The Only Question [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Breck the aspen tree is no longer a sapling. Since May she has grown a few feet taller. Her trunk is now the sturdy stock of a mature tree. Her bark is taking on the whitish hue of mature aspens. We stand at her base, crane our necks looking up, and marvel. In a few short months we have watched her come-of-age.

In a contentious time, an age of the disappearance of justice and the rise of a criminal, Breck is a reminder for us of all that is good. When we need a dose of sanity, when we need a reminder that nature takes little notice of human folly, we sit with Breck. We allow ourselves to be soothed by the comforting shimmer of her quaking leaves.

Joseph Campbell wrote The Hero With A Thousand Faces in 1949. I almost spit my coffee this morning when I read, “The tyrant is proud and therein resides his doom. He is proud because he thinks of his strength as his own; thus, he is in the clown role, as a mistaker of shadow for substance; it is his destiny to be tricked.”

I know it is a mistake to conflate myth with biography, yet, have you ever read a more perfect description of our authoritarian wanna-be?

Myth meets the historical moment. The tyrant is a clown. He is a mistaker of shadow for substance. He thinks his strength is his own. His destiny is to be tricked. Campbell also wrote that, in the mythic cycle, the tyrant, “usurps to themselves the goods of their neighbors, arise, and are the cause of widespread misery. They have to be suppressed.”

Usurping to himself the goods of his neighbors? Check.

The cause of widespread misery? Check.

In mythology, the tyrant is the harbinger of the hero’s rise (note: the hero need not be a male). “The great figure of the moment (the tyrant) exists only to be broken…The ogre-tyrant is champion of the prodigious fact; the hero the champion of creative life.”

The word “prodigious” in this sentence = unnatural, grotesque.

Locked in a shadowy lie-about-the-past with a monstrous clown? Or, progressing forward toward actual possibilities? We are a nation quaking to come-of age.

The tyrant exists only to be broken – and it makes sense in mythology and in the patterns of history. Breck can only grow in one direction. The same is true of us. The only question is how much damage will the tyrant do before we-the-people, the actual hero in our tale, awaken, open our eyes and rise?

WATERSHED on the album AS IT IS © 2004 Kerri Sherwood

watershed,(noun): an event or period marking a turning point in a course of action or state of affairs.

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRECK

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The Very Least [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Positive cultural change today (as it has always been) is about leveraging your life where you are: by doing small, possible, measurable daily acts of decency, of protest, of advocacy, of collaboration.” ~ John Pavlovitz, The Beautiful Mess, 2.27.25

Red dianthus symbolizes deep love and affection. We’ve ringed our deck with pots of dianthus. It seems like such a small thing yet every time we step onto the deck, we smile. They invoke our affection. They magnify our deep love.

Symbols might seem like a small thing but they reach to the very core of our being. Who in the USA can see a bald eagle and not be taken by the majesty of the symbol? Who in the world can see a swastika and not be horrified by what it represents?

Language is constructed of symbols. We line our streets with universal symbols: stop, walk, yield, green-means-go. We think in symbols. We dream in symbols. We are naive to ignore or underestimate the power of symbols.

The Texas Democrats breaking quorum was a symbolic act. They understand that single-party-rule, as is now being legislated in Texas, is authoritarianism. Their symbolic act has sent a ripple of courage through an otherwise paralyzed Democratic party.

Yesterday I wrote that in the midst of our national horror, each and every day, we ask ourselves, “What can we do?” If I could I would go to the Texas legislature and stand with the Democrats who are now essentially being held hostage. I wish every lover of democracy could show up this morning on the floor of the Texas legislature and say with their presence, “We will not stand for this.” I wish every lover of democracy could show up on the floor of the nation’s legislature with the same message. Enough.

Protests are symbolic acts. So is delivering donations to a food pantry. John Pavlovitz reminded us this morning that the answer to our question, “What can we do?” need not be grand. In fact, we need only look around our community and, as Ann used to tell me, “Find a need and fill it.” Offering a helping hand is a symbolic act.

Calling out the national guard without reason is a symbolic act. Signing meaningless executive orders to do away with mail-in-voting is a symbolic act. Both are in direct opposition to these symbols: The Declaration of Independence, The Constitution of the United States, The Statue of Liberty, The Liberty Bell, The Boston Tea Party…the vote in free and fair elections.

Our vote is now all that stands between us and the loss of our democracy. By-the-way, that has always been true.

Our vote is under assault by a president and republican congress. They are rigging the system to eliminate democracy in favor of one party rule. They assault nothing less than our foundational symbolic action. The Right to Vote.

