Born Anew [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A week ago they were buds about ready to burst. This week the petals are letting go. The lifespan of a peony blossom is short. I consider them the flower equivalent of the sand paintings made by Tibetan monks: upon completion of the painting, upon the fullness of the blossom, it is swept away. All things are temporary.

“The more a thing tends to be permanent, the more it tends to be lifeless.” ~ Alan Watts

One of the gifts of our democracy is its fluidity. It is mutable. It is a system that is built upon a foundational principle of continual change and renewal. It is alive, growing and adapting. The mechanism of renewal in democracy is the what we know as voting. The people vote for the change they desire. The people vote for the future they envision.

John Dewey wrote, “Democracy has to be born anew every generation, and education is its midwife.” The people vote for change but their vote is only meaningful when they are well-informed, when know the truth of the change they are voting for. When the people’s vote is based on misinformation, gaslighting and lies, democracy is stillborn. The only purpose for the incessant lies, for misleading propaganda, is to prevent change. To prevent democracy. To assault education, to erase history, to restrict knowledge, to flood the zone with misinformation…is to make the people ignorant and gullible. It is to prevent democracy.

Autocracy requires permanence. Democracy requires changeability. We are a sand painting, made anew again and again by a diverse people who participate in the perpetual change and renewal requirement of a democracy: government that serves the people.

This other thing, white national fascism, autocracy, built upon fearmongering that demonizes immigrants, that denigrates opposing ideas, that protects the criminals and punishes the victims…is inert. It intends to restrict change. It is meant to suffocate the voice and will of the people. It gerrymanders to hold onto power. It spreads lies about the security of voting to sow doubt, to challenge and upend the voice of the people when it loses. Autocrats serve no one but themselves.

More than to restrict the blossom-vote of democracy, the autocrats intend to kill the plant, cover the space with concrete, and erect a golden statue to dear leader. Lifeless. Corrupt. A sad monument to the gods of permanence.

We have the power to stop it. Our democracy can be reborn. Educating ourselves, sifting truth from lie, fact from fantasy, and then voting en mass as if our lives and livelihoods depend upon it – because they do.

The Weeping Man, 48″x36″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blog post about PEONIES

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The Question Remains [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

It’s hard not to sift everything through the lens of current events. I mean, we are alive in the time of an AI upheaval that is at least as revolutionary to society as Guternberg’s press, all the while white-knuckling it through an attempted autocratic takeover of our democracy that Timothy Snyder calls “superpower suicide”. And we mustn’t forget climate change. How could circumstance not shade almost every decision we make?

We are living in transformational times which means we are experiencing serious upheaval. The daily ups seem higher because the daily down is without bottom.

Through social media people are sharing the sounds made by newly built data processing centers. Isn’t it ironic that the infrastructure necessary to fuel this tsunami called AI, a technology that is meant to make our lives easier, roars and thrums and not only robs communities of their peace but requires them to pay the power company for their discomfort? The price of progress? Is this a down or an up or both?

Gutenberg’s press made books available to the masses and soon transformed an illiterate populace into a literate society. The Renaissance and the Reformation would not have been possible without the press making literature and education accessible to the masses.

In his book Technopoly, Neil Postman posited that our daily glut of information would ultimately make information a form of garbage: “Because it is severed from theory, meaning, or purpose, it is incapable of answering fundamental human questions or directing coherent solutions.”

In an act of irony I asked AI to describe Neil Postman’s warning about AI: “Neil Postman warned that making information effortlessly accessible severs it from human purpose and action. He famously argued that an overwhelming glut of data creates passivity, leaving us drowning in irrelevant “disinformation” while remaining hopelessly impotent to solve real-world problems.”

Neil Postman was prophetic. His warning accurately describes our current challenge. We are drowning in irrelevance and misinformation. I cite the ballroom. We seem hopelessly impotent to solve our real-world problems but infinitely capable of creating tax breaks for the ultra-wealthy. We have lost our free press and any attachment to fact or truth. I cite the current resident of the White House, the incessant gaslighting, the party that enables him and the propaganda mechanism that stuffs his lies with credence. We are easy marks since we seek information that confirms our bias rather than accurate information that might challenge our opinions and expand our knowledge.

