a haiku for today:
forward back. it seems
to never stop ping-ponging.
we’re all now reeling.
visit DAVID’S painting FORWARD BACK here
FORWARD BACK ©️ 2012 david robinson
forward.back. [d.r. thursday]
Category Archives: art
the shadow knows. [two artists tuesday]
“who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? only the shadow knows.”
back in middle school we had to choose a radio show and emulate it by creating a new episode, complete with commercials. we chose “the shadow” and had a commercial that was for a toothpaste-like substance that could clean your floors, strip paint and brush your teeth simultaneously. it was a product clearly not endorsed by any brand-under-the-sun, but, as seventh-graders with gigantic imaginations, we had fun conceptualizing.
and so, we wrote a script for a new “the shadow” radio show (based on many episodes we listened to) and recorded it on cassette tape along with our brilliant ad campaign.
“the shadow knows,” we murmured to each other, at random times for days and days and, with middle-school-predictability, ad nauseam, followed by a wicked laugh.
david and i often photograph our shadows, as puppets in the sun. on beaches, on hiking trails, in rivers, on mountains, in the backyard, we stop, in the line of sunshine, and take a shot, sometimes deliberately posing for the picture.
in this time, with shadows lurking in every light and dark corner, we chose to make the sign of peace.
for there is presently too much evil lurking in the hearts of men these days and we cannot rely on ‘the shadow’ getting us out of this. the wicked laugh that accompanied these words of introduction chilled us back in the day. now we can hear that wicked laugh echoing in our mind’s eye. and the words of this radio show’s early days – “as you sow evil, so shall you reap evil!” – are, today, vexing and worrisome.
who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? the shadow – and their consciences – know.
so now what? this is not a middle school script. where do we go from here?
read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY
in the middle and in the end. [k.s. friday]
were there nothing else to do, no other responsibilities, no outstanding work or chores, no cleaning or laundry or errands, no bills to pay, calls to make, jobs to seek, piles to clear, messes to sort, i could sit and stare at a fire for hours.
it’s easier to evade the thoughts that permeate your worried mind with the heat of fire on your face. it’s easier to stop strategizing around, through, beyond while watching the dance of contained flames. it’s easier to be lulled into all-is-well thinking, sinking into the adirondack chair, moonlight on your brow.
ephemeral moments – the good ones and the bad ones – slip by, each temporary, each a transitory arc, evaporating, evaporating.
yet, our eagle-focus on certain moments, certain actions, certain words, certain emotions, batters us with living, re-living, re-living, re-living.
we obsess. and in a time when there is so much to obsess about, it is none too easy to avoid.
the fire burns through the wood, despite its flammability. it does not choose only wood that is most flammable. with all the different wood in the firepit, it ignites, turning all into ash, intangible and evanescent.
we might do well to toss moments these days into a great cauldron, touch a match to it and light it. perhaps out of that might arise a bit of wisdom, a bit of certainty in the uncertainty, a bit of comfort. maybe living in the recognition it will vaporize would remind us of transience, the impermanence of it all, the pro tempore of any given heated moment, ultimately, the importance of lingering in any goodness we experience, of actually being goodness.
perhaps we should prioritize staring at the firepit. it may serve as a gentle reminder.
in the middle the fire is hot. in the end ash will be ash.
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TRANSIENCE from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood
start cawing. [d.r. thursday]
the crows have been barking in our backyard lately. they sit high in the trees and take turns flying to prime spots, cawing and letting all other crows know that there is an invader, an intruder, something with ill intent in the area.
the hawk has been hanging out in our backyard lately. he sits high in the trees or on the neighbor’s swingset or on our chainlink fence and every so often swoops down to fetch something mysterious and unseen off the ground.