Our vote, until now, has been the sacred central symbol – the single symbolic act – of our experiment in democracy: rule of, by, and for the people. According to our symbol, our leaders serve at our pleasure. We choose them. If we do not like their actions, we vote them out.

Until now.

Voting seems like such a small thing. Yet, it is everything.

What can we do? Protect your right and mine, protect the right of every citizen without regard of color or gender, to vote in free and fair elections. It is no small act of decency to protect the single, central action, the primary symbol of our democracy, the one thing that you can DO that actually makes the whole country great: protect your right to vote. And then, when the day comes, exercise your right, perform your symbolic act. Vote. It is the very least – and the utmost – you can do.

detail of a work in progress

read Kerri’s blogpost on DIANTHUS

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Beautiful. Perhaps.[David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” ~ Leo Tolstoy

We have watched Barney-the-piano change over these many years. As he ages and falls apart we discuss how he has become more beautiful. It is a sentiment that we do not allow for ourselves as we have also aged and changed over these many years.

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” ~ James Baldwin

There are days that I do not recognize myself. I look in the mirror and see my grandfather. I look in my heart and am surprised by what I see. In these past months I have discovered my intolerance and I am proud of my intolerance. I have discovered my hard lines of belief. I do not believe that masked men should be plucking people off the streets. I do not believe we should scrub history to make white supremacy palatable. Now, when I look in my heart, I know exactly what I believe. And I like what I see.

“Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” ~ Nelson Mandela

I recently wrote a play about this nation’s resistance to education. Educated people ask questions. Educated people are not easily drowned in propaganda. Educated people do not fear learning that they are wrong because the point of education has nothing to do with right or wrong answers and everything to do with expanding hearts and minds. Minds that expand reach toward the unknown. Minds that close stagnate in the safety of what is known. Entropy, the gradual decline to disorder.

“Change is the only constant.” ~ Heraclitus

Barney is beautiful. He has been home to chipmunks. He is a resting spot for squirrels. Birds revel where he once sported keys. He has dropped all illusions of grandeur and each day reveals his true nature. He makes progress toward earth. He does not resist his natural path. That is the secret of his beauty.

“Make every effort to change things you do not like. If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking. You might find a new solution.” ~ Maya Angelou

Master Marsh once told me that when caught himself complaining about something that he had three choices. Shut up (stop complaining). Do something about it. Or leave. In the current reality of our nation I am not able shut up. In fact, I feel it is necessary to raise the volume. That is what I am doing. We write and write and write. We ask ourselves every day, “What more can we do?”

“The world as we have created it is a process of our thinking. It cannot be changed without changing our thinking.” ~ Albert Einstein

In their advanced age both Maya Angelou and Albert Einstein arrived at the same conclusion. They agree with Leo Tolstoy: to be better on this earth, we need to change our thinking. We need to think about changing ourselves. Looking at our nation (ourselves) doesn’t it beg the obvious questions: What are we thinking? Are we capable of changing our thinking?

Perhaps, as we dissolve, as we crumble like Barney, we will discover at the core of our national story the rot of exclusion. Then, perhaps, we can face our dysfunction, root it out, and change our thinking. Perhaps we can become the inclusive home that our nature – and our founding ideals – intended us to be. Beautiful. Perhaps.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BARNEY

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The Imaginary Top [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

This gorgeous flower that derives its name from the Greek kosmos was lying on the sidewalk. The recent incessant heat and rain and humidity had wrestled it to the ground. It was down but not defeated.

Cosmos. Another name for the vast universe and its intrinsic order. Lately on our little planet the order of the universe seems to have lost its mooring. Actually, the flora and fauna seem to still be hitched to natural cycles and patterns, it’s we-the-human-beings that have slipped away from the dock of reason.

She knelt on the ground to take the picture. “They are beautiful,” she said. From a distance it must have looked like she was bowing to the cosmos. The image and word play tickled me. I thought, “We human-beings would do ourselves a favor if we were humble and occasionally bowed to the Cosmos.” We definitely occupy a place in the order, but rather than seeing ourselves as interconnected, we invent hierarchies and place ourselves at the pinnacle of importance. We give ourselves the blue ribbon. A few more years of thousand-year storms might wake us up but I doubt it. We like believing we are at the top. We like believing that there actually is a top to be occupied – and therein lies our dis-ease. Believing that we are at the top permits the delusion that we are somehow disconnected from the rest of the Cosmos. It gives us permission to believe that everything is a resource for our use and pleasure.

