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
Industrial farmers are ever-vigilant in their efforts to keep a wholesome image. In the unreported media gulf between urban newspapers and “Ag ghetto” trailers, theirs is the only voice. And they never stop trash-talking the rural community.
In an age that pretends to enlightened social justice, the “hillbilly,” “trailer trash,” “good-ole-boy” is a target that is fair game to all . . . because they’re “racist” and “ignorant” and “backwards” and “uneducated” and you really don’t know anything about them.
They’re people who live independently with almost no money, and no representation at all. You won’t see them golfing at your country club, but you might meet a rich factory farm owner — telling “redneck” jokes.
You Know You Live near a Factory Farm When Your Kids Go Fishing with a Pool Skimmer