awash in an agreement of a reality that is sourced in make-believe. Make-believe: make-it-up-to-create-Belief.

Make-Belief. It is the fox’s game. Is there really any sense to be made from an orange man in a blue suit spewing balderdash? Common or not? Simple minds united under red hats of outrage? Do little green men really arrive in saucers that fly? No sense required; only group agreement awash in nonsense. Like the Republican Congress. Common.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ALIENS

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Be-Longing [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” ~ Oscar Wilde

I am spiraling down a rabbit hole of thought. This morning I read that many Indigenous languages have no verb form of “to be”.

It might seem like a small thing but it is not. We make sense of our world – and ourselves – through the language we use.

“To be” is a verb of separation. It is a verb of identity, placing primary emphasis on the individual, emphasizing difference rather than similarity. It places the identity-accent on “I”. A present tense of “to be” is “I am”. To be is to be alone.

“To be” fosters “be-longing“; the longing to find and express the unique self, and then “to be” accepted, paradoxically through differentiation. Our “to be” imperative requires us “to be” removed, above it all, accenting the ego, so that the highest achievement, the most celebrated “being” is the one who rises above the crowd. The one who successfully separates.

Is it no wonder that the three “great” western religions place humans atop a hierarchy, high above and removed from nature? Our notion of original sin stories us as born bad to the bone; we kick ourselves out of the garden of our own nature so we might strive “to be” better than we are.

Our language, rooted in “I am”, is incapable of storying us as belonging to nature, being a part or expression of nature. We must strive to return to the garden in order to find the tree of everlasting life.

Our language requires us to story a god living remotely in the sky. The god promises an exclusive resort called heaven if-and-only-if we elevate ourselves above our original nature. Separate to belong.

To this day I ponder a conversation I heard again and again in graduate school: people, living in a city of 1.8 million, yearning for community, discussing over and over the need to create community. How is it possible for nearly two million people to live together in a city without feeling a sense of community? It was not community they yearned for, it was belonging. Connection. An identity of inclusion.

Recently Kerri asked me, “I wonder what it would feel like if…?” I carried her question into our hike. I wonder what it would feel like if I did not story myself as separate? What would it feel like if I knew belonging as a given? Not just belonging to a community of people but intrinsically belonging to all of creation.

“Lookit,” she said, showing me the photograph that she’d just taken of the dandelion. “Isn’t it perfect?”

Perfect (adjective): flawless. ideal. magnificent. A word of unity. Belonging.

“Yes,” I said, aware of the story-limits of my language. I wondered what it might take for us “to be-ers” to see ourselves as perfect – as a given- to be as perfect as the dandelion.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE DANDELION

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An Audacious Thing [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I love it when the parks department rakes the beach. It reminds me of a Zen garden. Yohaku-no-bi: “The beauty of blank space.” I read that Zen gardens are meant for contemplation rather than meditation. Intentional thought rather than quieting the mind. What could be a better topic of contemplation than the beauty of blank space?

I have given much of my life to sitting before a blank canvas contemplating possibilities. Raking the sand in my garden.

Today Dwight flies to Portugal where he will embark on a pilgrimage. I love what he wrote as he prepared for his adventure: “…what audacious thing might occur to me when I let my mind get quiet?” Embracing the opportunity and the unknown!”

I flipped his words for contemplation: When I let my mind get quiet what audacious thing might occur to me?” Following a sentiment attributed to Aristotle, if “nature abhors a vacuum”, then a quiet mind is an invitation to the audacious.

A blank canvas. A quiet mind. An audacious thing. An embrace of the unknown opportunity. Beauty.

I didn’t intend it but I just wrote a haiku, a send off for Dwight using his own words:

An audacious thing:

An embrace of the unknown.

Opportunity.

Walk in quiet beauty, my friend.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE BEACH

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Prepare [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Lately everything seems to have extra significance. While we pulled all of the pots from the garage in preparation for planting the herb garden and flowers, it occurred to me that we are in preparation for the coming economic crumble. Empty pots brought to mind empty shelves.

When we go grocery shopping we are intentionally stocking up on products that we know will or are already going up in price. Basics like coffee and olive oil. The wave is coming so it feels foolish not to fortify the larder.

“Plan for what it is difficult while it is easy, do what is great while it is small.” ~ Sun Tzu

When I was a lost lad, one of the many books Quinn threw my way was The Art of War by Sun Tzu. His reason had nothing at all to do with war since he was – to his core – a peaceful man, a philosopher. In retrospect I think he was teaching me about preparation. He was guiding me on a path of self-knowledge.

Right now it is easy for us to stock up.

During his first chaotic term, it would have been easy for Mitch McConnell and the Republicans to have voted to convict the twice-impeached president. Their appropriate action, while it was still easy, would have stopped the autocratic impulse in our nation before it toppled our democracy. Now, it is not so easy. They refused to do what was great while it was small. They still could stop it – if they had the courage to do their jobs as prescribed in our Constitution. To date we are witness to their absence of courage. Either that or we are witness to their rejection of democracy and full embrace of fascism.