We are told that what goes up must come down and vice versa. The question remains: Can we survive it?

read Kerri’s blogpost about IT WILL COME BACK

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A Growing Up [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

“The role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.” ~ James Baldwin

It’s always been dangerous to be a jester. It’s akin to working on electrical lines in the rain. Rarely does power like to be contradicted or hear the truth or be the target of a joke – but it is never-the-less the role of the comedian, the artist, to strip away the illusion. To tease forward the truth. Throughout time despots have tried in vain to silence the voice of the jester, the song of the composer, the vision of the painter. Hitler. Pol Pot. Stalin. Kim Jong Un. And now? Sadly, we have produced one of our own. Take heart: artists are servants of love while despots are prisoners of rage, and, in the end, love is always bigger than hate. It is possible for a period of time to silence the individual artist but the love of truth always transcends the volcano of hate. “Truth will out.” (William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice)

Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel will be making us laugh long after this rage has burned itself out.

A truth? Our nation, my nation, refuses to grow up. It turns its back on its history. It runs from its shadow. It is like the spouse of an alcoholic pretending that all is good. It is akin to a parent who abuses a teacher who dared give their child a well-deserved failing grade. Appearance is all.

Love is substance.

Proof of our Peter Pan nation lives in the White House. He has surrounded himself with a band of lost boy pirates. The despot-wanna-be is not an aberration, he and his pirates are the ultimate expression of entrenched immaturity. They are boys who swear the dog ate their homework, responsible for nothing, responsible to no one. They do not care to compete, earn or work for betterment yet desire every trophy for their shelf. They gild themselves like the ballroom. They celebrate the vapid and court superficiality. They somehow believe 19th century nonsense that whiteness makes the man. They build their clubhouse high in a tree and post a sign: No Gurls Aloud! Their skins are thin, their intentions self-serving.

It is why artists are such a threat. They see the childishness and make fun of the lost boys vapid antics.

In such an immature playpen, there is no love, there is no capacity for love: only a competition for toys. “Mine, mine, mine!”

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” ~ James Baldwin

read Kerri’s blogpost about HEART LEAF

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As Old As Aesop [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

“Isn’t it funny,” she said, “that we trust what comes out of the government of Pakistan more than we trust what comes out of our own government.”

Habitual lying destroys credibility. It is the point of Aesop’s fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf. It’s a story as old as, well, Aesop, who walked the earth and told stories in the 6th century BCE.

Our current unfolding fable begs the question, “What happens when the wolf and the lying boy are one and the same?” Like the fern in our garden the story is unfurling right before our eyes. What moral lesson might Aesop have spun into our developing fable? This lying boy/wolf is certainly feasting freely upon the sheep, all the while crying, “Wolf!” – as if he himself was under attack from every quarter. Has the point all along been to blunt the villagers’ response to genuine urgent warnings? To so completely break down communal trust that the people refuse to believe what they see with their own eyes?

Of course, Aesop has a caution, a moral reminder prepared for our rescue: abuse of trust always backfires. It’s a consequence as predictable and as old as, well, Aesop. The lying boy/gluttonous wolf will have his reckoning. Yet, the villagers will suffer the greater loss. No sheep. Broken trust. A fractured community wondering how to put the pieces back together again.

Sam The Poet, 48″x48″ acrylic on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE FERN

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The Sound of Peace [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

There’s a mourning dove serenading us as we write. I love their song. They make me think of Bali. Each morning I took early meditation walks to the song of mourning doves. For me, they are the sound of peace.

Our Airbnb was on the grounds of a Catholic retreat center. After a long day of freeway driving it was a special treat to leave the known world and enter a patch of earth dedicated to quiet and reflection. Our host told us that we were welcome to walk the grounds so, after unloading our bags, we wandered the woods and slow-walked the roads. I was once again reminded how profound – and immediate – is the impact of our environment on us. Aggression evokes aggression. We meet the violence of the news-of-the-day with anger and fear. We are not as independent, not nearly as separate, as we like to believe. Environment shapes behavior. David Abram wrote that presence (a quiet mind) is nearly impossible in the incessant goal-driven noise of the USofA.