the crows do not like the hawk and make it known. oftentimes, they gather together, mobbing, protests in-beak, and chase the hawk off. although not in harmony, it is a symbiotic relationship, predation, this hawk-crow living arrangement. the crows recognize that the hawk is a predator. they do not nuance the behavior of the hawk nor do they make excuses. they have no illusions and their task is clear – to drive him out of their territory.
crows, dealing with predation of hawks and owls, do not get to just live peacefully flying about, building nests, laying eggs, raising their young, making trips to the local walmart.
instead, in examples of symbiotic parasitism, parasitic birds prey on crows and other birds, laying foreign eggs in their nests, removing the host’s eggs. these eggs often hatch sooner than those of the crows, taking over the nest. fantasies of elitism, selectionism and superiority surely brew in their agenda-driven actions.
about 100 different brood parasites show up as a “wolf in sheep’s clothing” attempting to fool various host birds, lay eggs in others’ nests, avoid the work and, eventually, reap the benefits as the newly hatched offspring kill off the siblings in the nest. it is “survival of the fittest”. some hosts recognize the wolf in their nest and fling them out, but this is not a common defense mechanism. brood parasites have evolved for long term. and crows and other hosts need be savvy enough to still survive, nonetheless.
as the crows mob in the tall oak tree behind us and begin cawing i think that we, too, must be noisy.
for there is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, set on long term survival, ruthless and predatory, parasitic and dangerous. do not nuance the wolf’s behavior. do not make excuses. have no illusions. be clear. recognize that it has ill intent, fantasies of elitism, selectionism and superiority, and must be driven out.
start barking.
read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY
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start. stop. saddle up. [flawed wednesday]
“there are 100 ways you could have said that,” he would say. yep. probably more than 100. somehow you have to have your intellect, emotions, sensitivity all line up in perfect harmony so that what actually comes out of your mouth might be a teensy bit worthy, attentive to the moment. we all know this is not an easy thing. it is far easier to react, to scoff at sensitivity, to employ little to no brainpower, to not check your emotions, to not rein in your anger, your wrath, indeed, your rage. yes, it is far easier to spew.
and spewing has become the haute couture of communicating, the cape of the superhero of speak. instead of being gauche, it has become cheered, jollied on, mimicked. we have sunk down low, low, low.
somewhere between engaging your mouth – somewhere between start and stop – there must be a filter, heck, multiple filters. instead of the arrogant stance, the ready-go of putting someone in their place or pushing them down under the waves, the offensive weaving of untruths, the rotisserie of steroid-injected pretend-it-happened stories, perhaps there might be subtle moments of consideration. perhaps there might be the pause of checking-your-reactionary-self minutes where you attempt to take into consideration the other’s shoes and walking in them. perhaps, even more so, though quite a stretch, there might be … empathy.
but this is not a time that empathy is in vogue. this is not a time that trying to understand another’s point of view is fashionable. this is not a time that measuring your words and being mindful is favored. instead, this is a time that the space between start and stop is not infinitetismal.
this space – between start and stop – is, instead, of giant proportions. it is a space not measured by integrity or kindness. it is not thoughtful or contemplative or introspective. it is instead consumed with preoccupation of self, with selfish, unsympathetic agenda-driven drivel. it does not consider the other 100 ways. it races to the satisfied finish, like a green racehorse out of the gate, with no even gait and no finesse. there is no stop, no pause. it gallops without forethought, without watching where it is going. it is spewing.
saddle up. we all deserve better.
read DAVID’S thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY
epic. [two artists tuesday]
this is epic. epic is hiding. his sweet luminous green face peeks out from beneath a rock, the rest of his body hidden. he is earnest. he is cautious. he is aware. he studies his world – our pond. he jumps quickly away from anything he perceives as danger. bugs are his priority.
we are like epic.
in the middle of a pandemic, in the middle of political chaos, in the middle of social unrest, in the middle of economic crisis, in the middle of a nation-centric-to-hell-with-the-rest-of-the-world leadership, we peek out, hoping, as we wake the next day and the next day and the next, for less impossible news, for more hope, for sanity to emerge out of the rubble.