Perhaps it is not courage they lack but self-knowledge. It brought to mind another quote from Sun Tzu. The important sentiment is the third line in the following quote:

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”

They succumb in every battle. So we must prepare.

read Kerri’s blogpost about POTS

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Hearts In The Sky [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Today we light a candle for Beaky. Today marks ten years since she passed. When looking for the right photo for this observance day in the Melange, Kerri thought this one was perfect. A heart in the sky. Since Kerri and I met late in life, I only knew Beaky for 18 months though I feel as if I knew her for years. She was a warm, bright light. On more than one occasion, even while in great pain, I watched her uplift the spirits of her caregivers. The patient healing the healers.

She gave me essential lessons in being human. She could have taught our present world a thing or two about kindness, about what really matters; about creating a better world.

Although I never met him, I sometimes have conversations with Kerri’s dad. He was quite the handyman. I am not. When faced with a home repair that seems out of my league I regularly say, “Okay, Pa. Give me a clue.” To date he has never failed me. I’ve fixed the washing machine, the stove, the refrigerator, broken chairs and a table; I’ve plugged a hole in the wall, stopping a flood in the basement. Mostly, his clues are cautions to slow down. He reminds me that I can do anything if I take my time and do not rush. I do, however, have one small gripe with Pa’s advice-giving: when I am in the doghouse with Kerri and in desperate need of a repair, when slowing down seems dangerous, he is noticeably silent. I imagine him laughing, his silence saying, “I’m staying out of this one.”

We spent the past few days cutting back the grasses, raking the leaves, cleaning up the yard, replanting the front garden, repairing and filling the pond. Not only were we taking care of our sanctuary-home but I felt as if we were preparing for this day of remembrance. Cleaning out the old. Opening space for the new.

The work brought to mind a sweet memory: in college, my work-study sent me to the rose garden to help Brother Patrick tend the gardens. He was a quiet man, a gentle soul in the twilight of his years. The day was New Mexico bright and warm. I followed along behind him, digging a hole when he needed one dug, gathering the leaves and branches from his pruning. There was no rush, no thought of “getting it done”. He worked to enjoy the work and when I fell into his ethic, when I let go of the idea of working for achievement, he looked at me with bright eyes, as if there was nothing better on earth to be doing at that moment, and said, “This is good for the heart and good for the soul.”

Lighting a candle for Beaky. Communing with Pa. A moment of appreciation for Brother Patrick. I am filled with gratitude for the life lessons that continue to come from my very wise elders. Hearts in the sky.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART IN THE SKY.

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The Nest [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Apparently, House Sparrows are aptly named. They are making their nest in the architectural element above our front door, taking up residence at our house. Needless to say, we are delighted. We are also limiting our use of the front door.

It is our practice to write posts a few day in advance. We like to let them simmer for a day or two and give ourselves the chance to edit and improve our thoughts. Lately, with the pace of the assault on our democracy, although we are writing ahead, by the time we publish it feels as if we are running behind. For instance, I am writing this on Friday to be posted on Tuesday. Between now and Tuesday (when you will read this) there will be mass protests across the nation against the current administration. The executive could – as he has threatened – invoke the Insurrection Act, essentially placing the nation under martial law, turning the power of the military on citizens. It will mark the end of democratic governance as we know it. The Republican Congress will remain silent, further abdicating its power. The Supreme Court, having already neutered itself, will consider considering one of the many lawsuits filed by a public wondering whatever happened to the rule of law.

In the next few days it is very likely that we will step across the threshold into fascism.

Those of us not lost to the fox misinformation hole will know it. Those who have swallowed the fox-swill will believe that the loss of their Constitutional freedoms is the road to making America great again.

At dinner with pals the other night we discussed the impulse to hunker down. To stay safe in our homes. To nest – as we did in the pandemic. And, although I feel the same impulse, I know that disappearing into our nests is the last thing we should do. It is foolish to nest in a house that is on fire. We need to ring the alarm. We need to throw cold water on our elected representatives, wake them up and prompt them to act rather than speechify. We-the-people need to act since I am uncertain that even after a cold water bath that our elected leaders will find their courage.*

The sparrows are welcome to nest above our door.

Fascism is rapidly building a nest in our nation-home. It’s way past time to take a broom to their nest and shoo them away.

*The day after I wrote this post I saw this…Conservative New York Times columnist David Brooks has called for a mass uprising to oppose President Donald Trump, going so far as to quote The Communist Manifesto.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE NEST

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Ten Years [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It’s that time of year. The air temperature is still cool but the sun, when it makes an appearance, can warm your bones. More than once we’ve donned our jackets, scooched our Adirondack chairs into the sunny spots, and enjoyed the collision. “Oh my god,” I moan.

“Uh-huh,” she sighs. I appreciate that no matter how busy our day appears, we rarely fail to stop the pursuits and immerse in the moment. Against every Puritan commandment, we slow down to maximize productivity.

