A few years ago, I was awarded a Professional Development Course for artists. Part of the homework was to write an Artist Statement. I worked and worked; polishing an eliminating, until I only had the kernel that was “me.” When I read it out; I was told: “That’s what everyone would say.”
I got tired of being known as just “Doug,” or “Oh, him,” or “If he’s coming; I’m not going,” and decided to remake my image — “Doug the Beloved” [the guy who used to be just “him.”] I was just about to announce this, when there was a Pandemic and the bar was closed — why does this sort of thing always happen to me?
February 23, 2021
I tried to write this poem from a child’s point of view — one of seeing, but not understanding — of having knowledge of what they should do, but not the context that impels it.
Even their parents only have a knowledge of what is readily apparent to the senses, and none of the underlying causes and long term effects.
Authorities never inform rural residents of the dangers that modern farming methods presents to their families. And they never do anything to help.
Whether it’s against the law or injurious to health is unimportant, they just refuse to do it.