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
Q: Where do flies go in the winter?
A: To your house [if you live near a factory farm.]
While the illustration is evocative of summer months, blow flies have become a year-round pestilence in rural America. In northern states, even in the winter, when the wind is in the right direction, factory farms open their shed doors and exhaust an extra big helping of flies.
When the snow flies, there are still blow flies for factory farm neighbors.
You Know You Live near a Factory Farm When Your Kids Go Fishing with a Pool Skimmer