It’s been 10 years. 2015 was an extraordinary year. We produced and performed The Lost Boy. It was a heart project, a promise to Tom McK that took years and his passing to finally realize. After the production I thought I’d never again do anything more meaningful. Then, within a matter of weeks, we were jamming to illustrate and produce Beaky’s books. Kerri’s mom was 93, a brilliant woman born in a time when women were discouraged from any profession other than “housewife”. Nearing the end of her life she grieved the absence of “letters after my name.” Kerri knew that Beaky had years ago written and submitted for publication three manuscripts. We searched heaven and earth to find them. We produced the first book, self-published it, launched a website, organized and publicized a reading and author-signing event. And then we told Beaky. She was thrilled. Over 70 people attended her reading including the local newspapers. Beaky’s first sale, prior to the event, was in the Netherlands; she was officially an international author. She passed 18 days after her book launch. And then, in the fall of 2015, Kerri and I were married.

It’s 2025 so we are celebrating many anniversaries. In February we marked The Lost Boy. Ten year ago today (I am writing ahead) we held Beaky’s reading/signing event. In eighteen days we will mark the day she passed.

Bitter sweet. Warm cold. No matter how busy our days appear, we never fail to thread our story to the present moment. Today we will take some time and return to our Bristol Woods. We’ll reminisce about the day ten years ago that Beaky, preparing for her event, gave me a lesson in applying blush and lipstick. Kerri laughed and said, “Mom!” My heart was full and warm.

The daffodils feel the sun, too. Even though the air temperature is cool, they are making an appearance, poking their green-green shoots through the muddy soil, stretching their leaves into the promise of a new season.

It’s 2025…

read Kerri’s blogpost about DAFFODILS

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Upon What We Agree [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“Yes, I’m bein’ followed by a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow
Leapin’ and hoppin’ on a moonshadow
Moonshadow, moonshadow”
Cat Stevens (Yusef), Moonshadow

All of my life I have been captivated by shadows. The ghost dancing grasses cast on the trail. The moving patterns of telephone poles and lines waving on the asphalt. The cloud shadows gliding over the hills. Kerri and I regularly stop and take photos of our shadows. “Look how long we stretch!” I adore the shadow puppets of Wayan Kulit. It is a ritual performance of universal stories meant to remind us that in this life we only see the shadows we cast upon the screen of our minds. What’s “real” is beyond our capacity.

“Everything we call real is made of things that cannot be regarded as real.” ~ Niels Bohr. The quantum physicist and the Balinese puppet master – a priest – agree. Reality is a shadow.

Yesterday we attended a Hands-Off rally. The number one statement most often uttered by people in the crowd (according to my count): “I can’t believe this is happening!” It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t seem possible that our representatives have so easily rolled over rather than honor their oath to protect the Constitution. In their reality they play on team Republican. In our reality – we assumed in a crisis moment like this – that they would play on team United States.

Assume nothing. Reality is what we agree upon and at present there is no agreement.

Charlie is wise. Looking at the hundreds of people chanting and waving signs, he said, “When the rule of law collapses then there’s chaos. In chaos the people have no recourse but to take to the streets.”

The Constitution is the epicenter of our laws. It is the foundation stone upon which our democracy was and is constructed. When disregarded it is no more than a piece of parchment. A relic. “Everything that is real is made of things that cannot be regarded as real.” The Constitution has purpose and meaning only if we agree to honor it, to protect it – to adhere to the boundaries – the law – that it prescribes.

A woman in the crowd said, “It’s been less than 100 days and look at this.” The people have no recourse when our elected officials ignore their foundation stone. When they choose to serve a different reality.

About Moonshadow, Yusef wrote, “Whatever happens to you there’s always something good to look forward to.” Standing in the crowd, alive with concern and caring for the well-being of the nation, I thought, “This is good. There is hope. This is how a democracy survives.”

read Kerri’s blog about SHADOWS

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One Small Way [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

If you take a peek behind the curtain here at The Melange International (parent company kerrianddavid.com), you’d find a big bag of chips. More specifically, Costco Kettle chips. The bag is bigger than a mattress though we somehow manage to eat our way through it in…an unspecified very short span of time.

Taking another chip from the bag, Kerri exclaims, “These are bad!” which actually means they taste good but are not healthy. I remind her that mental health is just as important as physical health and the salty chips never fail to make us smile. And, these days, things that make us smile are very important, indeed.

And then there is this: Costco is one of the few companies with spine in a nation gone rubber-chickeny. In the face of an all-out assault on DEI, an attack on basic sanity – not to mention a scrubbing of history, Costco refuses to surrender their moral center and chooses, instead, to exercise their integrity. Our dedication to buying monster bags of chips from Costco is our way of supporting one of the last vestiges of courage and goodness in our nation.

Each chip we eat is a small “thank you”.

“Shall I refill the bowl?” I ask, already on my way to the gargantuan bag.

“Why not!” she says.

There’s no end to our gratitude. We delight that our love of salty snacks is one small way to support and celebrate goodness and courage. At least that’s what I tell myself.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CHIPS!

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