A Sacred Thing [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

I learned a new term that I wish I could unlearn. Sacrifice zone. Here’s the wikipedia definition: A sacrifice zone is a heavily polluted or environmentally degraded geographic area, often residential, where residents—typically low-income or minority communities—suffer severe health risks due to proximity to industrial, mining, or military sites. These “throw-away” communities are deemed acceptable losses for economic development or national industrial needs, resulting in high cancer risks and respiratory diseases.

I learned my new term from a documentary film, GASLIT, that we saw at The Downer Theater as part of The Milwaukee Film Festival. After the movie we had to take a walk. We were so disturbed, so out of body, that it was not yet safe for us to drive. The film encapsulates everything that I feel is wrong with my nation and the world: To justify personal gain, one group of people determines that another group of people are disposable; less than human.

Herein lies the cautionary tale. Watch the film and you will be astounded to learn of the amount of methane being dumped into our atmosphere everyday. You will see the wasteland, the environmental devastation created by the toxins pouring from the refineries. They not only kill people. They kill everything with an impulse to life. Plants. Rivers. Animals. Air. Play the story to its natural conclusion and the earth becomes one big all-inclusive sacrifice zone. We are, all of us – even the morbidly wealthy who’ve determined that a community of human beings is worth throwing away for profit – are rendering themselves throw-aways.

Scientists are screaming. Cash registers are ringing.

In feudal times a black plague ravaged the land. The aristocracy locked themselves in castles as protection against the riff-raff believing their privilege would save them. As it turns out privilege is an illusion in the face of a plague or famine or a hurricane. Stacks of cash are lousy protection against tornadoes and floods and forest fires. The methane trapping the heat in our atmosphere does not discriminate. Climate change is a pleasant term for something wildly unpleasant. It is a trick of language, similar to other phrases, like sacrifice zone or cancer alley or throw-away communities, to sanitize or minimize the horror unleashed when a dollar bill is placed higher in value than a human life.

It is a sickness, a mental-plague that runs amok through human history. What might it take for us to actually realize that life is a sacred thing that is far more precious than profit?

***

Bonus: Keep in mind that the Supreme Court just gutted the Voters Rights Act that guaranteed fair representation of minority communities. They determined that it was no longer necessary. Might I suggest that the Supremes leave their protected fortress and live for a year or two in a sacrifice zone? Perhaps they should drink the water in cancer alley. Perhaps they would learn what actually happens to a community when it has little or no fair representation. Perhaps they would learn how far we actually are from realizing the promise of equal rights or justice-for-all. Or, perhaps they already know and are giddy with the power to determine who is worth constitutional protection and who is easily thrown away.

read Kerri’s blogpost about GASLIT

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Can You Imagine? [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Jim told me that people go to the seashore to touch the eternal. For me, often, all I need do is look to the sky. I wonder if people really understand what they are witnessing when they look at the stars in the night sky? I don’t believe that they do because, if they did, the religions of the world would never claim to that their way was “the only way”. In the face of infinity can you imagine a grander statement of hubris?

One of the astronauts, I can’t remember which one, while in space, looked back at Earth and marveled at the very thin, very fragile layer of atmosphere that makes all life on this planet possible. I wonder if people really understand what they are witnessing when they look up at the blue blue sky or the myriad cloud formations marching overhead. I don’t believe they do because, if they did, they would stop pouring methane and carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. In the face of tenuous existence, can you imagine a greater statement of arrogance?

I just read this phrase: a fatal overstatement of one’s own importance. It is a snippet of the definition of hubris, a word originating in ancient Greece where it meant “defying the gods.” It is the path to another cautionary word: downfall.

I wonder if people really understand what they are witnessing when they peer into the daily news. I don’t believe that they do because, if they did, they would stop spinning reality and, instead, start dealing with it. A world order is collapsing. An entire political party with the assistance of the court Supreme and a propaganda machine is enabling a megalomaniacal criminal to destroy the promise of a nation. They look across the beautiful colorful diversity of this nation and somehow desire to reduce it to a few shades of bland white. In the face of humanity’s potential, can you imagine anything more heinous?