and then we open up the news app.
we slowly sip coffee from under our rock and peer out at a country we struggle to recognize. we are astounded by the dysfunction; we are deeply saddened by the plummeting values. we cringe at a society rapidly going backwards, downhill with ever-increasing speed and no brakes, obliterating all the progress made for decades as it barrels through, clip-engaged, single-mindedly paying no mind to real goodness.
smack-dab in the middle of our little rock on this world we can feel the danger lurking. we are earnest. we are cautious. we are aware. we study our world. our jumping-away mechanisms are at the ready. bugs are not our priority.
we are like epic. we are not like epic.
we can speak up. each of us has a voice; each of us can address the issues of this time. each of us has a vote.
and in that way, bugs, indeed insidious diseased bacillus in the system of this country, actually are our priority.
read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY
it’s not about us. [k.s. friday]
it’s not about us.
it really is no longer about us. it is now about those who come behind us. it is about those who follow our footfalls and any who step in moments beyond ours. we owe them – in advance.
we owe them a country based on life, liberty for all and the pursuit of happiness.
we owe them a country truly practicing equality in every way, be it gender or race or sexual orientation or economic status or religious preference.
we owe them a country that is healthy and mindful of its environmental future, a country that has clean water, clean air, clean vegetation, clean food sources.
we owe them a country with an openly crossed aisle, where respectful conversation takes place and negotiation is paramount.
we owe them a country where leaders are cherished examples of goodness, stalwart and compassionate role models for their children and their children’s children.
we owe them a country where truth is valued, where fallacy and falsehoods are not propagated like the wind, where honor stands tall.
we owe them a country where voting makes a difference and every voice counts.
we owe them a country and policies that hold every citizen’s safety in high regard.
we owe them a country that chooses kindness.
we owe them a country where national treasures are relationships not tangibles.
we owe them a country that cares about their good health, that supports them if they are hungry, that encourages them to learn, that embraces their new ideas, that cares when wrinkles grace their faces.
we owe them a country, a world, that helps them dream.
we owe them sunrises, sunsets and moonrises that hold promise, light and hope.
it is our legacy to them. it’s not about us any more.
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LEGACY from RELEASED FROM THE HEART ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood
spud. and ptsd. [d.r. thursday]
we played spud as kids. the abby drive kids ran through yards trying to escape the inevitable impact of the ball.
i was “it” a lot. i lived next door to a family with eight children, all of whom were athletic whizzes. when one of these athletes was “it” they’d throw the ball up, call out a number and we’d scatter, in my memory, in the grass close by. the catcher of the ball – the new “it” – would easily lob the ball over to someone frozen on the lawn and that kid would be the new “it”. easy-peasy.
but – there was a tad bit of hypocrisy here. when i was called “it”, they would scatter rapidly, their feet sailing across grassy yards, barely touching as i ran for the ball to yell “spud”. and then they froze what-seemed-like miles away, hiding behind any objet d’art disguised as a towering oak or big forsythia. my measly throw, complicated by those trees and bushes, would ensure my continuation as “it”, sometimes ad nauseam. this did not make playing spud fun.
in a few ptsd moments, i just read the rules of spud online – and it appears that you are not allowed to hide behind things. you are to run out in the open so as to move the game along and pass “it” status around. ahh. somehow, i’m sure i guessed that back in 1968 when i was in the middle of catching the ball yet again and calling out “spud” yet again and throwing at the targeted kid once again. but the rules were not quite objective and, when you have a family of eight vs one or two others, you are definitely at a deficit. things are not stacked in your favor. this is probably why i loved hopscotch so much.
bullies are everywhere. we encounter them in our daily lives: at work, at school, out in public, in the political arena. they change the rules willy-nilly to suit their agenda; they justify changing them with empty words of hypocrisy.
