I have no idea what is happening – it’s like throwing pennies off a bridge. I just can’t get comfortable – it seems like the only thing that connects my life and art together is pain – it’s painful when I put them together – and more painful when I pull them apart. In 2007 I quit straddling the pain, quit my job, and moved to a rural studio in New York State. I work on creative projects, work on my life, and work on the day-to-day necessities of existence. No cell phone, no social media, no networking. But as I work on the books displayed on this author’s page; I feel another kind of pain — the pain of not working on something else: my printmaking and drawing are being neglected, my poetry output is a dripping faucet, and it looks like I’ll be telling NYFA that the Idea Enhancement Project just added another year to its timeline. When I read what I’ve just written; it’s as true as anything I can think of — but then so is the opposite: I need to process everything that happens . . .
September 8, 2021
I don’t know what to call the use that I made of this famous poem. It wasn’t recycled because so much of the original structure remains. It wasn’t repurposed because love of nature is at the core of both. Probably “redecorated” would be a better description: Twisting the strands of reverie to make a net that captures the darker side our false stewardship.
In these days of acceptable pollution and understandable destruction of the natural world, no amount of academic assurances can ameliorate the pain of seeing what is being done.