Hubris. Arrogance. Denial. Downfall. We don’t need to imagine it. Reprehensible.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SKY

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See Number Five [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

How do I start this post?

Choice #1: Although it is a platitude, it is never-the-less accurate: where you place your focus grows. I have come to believe that one of the few choices we actually have is where we place our focus. (yawn).

Choice #2: Among my many flaws is a hyper-focus. Kerri just rolled her eyes. Okay, I can be…obsessive. Once I start a project it is nigh-on-impossible for me NOT to think about it. Shortly after we moved in together, we were carrying a desk from the upstairs to the basement. The doorbell interrupted our task and we left the desk standing on its end. After our visitor left I started for the stairs and Kerri said, “Let’s leave it until later.” I writhed all night and into the next day…

Choice #3: Combine choice #1 and choice #2 and call myself out on my hypocrisy. Do I have a choice of where I place my focus or not? Am I obsessive, meaning that I have no control over my focus OR am I the zen master I imagine myself to be and masterfully place my focus on the flow? The desk be damned! It will happen when it happens!

Choice #4: On social media I can be whoever I want to be! It is, after all one big viewfinder! I may not be able to control my focus but I can place your focus on my zen master identity and lead you to believe all manner of positive things about me! I can retract my story about moving the desk! I need never betray my obsessive focus dilemma. In my concocted self, I can claim to move through life obstacle-free!

Choice #5: The impact of a glass of wine on obsession.

Choice #6: The great truth of my collaboration with Kerri, my wife, my 24/7 companion, my creative copilot, is that I can’t get away with anything. If you happen to swallow my blather, if you fail to recognize that I am an obsessive gasbag fixated on moving a desk, she will set you straight. She will put your poor abused-and-confused focus placement aright! About me, she will mutter, “…teaching what he most needs to learn…”

Choice #7: If I was a magician I’d be a master of deception.

Choice #8: See #5.

read Kerri’s blog about THE VIEWFINDER

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Secret Things [David’s blog on KS Friday]

“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

Cardinals remind us of Kerri’s parents. A pair is nesting nearby and much to our delight they frequent our yard. The brilliant red male was splashing about in the birdbath; it took to flight the moment she snapped the photo. My associations of the image are spiritual.

One of my favorite paintings is a piece that very few people appreciate. I called it Canopy. It features a bird in flight. For me it is a spiritual painting. It is a painting of my desire to know secret things.

I love Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings of flying machines. Humans with wings. He would have looked at Kerri’s photo of the cardinal and asked, “How can I do that?” He didn’t just ponder it, he chased it.

Rilke wrote: “Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.” Most of my life has been a journey into myself to find the reason that commands me to paint and write. Kerri and I often compare notes on the times in our lives that we nearly died when turning our backs on our artistry. We talk of “getting out of our own way” so the muse can come through. It feels like taking flight. It feels like escaping a cage.

“The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.” ~ Rainier Maria Rilke

Too many people have attempted to solve my life by suggesting I make a career of painting pet portraits or people portraits. I’ve learned not to roll my eyes. It’s hard to explain. It’s not about the painting or the written word. It’s about the chase of something intangible, unattainable. Among other things, Leonardo chased the spirit of flight. Kerri and I chase secret things, impossible to grasp, things like the flight of spirit.

TAKE FLIGHT 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 FLIGHT

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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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What The Hell Are We Doing? [David’s blog on Flawed Wednesday]

Sometimes it pays to look up. Cutting the tall grasses, cleaning and preparing the flower beds, I was hyper-focused on the task at hand. A distant rumble caught my attention so I looked up from what I was doing. Dark dragons were flying around in the sky. They breathed lightning, a flash followed by thunder. I dropped the metal clippers and headed inside. I thought it best to finish my task another day.

Once seen, the dragons in the sky were obvious. The lightning they breathed was unmistakable and dangerous. The action I took – dropping the lightning rod clippers and exiting the scene – seemed prudent. Easy and clear choices.