and now, people are running spud-ptsd-scared away, hiding behind each other, their integrity underground, “it” – the truth – unable to touch them behind their objets d’art: the smug all-powerful-makes-his-own-rules-to-suit-himself senate majority leader and the sinister autocratic-wishing-wishing-wishing president of this united states. the ball, so to speak, is in their hands and they are hiding, clutching their (non) great america and its questionable future, in plain view.
it makes me want to play hopscotch.
read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY
©️ 2020 david robinson
happy-lights. [two artists tuesday]
happy-lights. we surround ourselves with these. on the deck, on the headboard, strung on ficus trees, draping the shelf in the kitchen. there are still happy-lights at the littlehouse on island, touches that made it feel like home, tiny torches of happy.
it is astounding to us that through the dead of winter, their glimmer shining through the snows of the season, a rainy spring and a hot, hot summer these little minilights, plugged in and on 24/7, lasted over eight months on our front rail since we put them up in early december for the holiday season.
in true beaky-behavior, i am going to write this happy-light company a letter. because what person, what company, doesn’t need to hear something positive during a time of so much uncertainty.
$2.99 is marked on the box. because i know me, i know that we wouldn’t have purchased them until they were on 50% off sale. even at full price, i have to say, the twinkle of these lights outside as we pulled up in the dark, the twinkle of these lights in our dark sunroom or over the littlehouse sink, is a we-are-home reminder. it gently says to us that we are in a safe place, a place of love, a place we care about, a place of light.
perhaps this country needs to string up some happy lights. 2800 miles across the united states is 14,728,000 feet. our happy lights are 20′ of lighted joy, which means 736,400 strands of this very set. that would end up costing a tad bit over $2.2 million. but….on a 50% off sale we’re only talking $1.1 million. and wouldn’t that be an inexpensive (federal-government-spending-wise) message to all: you are home. you are safe. you are cared for. you are in a place of light. you are loved.
read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY
waiting in the box. [k.s. friday]
the lines are chalked slowly in many dysfunctional relationships. unaware, you carry on, not realizing that it is closing in around you. until one day, you wake with a sense of claustrophobia and it occurs to you that you are boxed in. your actions seem to matter not; instead you are subjected to being a react-er. it’s more about treading water than it is about independent movement. it’s more about illogical punting than it is about making sense. it’s more about fear than it is about breathing.
our country is in a box. we react on a daily basis to the newest atrocities of leadership, the newest lies, the newest accusations. yet, no check or balance seems to matter and there are no consequences for this unacceptable behavior.
we tread water waiting.
we are waiting for wisdom to show up. we believe in truth-tellers. we do not believe in those whose jelly-bean-jars of untruths are brimming over.
we are waiting for real answers about the pandemic. we refuse to inject disinfectant and we absolutely choose to wear masks. we believe in science and medicine and we reject hiding the facts from a suffering nation.
we are waiting for help for those who need it: those who have lost jobs, home, security, the ability to pay bills or purchase food. we believe in a government that cares about people on all steps of the ladder and does not honor the stock market over the food lines.
we are waiting for conversation to start – a meaningful first step toward eradicating the social injustice of this country. we believe in peaceful protest and listening, not turning a deaf and bigoted ear.
we are waiting for the science of climatology to hold this good earth in its gentle hands of proactive care. we believe now is the time to show that the future matters and that disregard for this place will destroy that very future for all our children and our children’s children.
we are waiting for the ability to move about in the whole wide world again. we believe that is the only way we can learn about ourselves – to learn firsthand from others who are different than us. we believe in embracing others not repelling them.
we are waiting to not be afraid. we believe in compassion and empathy, not fear-mongering and words inciting division and hatred.
we are downright waiting for the mean-spirited, arrogant, self-agendized abusive behavior to stop.
we are waiting for the dysfunction to release its hold on the lines of the box around each of us, the populace.
we are waiting to vote.
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THE BOX from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood
