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
Unlike the original poem, the barren waste in this poem is not the eraser of hubris, but the result of it.
Industrial agriculture would no more dare to openly debate their methods, than they would allow a rigorous accounting of the true costs of the “cheap” goods they produce.
They are not only killing the natural world and depleting our natural resources, they are covering up the true reason for their “improved” methods and materials — they are losing the ability to sustain food production — and are now locked in a disastrous death-grip with a sickened planet.