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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
Goodbye to red barns and cows in the pasture, when you live around an industrial farming dairy operation you see . . . an aberration. While any natural meadow would be filled with animals, birds, butterflies and insects, thousands of acres of factory farm fields seem empty of all life except genetically modified crops, herbicide modified weeds, antibiotic modified pathogens, and of course, blowflies.
Rural America has moved from the natural world of farming to the unnatural world of industrial farming, and it’s fitting that all that’s left to survive and thrive is this age-old symbol of death and decay.
Book Excerpt
You Know You Live near a Factory Farm When Your Kids Go Fishing with a Pool Skimmer
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