A Perspective Giver [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I could have sat all day on the porch and stared at the sculpted landscape, the fingers of Lake Powell reaching into the canyon. My artist’s soul rejuvenates in the southwest. It excites my imagination while quieting my mind. Just as the high desert sun warms me to the core of my being, the geography invigorates the core of my artistry.

It’s been two weeks since I sat on that porch and looked with awe at the horizon and watched the colors transform from hot orange to dusty purple as the sun progressed across the sky. It was akin to looking at the ocean surf, a rolling touch of the eternal. A perspective-giver.

While sitting on the porch I pondered our nation’s inability to fully reconcile with its past. It’s impossible to drive through tribal lands and not consider the full history of our nation. It’s been much on my mind recently since it is a central theme of my latest play, Diorama.

Think about it: just this week the maga-candidate-for-president suggested he would stop funding schools that taught about slavery. Nikki Haley, while running for the Republican nomination for president, said that there’d never been racism in the United States of America.

I sometimes wonder in these divisive times if the USA is like an alcoholic that refuses to admit that it has a problem. Why so much denial? Why so many blatant lies? In fact, it’s not new. Take a gander at the Lost Cause narrative propagated throughout the south (and the nation) following the civil war, a tale of happy slaves and benevolent slave owners. You might recognize it as it has resurged as the official curriculum in the state of Florida (and other states) in 2024. Twelve generations of brutality white washed and to what end?

Of course, it is the white-washed America that the reds aspire to inhabit – and to achieve their fantasy they necessarily need to ignore the full scope of our history. There’s no responsibility in a white washed history. In cowboy brain there are only good guys and bad guys so the good guys need never question their actions or confront their shadows. It’s an infantile narrative, not only unworthy of a maturing nation, but crippling to its growth.

The fourth step in the AA twelve step program suggests that, in order to restore our sanity – in order to grow up – we must be willing to make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. We must not be afraid to admit when we are wrong or recognize when we have strayed from our ideals.

A fearless moral inventory. An honest look at our complete history, the good, the bad and everything in between. As Aldous Huxley wrote, we are in a race between education and destruction. An educated populace would never tolerate the lies of the would-be-autocrat and would easily see through the crazy revisionist history that he manufactures and spews. Perhaps that is why he vows to dismantle the Department of Education.

The question before us in November is whether or not our democracy will prevail and mature or will the white nationalist monster, in a celebration of ignorance, eat our collective freedoms and send us swirling into the immoral (and infantile) fascist nightmare outlined in Project 2025? A fearless moral inventory or the path of the Lost Cause cowards?

The choice is ours to make. The story is ours to tell.

Waiting & Knowing, 48″x48″ mixed media

read Kerri’s blog about PERSPECTIVE

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So Do You [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

As you approach Monument Valley there is a blue sign and a nondescript pull out: Forrest Gump Point. It’s the place where they filmed the scene of Forrest ending his epic run. It’s now a place where travelers stop to jump out of their cars and into the road and have their picture taken. Photographic proof that “I stood where Forrest stood.” It is a whacky pilgrimage that none of us knew existed until we saw the sign.

No matter that Forrest Gump is a fictional character. He represents a way of being. A contemporary Buddha. A pure heart. Simple, honest and present.

In retrospect, it did my heart good to stand where Forrest stood. It did my heart good to witness so many travelers pull off the road and want to stand in that iconic spot, to want to get as close as possible to Forrest. Simple. Honest. Pure.

I thought of Forrest Gump Point this morning as I watched Jake Tapper interview speaker Mike Johnson. In a festival of gaslighting, Johnson tried to explain away the assertion made again and again by his party’s candidate that he would use the military against his political opponents. Johnson’s explanation: you are not hearing what you are clearly hearing.

Pretentious. Dishonest. Rank.

Forrest Gump did not know why he was running. He only knew that it was the right thing to do. He was running toward a truth.

Mike Johnson knows exactly why he is running and what he is running from. He also knows that it is the wrong thing to do. He -and his party of enablers – are running from the truth. They can pretend all day long that their candidate doesn’t say what he says, that he has not done what he has done, that he does not intend to do what he says he will do. Johnson knows, as they know, as you and I know, that he is lying, that they are lying. They are gaslighting. They are providing cover for a rapist, a pathological liar, a racist, a misogynist…an autocrat.