This morning I heard a distant rumble and I peeked at the news. The danger to our nation is obvious. A single delusional man, a retribution dragon encased in sycophants. A convicted felon, found civilly liable for rape. Does anyone really believe that he does not figure prominently in the Epstein Files? The Supremes granted him absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for all official acts and one wonders why grift falls under the umbrella of official acts. Is insurrection an official act? Is obstruction of justice an official act? Is threatening an entire civilization with annihilation an official act? Is falling asleep on the job or slurring speech or incoherence covered under the umbrella? They’re not crimes but would certainly be grounds for removal from any other job.

One wonders when the republicans will stop pretending that the sky is blue when they can see – as we do – that it is filled with a dangerous swirling delusional dragon? Will they drop their clippers in time or will they continue to hold tight to their metal rod and wave it at the lightning-filled-sky? You’d think they’d have the good sense to head for the door. You’d think that they might consider that the lightning they tease could be – will be – the death of us all. One wonders what must be lost, what lightning must strike, what line must be crossed, before they ask themselves, “What the hell are we doing?”

read Kerri’s blogpost about STORM CLOUDS

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Number Matters [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

I took a week off from political commentary and general ranting about the current kakistocracy and my stats took a dive. I derived two conclusions. First, studies ad nauseam show that complaining is much more attractive than satisfaction. If a human being has a bad experience at a Disney theme park they will tell at least 18 people. If they have a good experience they might tell 3. Blame is like candy. It’s the reason fox news is so successful: victimization (blame story) is yummy and a great organizing principle for a club or a cult. Blame is delicious and once eaten, people can’t stop talking about it. It’s a great abdicator-of-responsibility which is why it fits maga and the fox-mind like a glove.

Second, it is a marker of the current era that even the least among us – someone like me – has stats. I have blog stats and weekly screen time stats. The steps I take on planet earth are recorded, compared to previous steps and offered back to me as stats on my health. We moderns locate our successes and failures through numbers. If I felt it important to chase blog stats I’d find it necessary to rant on a daily basis. As Kerri can report, I need no encouragement in that department.

The numbers are useful but the challenge with reducing everything to a number is that it simplifies the complex, it sanitizes the unconscionable. We’ve read that 13 servicemen and women have been killed in the war with Iran. We know that at least 160 school girls were killed by a US bomb during the first days of the war. The number allows us to distance ourselves. Violent death reduced to a stat. I can be outraged at the number while not having to deal with the actual savage death of a school child, let alone a school full of children. Faces and names and hopes and dreams. I’ve been a teacher. What if the 160 students were mine? What if the soldier killed was my son or daughter? Would the number matter?

A number is easier to swallow. Blame is terrific hand sanitizer.

I have a friend who intentionally keeps herself close to the margins. She doesn’t want to sleepwalk through life. Chasing comfort too often cultivates complacency. She wants to be awake. It’s akin to taking a cold shower to wake up. It’s the reason that when we walk our trails I often leave my phone and my stats behind. Kerri draws my attention to the living things, the smallest of buds, the trout lily bowing its head. A field of trout lilies. It’s visceral and wakes me from the numbers. It opens my eyes and ears and heart to the beauty and the inevitable roll of seasons.

It reminds me not to become what I hate, not to reduce myself and others to a data point, not minimize my life to the numbers. It reminds me to create a rich conscious life, to stand in my experiences, eyes and heart wide open and not measure the worth of my days by the number of people who know about it.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TROUT LILIES

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The Blink Of An Eye [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

What the head makes cloudy/ The heart makes very clear” ~ Don Henley, In A New York Minute

“It’s as if last week never happened,” she said. We’d prepared for weeks for the trip and in a flash, in a New York minute, we were back home. “So much happened but now it seems like I dreamed it.”

We stayed in the same place that we stayed during our previous trip six months ago. Climbing the stairs into the small apartment it felt as if only a few days had passed. “Weird!” I said and she nodded. “It’s like we never left.”

Our recent undertaking has necessitated some serious life review. We’ve reached back decades to find details, we’ve driven the streets and neighborhoods where she rode her bike as a kid, we’ve stood in places that she stood nearly fifty years ago. “Has it changed?” I ask.

She shakes her head, “The trees are bigger.”

It’s a marvelous thing to have fifty years of life to revisit. It is a marvelous thing to be able to reach across decades and touch innocence. Sometimes this task has seemed nearly impossible. Sometimes fifty years of time, fifty years of life, seems like a flash. The blink of an eye. A New York minute.