That, and, as they say, hierarchies beget hierarchies. We imagine an order to the vast Cosmos in which there are winners and losers. We turn our hierarchies on each other.

Of course, we are capable of imagining a different type of order. It’s why we have stories of messiahs and buddhas. They are meant to point the way out of our delusion and toward the actual order of the Cosmos. No hierarchy. Non-separation. Illumination and brother’s keeper. A return to the garden to discover the Tree of Everlasting Life otherwise known as unity. Those wacky sages are meant to help us see beyond our illusion, beyond our bloody scramble for the imaginary top.

After the flower photo op, we were careful to step over the cosmos-on-the-sidewalk. The cosmos were a good reminder in this time of madness run amok: reason, ethic, moral compass, compassion, service, kindness…may be down, but they are certainly not defeated. In the end, they are what give order to our cosmos

read Kerri’s blogpost about COSMOS

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Definitions [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

I’m a big fan of secondary definitions. Not only does the word addle mean to confuse, it also means to make an egg rotten. In my mind the two definitions are connected: addle a brain too long and it will rot.

A case in point: while forwarding our smack-dab cartoon on Saturday I happened upon a disturbing comment thread. Members of the maga-cult were abusing a woman who dared to defend the plight of immigrants.

2. Abuse (verb): treat (a person) with cruelty or violence.

The harangue included demands that the woman “get her facts” straight, which I found particularly obscene since the maga-abusers were astonishingly-fact-free while the woman was rooted in reality. The maga-big sticks included two easily debunked claims: 1) The Biden administration paid millions of social security dollars to “illegals*”, and 2) the “illegals” were bleeding the system without paying into the system.

This took less than a minute to fact check: Can undocumented immigrants collect social security? No.

Are undocumented immigrants eligible for Medicaid? No. (bonus fact: Is misinformation rampant? Yes).

And, here’s the kicker for anyone who cares to live in a world of easily checked facts: Undocumented immigrants paid more in taxes than Amazon, GM, IBM, and Netflix combined.

I recognize – as I believe we are all coming to recognize – that the maga-mind is particularly resistant to any bit of data or fact that contradicts their fever-fantasy. Their adamant defense of the indefensible has little to do with truth or fact or historical accuracy or hard science – they hold fast to their absolute right to muddled minds because it gives them license to abuse. They mimic their dear leader. The bully-impulse is the bond that unites them.

*Take, for instance, the fox-generated-and-now-widely-maga-touted-term “illegals”:

Illegals (plural noun. derogatory. north american): a person present in a country without official authorization.

In the fascist handbook it is a hard and fast rule to first dehumanize a group of people before subjecting them to inhumane abuse. For instance, making people wear yellow stars before herding them into train cars and disappearing them into concentration camps or – as is currently happening – calling people illegals en route to suspending their (and our) constitutionally protected right to due process – so that masked agents of the government can pluck people off the streets and disappear them into…concentration camps.

inhumane (adjective): without compassion for misery or suffering; cruel.

I hope we can all agree that the sadistic treatment of other people is barbaric. Well…if you are maga, your mind is so addled that your moral compass no longer functions, as is evidenced in daily celebrating ruthless savagery – like ICE – while claiming to be ethical, christian, and upstanding.

Addle a brain too long and more than the mind will rot.

read Kerri’s blogpost about ADDLE

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Why Not? [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

Our escape fantasies include a six month thru-hike on the Pacific Crest Trail and/or lengthy excursions to pretty-and-unpopulated places, living life in the tiniest trailer.

Since we like to make dreams come true and fantasies a reality, we’re actively gathering information on backpacks and gear. I’m interested in going ultralight since Kerri imagines that I will be carrying most of the gear on the 2,650 mile PCT.

Yesterday we needed a break so we went to a camper and RV lot and walked through several small, lightweight trailers. We learned about aluminum construction and lithium batteries. We stoked the fire in our gypsy souls.

Watercolors and ukuleles are easily transported whether in an ultralight backpack or in a tiny, tiny trailer. Artists on the go. Cameras and Ipads and apple pencils.

As our nation spirals ever downward into the dark sewer of authoritarianism, entertaining our escape fantasies seem more and more like coping mechanisms – every day pushing us ever closer to making the fantasy a reality. At this point, why not?

read Kerri’s blogpost about ESCAPE!

smack-dab © 2025 kerrianddavid.com

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Popcorn Trail [David’s blog on KS Friday]

Late at night, standing on the platform awaiting the train to take us home, the moon and clouds gave us a spectacular show. I knew that the moon was a waxing gibbous and realized that, although I’d known and used the word since I was young, I had no idea what the word “gibbous” actually meant. It sounds like something related to gibbons, small apes that swing through trees. Is the moon gibbous because it swings through the sky? No! The moon is gibbous because it is greater than a semi-circle yet less than a circle. Gibbous describes the shape! Bulbous. Convex. Protruding.