My wish for Johnson, the GOP, Bret Baier and his ilk, and all the voters that daily hide, make excuses for and explain away the behavior of their chosen candidate: I wish you would stop running from what you know to be the truth. I wish you would turn around and listen – simply listen – to the bilge that daily spews from your candidate’s mouth. I wish you would listen to the rubbish-explanations that daily clog your brains. I wish you would question your need to daily justify this morass. I wish you would check your moral compass and stop insisting that the hatred and chaos espoused by your candidate is in any way defensible or somehow worthy.

I wish you would stop telling me that I am not hearing what he is saying. I hear it. And, just like the Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, so do you.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FORREST GUMP POINT

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Happily Blank [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Rob gave us the perfect word to describe our passage through COVID. He called it stubborn. It does not easily let go. Fortunately, we’ve been having brilliant autumn days so we entertain our stubborn guest by sitting in the sunshine. We have the energy for sitting and not much else.

Sitting in the sun for days on end has afforded ample time for reflection and random rumination. My thought-trail returns again and again to our southwest trip-COVID combination and how it feels like the end of a chapter. A portal into the new. I recently wrote about the number 9 – spurred by our 9th anniversary – as a significant number of completion. Our anniversary came the day after we returned home and neither of us remember it because we were both fevered, achy, and miserable.

Life passages are often marked by liminal spaces. Neither here nor there; in-between places. My favorite words associated with liminal spaces are uncertain, insecure, unsettling. They can be dreamlike. All are perfect descriptions for how we feel in our seeming eternal COVID zone. Life has stopped. I can no longer remember if I once served a purpose or not. It all seems made-up. The fever zone was preceded by a journey into sacred land, dreamscapes. I dare anyone to visit Goblin Valley and not feel as if they’ve entered another dimension.

A younger me would have tried hard to get grounded, to force a move beyond the discomfort of disorientation – essentially reaching backward to grab hold of what was known. This older version understands the wisdom of insecurity. It is a mistake to reject the liminal. Any significant step into the “new” chapter requires a loss of the known. An open hand, a blank slate, is sometimes uncomfortable.

Holding on to what is no longer useful will in the long run prove to be much more uncomfortable; this amazing universe is in no hurry to deliver its lessons and is quite capable of amping up the discomfort until letting go is recognized as less painful than holding on.

We’re moving on to the next…and, from our chairs in the sun, with achy bodies and no energy to speak of, we have not the first clue what will be written in the next chapter. For now, we do not need to know. In fact, we need to not-know. For now, the blank page will remain happily – if uncomfortably – blank.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TUNNEL ARCH

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Make Room for “Wow!” [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.” ~ Alan Watts

My inner schoolmarm just marched me to corner where I now sit wearing the dunce cap. Apparently I have been taking myself too seriously. I am confused since I started my campaign for serious-thinking after last week when I was marched to the corner and made to sit wearing the same dunce cap for not being serious enough! My inner schoolmarm is hard to please!

Quinn used to talk about course corrections – learning – as smart-bomb behavior. Rather than “ready-aim-fire” he suggested the correct sequence was “fire-aim-ready”. Too much of life is wasted on the notion of readiness. Live-and-learn rather than learn-to-live.

I laughed aloud when I read the phrase on the wall of an airbnb: “Live your life as an exclamation rather than an explanation.” I wonder how much of my inner air-space has been dedicated to explaining my life choices to myself in the guise of imaginary conversations with others? Why do I spend so much time telling myself the story of myself? You’d think I have nothing better to do and no one else to talk to. I’d much rather fill my inner air-space with a constant, “Wow!”

That must be why I’m sitting in the corner. Perhaps my inner schoolmarm is not so unreasonable after all. She may have something of value to teach me. An inner “Wow!” is the response of someone who is looking out on the gorgeousness of the world. Focus out. A rolling inner explanation is self-absorbed. There’s no room for “Wow” amidst so much “MeMeMe.”

No wonder I currently don a dunce cap and sit by myself in this sad little corner!

Maybe wearing this silly dunce cap has nothing to do with my seriousness or lack thereof! Maybe, to escape my punishment, all I need do is ask, “How can I help?” Or, “Who can I help?” Or maybe I should look out the window at the autumn trees and witness the “Wow!”

Or, maybe I should sit here for awhile longer, invested in the impossible, and continue trying to explain myself to myself.

read Kerri’s blogpost about BE THE GOOD

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No Basis For Real [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

An MSNBC opinion piece hit the nail on the head: the reason why so many of us find this presidential campaign so uniquely unsettling is that “…so many of our fellow citizens embrace a candidate and a message so fundamentally un-American.”

