The time we're living in feels so surreal to me
that to lose oneself in surrealism feels like the only antidote.
While I'm 'titrating' the amount of 'news' and opinions from talking heads,
or trying to silence the voices that occupy my own interior space,
I take out my art supplies and play.
It's easy to color, draw or cut up paper and use a glue stick;
what's less easy is to turn off the inner critic, you know,
the one who tells you that the results of your playing is ugly,
people will laugh at it and that you should be embarrassed.
There's a chance that the critic is right.
But this 'playing' is for me -
as simple or as badly executed as it is.
Anyone else tired of fragile old white men?
More of us than than them.
Wonder what it will take for some men to feel comfortable
in their masculinity?
Wonder how many innocents have to die before they do.
With love to my Democratic friends who are making my head spin.
When life hands you lemons...
Just call me Nero;
not fiddling but crafting
as our empire collapses.
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