Just As It Is [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Thirteen years into our relationship, ten years after we said, “I do,” I learned something new and startling about Kerri: she used to be a woman who wore hats.

The woman I know refuses to put on a hat. She makes a wrinkly face when I suggest she try on a hat. Even in the bitter cold she resists the warmth of a stocking cap until frostbite is imminent. She is not a woman who wears hats. She is a woman who openly disparages herself-in-hats.

Imagine my surprise, then, when in the process of cleaning out her studio closet, she pulled out multiple hat boxes. In each box, was – wait for it – a delightful hat!

It must have been the look of shock on my face that propelled her to take a step back in time and model the hats. Donning the first hat she was instantly sassy. The next made her buoyant. She turned up the brim. She pushed a hat to the back of her head. She cocked one to the side. Each hat evoked an attitude. Each hat summoned a story. A performance. An event. A meeting. A fundraiser. A photo shoot…a playful spirit.

The hats liberated her like a mask liberates an actor. Each had a unique personality and the power to infuse her with its magic persona. I saw a bit of Diane Keaton, a shade of Audrey Hepburn. I laughed and clapped at each performance. I admired the power of the hats.

In time, the hats were restored to their boxes. The woman who does not wear hats returned. She told me that it was time to move them on, to sell or donate the hats. To make space.

When we first met, in a conversation about change, she told me that she believed people do not change, rather, they become more of who they are. The masks fall away. Time and experience erodes the fortress. The armor falls off. The hats return to their boxes. What remains is beautiful just as it is, just as it always has been.

*****

(Snark Alert) And then there’s this: if you are, like me, trying to make sense of the AWOL Republican party, there can only be one of these three options for their unwillingness to do their jobs and uphold their oath to the Constitution: 1) They all appear prominently in the Epstein Files. 2) They are like their leader: puppets for Putin. Or 3) They are stealth fascists who never really believed in Democracy in the first place and had no intention of serving the Constitution. To continue supporting this authoritarian madman is political suicide yet they remain silent and, therefore, complicit. They either already know that there will never again be free and fair elections so there’s no need to worry about their precious seat – or see numbers 1 through 3 above. What else? If you see any other explanation I’d love to hear it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HATS

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A New, Unique Personality [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

It really does not take much to transform a room. New furniture, accent walls or refreshed paint, area rugs…are all viable options. However, none of these work as well or as effortlessly as two googly eyes stuck on the wall. Try it. Your space will immediately have a new, unique personality. It will have an undeniable focal point. It will immediately fill guests with questions. It will, just like your conscience, look back at you. You will wonder what your new room reveals about your personality. You will catch yourself pondering what your room is thinking. Someday, inevitably, you will find yourself talking to your wall.

All of this transformation with the simple addition of two dime store googly eyes.

Keep in mind that three eyes are not better than two. One eye will confuse or irritate rather than illuminate. Eyes on every wall will cancel the magic. If personification is the goal, then two eyes are requisite. No more. No less.

It takes very little to personify, to project human qualities and traits onto – into – something as abstract as a wall. It’s why we find deep comfort in teddy bears or reach for the wisdom of the man in the moon. They look back at us. We endow them with compassion or quietly listen to the messages brought to us by the wind.

Conversely, it takes very little to dehumanize a human being. As easily as we assign humanity to objects we just as easily deny humanity to people. We make them objects. It’s easier to scoop them off the streets and put them into camps if we objectify them, if we downgrade their humanity. If we blame them for what ails us.

It’s simple. All we need do is project onto them our cruelty. Keep in mind, to be successful dehumanizers, it’s especially necessary to avoid opening your eyes. Opening your eyes will immediately fill you with questions about yourself. It will ignite your conscience; you will see “their” eyes looking back at you. You will wonder what your projection onto “them” reveals about you.

It really doesn’t take much to transform a culture. All you need do is close your eyes. It is just as effective to look the other way. It will serve to stifle questions especially the self-reflective variety. Averting or closing the eyes is especially useful when it is necessary to deny the obvious or to endow fiction with substance or abdicate personal responsibility. Choosing blindness you will become an easy mark, effortlessly misled.

All of this transformation with the simple condition of closing the eyes.

Rest assured, in the absence of sight, your community will have a new, unique personality.

read Kerri’s blogpost about EYES

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Trouble Love [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

In a surprise twist, Dogga now answers to the name, “Trouble”. It could that in his old age his alter ego is ascendant.

He’s always had two distinct personalities. During the daylight hours, in constant movement, running endless circles, we call him “Crazy Boy”. At night, he is distinctly different, calm and quiet; we call him “Sweet Boy”.

I can’t recall how we discovered his alter ego. One minute he was Crazy Boy and the next he was responding to Kerri’s call, “Trouble!” We performed a specificity-check and called him other names. He rolled his eyes and refused to respond. “Here Trouble!” brought an immediate running-wag-a-wag response. “I think his name is Trouble!” she said.

“What took us so long?” I asked.

We wondered if originally Farmer Don called him Trouble, and perhaps, after 11 years, we were just discovering his real name. Farmer Don needed to find a home for him and no one wanted him because he was, unusual for an Aussie puppy, mostly black. We imagined Farmer Don saying, “You’re my little Trouble-Dog!”

These days Dogga né Trouble complains when he doesn’t get his way. He groans (like me) when he lifts himself from the floor. He snores at night. He licks the achy joints on his front legs. He is, no matter his name, our Trouble, our Crazy Boy, our Sweet Boy, our Dogga-Dog. We are infinitely richer for the daily sweet trouble that he brings us.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TROUBLE

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