“This is fascist rhetoric. More specifically, it’s Nazi rhetoric. But the crowds at [his] rallies aren’t horrified by such language. They lap it up.”

And so, here we are. These “citizens” embracing a fascist intention are our sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers. They are people we know and love but no longer recognize. They are not abstractions.

Kerri has a theory. She calls it “the flat friends”, the relationships available online that win likes and strokes for agreement. These relationships are abstractions; they are not real. They are easy, uncomplicated, and come with instant gratification. No dialogue required. No real communication. No imperative to support assertions with facts or data or…reality. Hate bubbles filled with easy lies and even easier agreement amongst flat friends. An ugly meme is all the verification needed in flat-friend-land. No real thinking required.

It’s a convenient place to run and hide when the three dimensional world, the woke world, the world of evidence and reason and thinking and questioning and open minds, asks, “What the hell are you talking about?”

In the flat-friend-world it is possible to silence me with the click of a button. And, if you think about it, all of the rhetoric spewed by the hate candidate and magnified by the faux-news-fox pander to the same idea. Easy two dimensional solutions – fodder that is only palatable to a flat world dedicated to non-thinking. Mass deportations. Banning books. Eliminating the Department of Education. Blasting women back into the dark ages. Enemies abound! Snap! Easy-peasy. Big-Red-Daddy will solve it all for you. Click.

Eliminating those that disagree is not a solution outside of flat-friend-world. It is an illusion – and laughably childish – though Big-Red-Daddy has suggested that he will use the military to silence those who criticize him. Apparently, he believes he will be able with a click of the military to un-friend 50% of the nation, the congress, the justice system…the American system of governance.

In the three dimensional world it is not so easy to silence me or the rest of us that remember how to lift our eyes from the screen and fact check what we see in flatland, those of us who still understand that agreement is a lousy test of real information, that democracy is a complex ongoing idea that deserves responsible stewards and that an easy “like” is no basis for real community.

read Kerri’s blogpost about FLAT FRIENDS

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Commune With The Sun [David’s blog on KS Friday]

I confess. For several days I’ve dreaded the sunset. My COVID symptoms seem to escalate in lock step with the march of the setting sun. Sundown; pain up. I’ve read that I am not making it up; apparently my circadian rhythms signal my immune system to be more active at night. That makes for some increased inflammation, fever spikes, and my favorite cough more active.

In the previous era, prior to the virus-that-seems-eternal, I was treated to some extraordinary sunrises and sunsets over the desert. I adore the wind that rises just before the sun breaks the horizon and the heat washes over me. I’m in awe the sense of peace I experience each time the sun dips beneath the sculpted red cliffs and how quickly the temperature drops. My rhythms are indistinct from the circadian rhythms of the earth. I suspect that recognition is the source of peace I feel. Adoration and awe. No separation.

Yesterday, for the first time since we’ve been home, the sun broke through the clouds. We bundled up and set our chairs in the sun. It was better than Advil, soaking the warmth into my aching bones. We sat for a long time in the sun, so intent on drinking in the goodness and heat, neither of us was able to speak. There was the occasional moan and an “Uh-huh,” of agreement. We moved our chairs across the backyard as the sun moved. Healer in the sky.

We are without doubt tuned to the rhythm and movement of the sun. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Yesterday, with my eyes closed and face to the warmth, I thought, “I am no more or less than this.” I thought again of Gay, standing on the edge of the canyon, saying, “And I get to be here to see it.” There is no pleasure more sensual and reassuring than this: in the midst of feeling ill, to sit in communion with the sun. Drinking it in, so grateful to feel it reach deep and give comfort to the very center of my being.

Dawn At Crab Meadow on the album Blueprint For My Soul © 1997 Kerri Sherwood

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

read Kerri’s blogpost about SUN

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Goblins After All [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.” ~Walt Whitman

It’s called Goblin Valley and for good reason. It’s a vast landscape of rock sprites of all shapes and sizes. They beckon. They are impossible to deny. We tried not to run down the hill but could not wait to frolic among them.

We tried but failed to maintain our adulthood in their midst. That is their magic. That is the power of their spell: unfettered playfulness. We giggled and rollicked as we explored their world. The goblins conjure an irresistible charm that prohibits all serious matters. Their enchantment provides an immediate return to childhood, a refreshing return to wild imagination. Time dissipates. Lists dissolve. Future fear and past regrets melt away; they are no match for the goblin’s mojo.