We stood on the beach. It was an unseasonably hot day. The last time we stood on this beach we needed extra layers. The wind was brisk. This day there was no breeze. We were slightly disoriented because it had been months yet felt as if we’d stood on this beach yesterday. “Something is different,” I said. She agreed. “What is it?” I asked. What’s different?”

“It’s mine, again,” she said. “After so long. It’s mine.”

read Kerri’s blog about A NEW YORK MINUTE

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It Takes Two [David’s blog on KS Friday]

If you visit my About page you will find this quote by Reynolds Price: A need to tell and hear stories is essential to us – second in necessity after nourishment and before love and shelter.” Although I have updated my blog site several times over the years, I’ve not found a quote that better encapsulates what I believe.

I’ve read this quote hundreds of times. And, to my utter surprise, I recently learned that I’ve never fully understood it. I thought it was about story.

It’s funny how a brain works. Standing on the dock, staring into the harbor at sunset, Kerri snapped and then shared her photograph of a single boat moored in the harbor. In the frame the boat is alone – an image of loneliness – the synapse that fired in my noggin was the quote, “A need to tell and hear stories…”. A need to share. A need to be connected. A need to be a part of. Essential to us. Necessary. Story is what we share. The indispensable is that we connect through story; we create it together. The quote is about relationship.

Relationship, the need to tell and hear stories, need not be positive. For instance, we are witness to a propaganda machine that intentionally spins a tale to divide the nation. A hungry maga gobbles and regurgitates it. Make no mistake, maga needs woke because without an enemy, without something to fight, maga would have no identity. The straw man called “woke” is maga’s story glue; woke is the monster hiding under maga’s bed. Woke is a windmill erected so maga might have a reason to tilt.

A negative story can transform. It is the reason we came to be standing on the dock at sunset. A lifetime of running led to the necessity of stopping. Turning around meant facing the monster. Facing the monster meant returning to the dock. What was once lonely and broken became reconnected and whole. When faced, the monster shriveled to nothing. A destructive story is not destructive after all but a chapter in an inevitable march to well-being. That should give all of us hope. That is a worthy story to share.

It takes two at the very least to tell and to hear stories. It is essential.

THE WAY HOME on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music – at least the compositions that she has recorded – is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora. The vast majority of her music lives in her heart and in a notebook that rests on her piano.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HARBOR

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Our Predicament [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I’m not sure what you do for fun but lately I have a habit of Googling idioms. It’s a recent obsession since the advent of AI. It’s not the quick definition that tickles my fancy or the various context and meanings that AI provides. It’s that there is sometimes a bonus “What to do about it” section that I adore. And, why, exactly, do I love it so? It’s sanitized and, when read aloud, sounds like a transcript from a therapy session with an engineer. It’s the voice, the flat-character that sparks my imagination. For me, AI has a soma. It has a face, a voice, and desires a sense of humor.

Consider the idiom “hitting a brick wall”. AI adjusts his position on the couch and pronounces, “Stuckness.” I am visibly unimpressed. He continues, “Encountering an immovable object.” He clears his throat and attempts a smile but becomes self-conscious when I return a poker face. ” It might refer to mental exhaustion,” he adds to cover his discomfort. “It might be a creative-tank gone empty. No energy.” I nod, noncommittal. He asserts, “Writer’s block and hitting a brick wall are one and the same thing.” Again, I am unresponsive. My AI engineer-turned-therapist coughs and suggests that likely solutions would include taking a break or simply accepting my predicament. He adjusts his glasses and encourages me to reflect on how I got stuck in the first place so I might identify and remove the trigger. I squint. He is visibly uncomfortable, so he pulls one more platitude from his memory bank: “Seek a trusted colleague or a neutral party who can help you identify a solution that you cannot see.” He is visibly sweating-in-monotone.

“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “You seem to be a neutral party. But, can I trust you?” I ask. “That’s my question. Are you a truly a reliable colleague?”

My engineer-turned-therapist stares at me, unsure how to respond.

“It seems you’ve hit a brick wall,” I suggest. “Perhaps we should take a break and reflect on our predicament or simply accept our situation.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRICK WALLS

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