August 7

I’m on the road on the way to South Colorado. I said goodbye to The Farm this morning a tearful goodbye. The Farm has given me a lot and I wonder if I’ll return.

I’m driving through Kansas, which makes Nebraska look urban. Miles of flat land, corn, soy, cows. I’m on a county road driving a million miles an hour with nearly nobody else. The exits have no services.

I made two stops along the way, suggestions from Ed. The first was a visit to The Garden of Eden in a town called Lucas. Lucas has nine stores, none were open. The Garden of Eden is a tiny house on a small street. About 100 years ago the homeowners dressed the house up with a hundred stone sculptures of biblical figures. The sculptures surround the house and populate the gardens in the back. They are creepy. The house is open to the public but wasn’t open for another hour when I got there. I peeked inside and it looked like a normal western home from about 1850. I’m not sure if Adam or Eve have been here.

My religious tour continued as my second stop took me to a European scaled cathedral in Victoria, Kansas called St. Fidelis. Victoria is a town of about 250 people, but the church, which was built by German immigrants about 125 years ago rivals Chartres. I stepped in and took a look at some beautiful stained glass and a slew of religious paintings that I’ve seen a million times. This is church that can seat 1100 people, five times the population of the entire town.

I saw the folks in the above photo at a rest stop about an hour outside of Victoria. I overheard them speaking a language that I had never heard before. I’m pretty sure it had some Germanic roots and these people were either Mennonites or some similar sect I’ve never heard of. They weren’t Amish because if they were at a rest stop then they were driving a car or more likely a van. There were no horse and buggies around.

I just googled Mennonites in Kansas and sure enough there are a number of them with German-Russian-Ukrainian roots that have settled in three Kansas counties. I was taken by the little girls who were dressed in matching outifts, neatly pressed and pristine. There were no smiles.

WOW!!!

As I continued my way through Kansas I kept thinking, Katie, I’m not in Kansas anymore, but I was.

August 6

Reflection

What is going on here? It has taken me five weeks to produce these six paintings. 36 images combine to tell this story. Now is a good time for me to reflect and to ask myself a few questions.

This is the first time I have made paintings from newspaper photos without paying attention to where the scene is taking place. In the past I have always written the name of the city where the scene takes place. For some reason, it didn’t matter this time. I think this is because I have come to understand this world we live in as one place. The borders are arbitrary, obvious political constructions that only add to the mess we live in. More to the point, the scenes that I have chosen to paint could be happening in any of these places. A protest, a riot, a war. Even the swastika that I painted, the first and only swastika I will probably ever paint, could have been anywhere. Jew hatred is everywhere.

Art Farmer Levi asked me why I choose to paint what I paint. A very good question that we should all ask ourselves. I found it hard to answer right away. I am a believer in people. Most of the people in my paintings are good people. They are involved in the fight for a better planet. They are under attack and they come together, uniting in order to form a strong front. Some of the people I paint have been tortured, some are fleeing their homes, some are soldiers. I paint them because I care about them and because it feels necessary to document what is happening. And, of course, if I can inspire somebody, through these paintings, to see it important to become involved in the struggle, then I’ve contributed a little something to the world.

And so, when someone asks, what do I do as a painter, I can say this: I paint people who live in the world today. I paint them interacting with each other. And I put lots of them together, right next to each other. The Syrians are next to the Mexicans who are next to the Palestinians who are next to the Afghanis. Oh, and a Black Lives Matter figure is right next to a pair of Dior shoes that probably sell for 1400 hundred dollars.

TODAY. This is the title I’ve given to every painting I’ve made over the last five or so years. Each letter of that word is capitalized because I want to scream out that this is TODAY. This is where we are. This is who we are now.

It’s strange to be making these paintings that reference Syria, Palestine, Afghanistan, Yemen, Mexico here in Nebraska. A different painter here might be inspired by the soy and corn or the miles and miles of flat earth. I am thankful for the chirping birds and the peace and quiet that I need to be able to be creative. And, I like strange, and surely Nebraska is a strange place. Thank you for your strangeness.

Many years ago I decided that a painting that I was working on was finished when it sang to me. I would sit and look at it and listen. I’m going to do that now and hope that the song is a good one.

August 5

I’m enjoying working on my last few paintings here at the Farm. I know that you think that artists always enjoy painting, but it’s hardly true for me. Painting is usually a struggle. It often feels like work I’m not getting paid to do. And let’s face it, painting images of people and buildings and skies and clouds and cars and trucks and rocks and trees is hard. It’s really hard.

Well, I’m enjoying these final few images. Yesterday I painted a large group of protesters holding up signs of their political leaders. And I painted a quiet study of a man, head bent, carrying a very heavy load (see image above.) I’m painting with just black, white and raw umber and learning a bit about gradating. Today, it’s another crowd of people with a few cars behind them. They are upset about something. And then, another painting of head bent men looking a bit defeated.