Yesterday I unrolled many small canvases and pinned them to the wall in my studio. They are like a small flame I’ve kept for alive for over 35 years. They refer back to a large odd shaped canvas I stapled to the deck of my apartment on a sunny day, overlooking Hollywood. I had a very limited paint supply, a few cans of paint used for animation (computer animation was not yet possible so artists painted images on cells with acrylic paints), grey, blue, and white. I had a small jar of cadmium red. I taped a few housepainting brushes to long sticks and made myself a promise to “have fun and not think too much.” And I did. I had fun. I didn’t think too much. I played. In those few short hours, I painted the single piece that would influence my work for the rest of my life. I knew it was special. It was pure. It sold before I could adequately document it (remember the age before the ease of digital cameras?). It sold before I had the opportunity to install it in a gallery and show it.

I call the many small canvases my “narrative paintings”. They are a popcorn trail that I dropped as I wandered into the forest of my artistry. Some of the pieces are studied and lifeless. Some are playful and shallow. Some are raw and heart-full. I tacked them all to the wall to guide me back to the original impulse, that moment of artistic purity.

I am gibbous though, at this age, I am no longer waxing. I am greater than a semi-circle but have not yet completed my full life circle. In my time on earth I have been what Kerri calls a “strider”, someone trying-too-hard to climb the ladder of success. I have pursued my artistry like it was a wild animal, setting traps to capture what I could not easily understand. I have finally learned, or have lived long enough to realize, that I am and have always been what I chase. No traps necessary.

I follow the popcorn trail back to what I experienced that day in Los Angeles: the simple joy of being alive. A conscious moment enthusiastically expressed through a little grey, blue and white paint, punctuated with some surprise cadmium red.

IN THE NIGHT on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s albums are available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MOON AND CLOUDS

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Hummingbird Hope [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Hummingbirds bring to mind my great aunt Dorothy. Outside the door of her tiny mountain home, precariously perched – and tilting slightly – on the hill above the Central City Opera House, she maintained a festival of brightly colored hummingbird feeders. She was a no-nonsense woman who cooked her meals on a cast iron wood burning stove. She loved her hummingbirds.

I felt Dorothy hanging out with me when I planted the cardinal flower in the huge rusty-ancient-fire-pit that we placed near the hummingbird feeder to help attract more hummingbirds. Kerri loves her hummingbirds.

For weeks the cardinal flower was flowerless. It did a fine Jack-and-the-Beanstalk imitation, growing tall, reaching for the sky. “Where are the blossoms?” she asked. I shrugged. This was my first cardinal flower so I was clueless. I was, however, mightily impressed that it had grown taller than me.

Hummingbirds, like us, are not fans of very hot and incessantly humid weather so they abandoned our region and sought fairer climes. Their absence has been palpable. There were so many zipping about earlier in the summer that their disappearance is magnified.

Unusually, because of the heat-smoke-and-humidity-combo-platter, we’ve mostly been inside, staying close to “the cold box”. We’ve abandoned our usual outdoor living and make only quick forays into the yard to water plants, pull weeds, and harvest basil or jalapeño peppers. As the weeks passed we’d mostly forgotten about the flowerless cardinal plant. We stopped refreshing the hummingbird feeder.

The first pop of color nearly knocked us over. The red was electric against the viridian ivy slowly covering our neighbor’s garage. Within a few days, despite the persistent heat and humidity, a single hardy hummingbird visited and drank deeply from the blossoms. Kerri quickly whipped up a new batch of sugar water and refilled the feeder.

We’ve not yet seen another. I imagine the lone hummingbird was a scout for the hummingbird clan and reported that although it found a brilliant cardinal plant and a fresh batch of sugar water, the conditions remained unfavorable. The smokey heavy air was not ideal for flight.

And so we wait.

Dorothy used to stand at her kitchen door, watching the hummingbird feeders in her tiny mountain yard. “They give me hope,” she’d say.