And, so, we stepped into the woods. The harried drive dropped from our shoulders, the frenetic game of freeway leap-frog dissipated. I imagined the trees breathed in our weariness and exhaled ease into our bones. We relished the vibrant colors elicited by the setting sun. We stood still and absorbed the bird song. We strolled by the nun’s residence and I wondered what a life lived in retreat might awaken.

I wondered what this nation might become if it honored quiet truth as much a noisy distraction…and then I let that thought go. It was a remnant of the freeway, a disturbance from another world. It called my attention away from the song of the mourning dove.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CENTER

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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

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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

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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

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The Naked Truth [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Watching a time-lapse of the vine you’d swear it was a conscious creature. Tendril arms search for supports, stretching. seeking and grasping, it knots itself around leaves and stems of competitors, twisting to strengthen its grip, competing to secure its place in the sun. It begs the question, how might we humans be in the world if we understood that plants were conscious, like us, awake and aware of their surroundings? Would we be more awake and aware of our surroundings? Or would we fear green consciousness and fill our mythos-minds with a Little Shop of Horrors? Feed Me!

This vine evokes The Gordian Knot. It is a tale in three parts. The first is the existence of an impossible problem. The second is the ease of the unforeseen solution. The third is the fulfillment of promise and prophesy. It seems in these times we have in these un-United States a substantial Gordian Knot. I am anxiously awaiting the unforeseen solution.

A Gordian Knot suggests that bold action is necessary to cut through a complex problem. In our case bold action is not a sword but the voices of innocence: in the story an innocent punched through the chorus of enablers by telling the emperor the truth. He is, in fact, naked. His majesty is make-believe. Our emperor already knows he is naked but surrounds himself with loud sycophants and bullies his fear-driven court to sing the praises of his imaginary cloak. The decades-long rape of innocents, the recent bombing of innocents, is a sharp sword cutting through the illusion.

Truth-telling in the face of rampant pathological lies is a bold action. It fits the bill. Truth-telling is, after all, surprisingly easy and, in time, always slices the hard knot of misinformation. It is now the only way for us to protect and fulfill the promise of our democracy against the would-be-fascists (republicans). The sharp truth, the voice of the innocents, calling out and cutting through the Gordian Knot of the Epstein Class and those who are afraid of shining light on the naked truth.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE VINE

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Making Meaning Meaning Making [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

As I was filing my latest painting into the stacks I was suddenly overwhelmed with intense gratitude at having lived an artist’s life. My appreciation was not so much about the growing rolls and stacks of paintings but at the inner imperatives that made me throw caution to the economic wind and chase a my deeper calling. And the truth is that I never felt like I had a choice. Twice I tried to jump off the path and do something more reasonable-and-secure and both times it nearly gutted me.

Horatio reminded me of Ernest Becker’s definition of the work of an artist in his book, The Denial of Death: “The artist takes in the world, but instead of being oppressed by it, he reworks it in his own personality and recreates it in the work of art”.

Making meaning, meaning making through color, sound, movement and word.

There’s so much in this world – in this nation at the moment – that is oppressive and cruel. None of the mean-spirited incompetence or the incessant lies or the blatant exploitation makes sense to me. Why would an entire political party participate in the cover-up of an international pedophile ring, stand solidly behind a convicted felon, a man found liable for sexual assault, an insurrectionist opening grifting the nation and bullying the world? Standing in front of an easel, working on a play or writing a daily blog – is the only way I know of making sense of it all, translating my disgust into something more useful and meaningful.

I have grown enamored of the winter reeds and grasses. On a section of a favorite trail there is an area of distressed drainage. In the summer it is a gathering place for turtles. In the winter the water freezes and the amber grasses sway on a field of blue ice and snow. It never fails to capture our attention. It never fails to bring us back to a quiet center, in touch with an enduring truth. I listen to the whisper-song of the grasses as Kerri photographs the play of colors. Standing in the mud and the cold we marvel at our good fortune.

“People create the reality they need in order to discover themselves.” ~ Ernest Becker

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GRASSES

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