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
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.
You Know You Live near a Factory Farm When Your Kids Go Fishing with a Pool Skimmer