We were with them for a moment or an hour, I do not know. These mischievous beings restored our spirits, enlivened our fancy, and then released their hold on us. Having planted the seed of our return, they knew with certainty that we would someday be back. We will not be able to help ourselves from answering their summons. Their call to our better nature, their invocation of our artistic child-heart-enthusiasm, cannot be denied.

We are, like them, goblins after all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GOBLINS

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Scratches On The Wall [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Scratches on the wall. Petroglyphs, the only evidence that remains of a people who once lived in these canyons, who lived by the river we’ve named Fremont. We do not know if they had a name for the river. We do not know if they had a name for themselves. We call them the Fremont, after the river. A location name.

The Fremont River is named for an American explorer, John Charles Fremont, so the people who scratched pictures into the rock over 1,000 years ago also carry his name. As is the nature of history, we locate them from our point of view. We build an identity-structure and civilization-story about them based upon our story of them. We’ve placed them in our narrative timeline, 1 – 1300 CE. We have no idea how they thought of or marked their time.

We have no idea what became of them. They disappeared into time. We have no idea what the petroglyphs mean or why they scratched them into the canyon walls. We wonder at the semiotics, the inner symbolic life that produced such strange (to us) images that remain on the red rock walls.

This morning, through my COVID aches and chills, I watched the news. I would like to say that I am mystified by the civilization-story currently being spun and supported by half of my nation but I am not. I would like to say that the hatred and fear-mongering of the red hat tribe is as much a mystery to me as the way of the Fremont, but it is not. The concurrent xenophobia and wild-eyed-creation of an internal enemy (anyone not in a red hat) has roots that are all too easy to see. It’s a fascist popcorn trail, a page from Hitler’s handbook. The language is identical. The images, scratched into the red-fox-walls of our time are all too easy to interpret. A frightened and misinformed populace is easily manipulated. Fooled.

What is a mystery to me is the inner symbolic life of my nation’s conservatives that seem so ready to trade our sacred democracy for a populist authoritarian. What scratches on the walls of their minds are so easily storied into hatred. What has so hardened their hearts that they embrace with cheers the repulsive bile spewed by their candidate? It is as incomprehensible to me as the petroglyphs of the Fremont.

All societies disappear into time. Ours, relative to the Fremont, is still in its infancy. We can only hope that an explorer in some distant future finds our petroglyphs – and although a mystery to them, we will have known that we transcended the authoritarian threat and overcame the fox-fear-fantasy, manufactured hatred and dark lies. And, over the next thousand years, our scratches on the wall tell the tale of how we matured to fulfill the promise of our sacred ideals. Out of many, one.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PETROGLYPHS

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Not Bad [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

In a fit of understatement, someone placed a yellow sticker on the railing overlooking the sweeping view of Bryce Canyon. It read, “Not bad”. The awe is visceral, “I feel it in the pit of my stomach,” Kerri said. Standing at the edge, as is often the case, words fall short. “Not bad” is as good a phrase of wonderment as any other.

For a moment Gay was overwhelmed. With tears in her eyes she said, “And I get to be here to see it.” There were moments in the past few years that she had every reason to believe that she would not be here.

I was struck by her acknowledgement. It is something that I hope to express every day for the rest of my life. Deep appreciation. “And I get to be here to see it.” Like most people, I let far too many days of this life slip by without realizing or recognizing the astonishing gift of being here to see it.

Every day is as awesome as a peek into Bryce Canyon. Not Bad.

read Kerri’s blogpost about NOT BAD

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Out Of The Question [David’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab]

I wrote to Horatio that COVID comes as advertised. It is no joke.

The prescription is to rest and get plenty of sleep. The resting part is easy since there is no energy for anything else. Walking is a chore. Sitting is a chore. Thinking is out of the question. What remains is called rest.

The sleeping part, on the other hand, is nigh-on-impossible. We both brought it home from our travels so our dueling coughs, hacks, and wheezes make sleep an impossibility. Moving to the couch to be alone with my hack-n-wheeze was a losing strategy. It’s hard to sleep when every atom aches. I didn’t know that atoms could ache. I have atoms I never knew I had.

The lemonade from so many lemons? In my pursuit of new experiences I can now say I have a visceral understanding of COVID. Perhaps in the future I should be more discerning about what I am and am not willing to learn. A consideration for later. Right now, thinking – and sleeping – are out of the question.

read Kerri’s blogpost about COVID

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