We watch our feeder and towering cardinal plant from the kitchen window. “Do you think they’ll come back?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say. “We can only hope.”

read Kerri’s blog about THE CARDINAL PLANT

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What I Remember [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Memory is a funny thing. It’s almost never accurate. Over time we revisit and restory our life experiences, scrambling the order of events, forgetting essential details while hanging on with white knuckles to specific moments that we understand as truth.* This happened. It matters. I remember it.

I re-member it.

Joseph Campbell introduced me to a phrase, an aspect that is present in all creation myths: the paradox of dual focus. “…so now, at this critical juncture, where the One breaks into the many, destiny “happens,”but at the same time is “brought about.”

Kerri and I have an ongoing conversation about the paradox of dual focus. For instance, our coming-together-story seems fated, as if it was part of the grand-plan all along. “It was meant to be!” we exclaim. And, at the same time, we ask, “What are the odds?” Our meeting was a happy accident in a vast chaotic universe.

Both/And.

It just happened. And, it was meant to be. It depends upon how we re-member it. It depends upon how we want to story it.

A Balinese man told me that, in Bali, when two people crash their cars into each other, their first thought is “I am supposed to meet this person.” Insurance claims and blame are not priorities. Fate orchestrated a fender bender. The strangers emerge from their cars and greet each other as if fortune had just smiled upon them; they are two pieces of a greater puzzle come together.

Supposed to happen. Accident.

The greater puzzle. The essence beyond the fragments. The One that breaks into the many. Focusing on the small stone does not negate the truth of the mountain. The single blossom is an expression of the plant, which is nourished by the soil and rain and seasons and critters…

Memory is like that. It is both stone and mountain. Blossom and ecosystem. The order of things is less revealing than the essence, the relationship to the whole. We grow and change and so that what might have at one time seemed a hardship now seems a course correction, a blessing. Kismet.

It happened. It matters. That’s what I remember.

*(It is a sign of our times that I feel it necessary to distinguish my thoughts on individual memory from the facts of history. We live in a time when those in power are actively editing, scrubbing and rewriting history. They concoct a narrative that has little to do with the actual history of our nation. This is not dual focus. This is white supremacist fantasy-creation.)

read Kerri’s blogpost about BLOSSOMS

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Harvest [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

“It is very nearly impossible to become an educated person in a country so distrustful of the independent mind.” ~ James Baldwin

The first tomato of the season. We plucked it and, after its photo shoot, we split it and ate it. It tasted of the sun. We delighted in the first harvest of what we sowed.

I just read a million quotes about harvests. They all boil down to essentially the same platitude: you reap what you sow.

My favorite quote of the week is by Brian Tyler Cohen: “All of these alpha republicans instantly become beta the minute Dear Leader tells them what to do. He tells them to jump. They jump.” They swagger around, talking tough, but their actions reveal lemmings in cowboy clothes. Currently, at Dear Leader’s behest, they protect the identity of wealthy pedophiles instead of the rights of the little girls they violated. They gut social programs to give tax cuts to the morbidly wealthy. They’ve fully funded a terror squad currently plucking people off the streets and disappearing them into concentration camps. Rather than protect the nation, they are moving in lockstep to turn the military on the citizens. Do they know what horror they sow? Do they understand or even consider the crop that we will reap from such a planting?

Of course they do. It is the reason they are dismantling the Department of Education. It’s the reason that universities across the nation are under assault. It’s the reason arts funding has disappeared. It’s the reason that the free press has been cowed. It’s the reason DEI is being scrubbed and history thoroughly whitewashed. “Authoritarians despise universities, journalists, experts, artists and free thinkers – because truth is their kryptonite. Lies are the scaffolding of tyranny. A tyrant’s power is directly proportional to the population’s ignorance.” [youtube.com/@theintellectualist] This quote, by-the-way, is not a platitude. It is a siren call, an all-hands-on-deck alarm to the dismantling of democracy.

The party that swaggers and follows-the-leader-who-excessively-boasts is currently fearful and hiding from their constituents. Their constituents are angry because their representatives have become the poster-children of group-think. Their representatives no longer represent them. Independent thought seems anathema to the republicans. They are all swagger and no substance. We-the-people would like to ask them if they know the corruption that they sow – but can’t because they are ashamed to face us.

Do they know? They do. That is the reason they no longer hold town hall meetings. They fear the will of the people, so rather than listen to the people they move to rig the next election. Blatant gerrymandering. Purging voter rolls. Legislating obstacles making it harder for people of color and women to vote. Sowing authoritarianism. “Authoritarians despise…free thinkers – because truth is their kryptonite.”

There is one thing we can all agree upon: the harvest of what they currently plant will taste like something other than the sun.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the FIRST TOMATO

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