I will finish these two paintings today and begin to clean the studio and pack up for what comes next, a trip to Mesa Verde to visit friend Warren, and then a gazillion mile drive to Cape Cod. No complaints, I’m the lucky guy who has money in the bank, my health and most importantly, three more weeks before having to go back to work.

August 4

Let’s talk for a minute about him. You know who, the guy whose name I wish I would never have to speak. The guy who has nearly 150 million Americans fooled into believing he’s a legitimate person who loves our nation and strives to make America great again. The guy who was once president and wants to be president again. The convicted sex offender who now faces over 70 counts of crime against the nation. The guy who boasts that he can fondle women any time he wants because he’s famous. The guy who hates Mexicans and Islamic people. The guy who has lied, cheated, and stolen since he was a little boy. The guy who doesn’t read. You know who I’m talking about, right?

And then again, if I don’t talk about him, and we all stop talking about him and if we stop even mentioning his name, he just might go away and never come back.

August 3

I’m going to make one more painting while I’m here. I’m working with the photo above, which is six sections from one New York Times photograph. The picture was taken about a year and a half ago and I’m not sure exactly where it is. Syria, Mexico? At this point it hardly matters where the scenes I’m painting are happening. They are usually in poor, broken places. Why do I put my attention here? Because to me, these are the people that explain something about the world situation. We all know priveledge. We live it. We look at these photos from such a safe place. From our place of safety we feel things about what we see, we are touched, saddened, moved. Looking is as close as we’ll get to living it. I’m inspired to paint it. Best I can do.

I like the idea of showing a number of sections of the single photograph. I think it helps reinforce the reality of the situation. Heads bent, carrying heavy loads, slow and steady, grim. Six men move about, no words.

It’s Thursday and I will be leaving in five days. Time to pack up and move on. We’re getting closer to the next school year. I’m about a week away from the end of the summer panic. Here we go again.

August 2

I chipped a tooth yesterday. As a result there was a sharp spot in my mouth that I didn’t want to live with until getting back to New York, so I called a dentist in Grand Island. It took about fifteen minutes from the time I walked into the nice, clean office. The receptionist met me with a warm smile, I filled out a form, was sat down in a chair and the dentist, a sixty-something year old who came from Montana, talked to me for three minutes about art in Grand Island. Apparently there’s a six hundred thousand dollar sculpture being built in town, near a car parts manufacturing plant. And another piece installed near Webb Road. Art in Grand Island is happening. While the dentist looked in my mouth, I told him about the dental work I was having done in New York. I’m in the process of having three teeth repaired. I told the dentist that one tooth was removed and some kind of bone was put in and forty-five minutes later I was charged 5,700 dollars. He raised an eyebrow and told me I was probably being overcharged. Then, he filed down my tooth and sent me home. No charge. And that’s one thing to love about Nebraska.

Oh, funny moment of the day. My GPS was directing me to the dentist’s office and I was told by the nice little voice to take a left on North South Road. Really?

Today’s photo — TODAY, finished yesterday.

August 1

Recent news report — states are adopting legislation outlawing drag shows for children. For some reason the word “prurient” has been attached to this fight. Right wing legislatures have been using this word in offering their opinions about why drag shows are so dangerous to children. I’m guessing that until this week, these men have never uttered that word.

If you ask drag performers what their routines are all about they will tell you that it’s not about sex. Certainly not “prurient.” They are actors who put on costumes and pretend they are somebody else. Most children who watch them have a great time. They laugh, eat popcorn and candy and enjoy the silliness.

So let’s add “prurient” to the 2024 election terminology that will unite Americans. “Prurient” and “woke.” 90 million people will be uttering these words for the next year.

And on a happy note, today is son Leo’s 30th birthday. Wow!

July 31

We had a little performance event last night (see photo). Oon Yong, a Korean artist who lives in Seattle is dressed as her character, Isis. She came out carrying a few items — a stuffed doll that looked a bit like her in her costume, a large rubber ball and a cigarette lighter. And she held a stack of round green pieces of paper. She danced around for a little while to some recorded music and then she threw all the items into an igloo built of chicken wire and coat hangers.

The dance continued, as she proceeded to move from person to person and dance with each of us. Soon we were all dancing and clapping a beat. Eventually she made her way inside the igloo and she took each round green paper and began to read. On the paper were written our dreams and wishes. Earlier in the week she had given each of us a green paper and asked us to write our dreams and wishes. Oon Yong speaks very little English, so she asked me to read each wish and dream. As I read each, I gave the paper to her and she lit them on fire. Wishes ranged from saving our planet to world peace to acceptance of creative thought to willingness to accept fault. At the end of the performance Oon Yong prayed toward the burning papers.

It’s not easy being an artist today. We are all so different. Part of me being here is learning to accept and respect our differences.

I looked up at the sky as the night ended and viewed a gorgeous full moon peeking through clouds. Amazing big Nebraska sky.

July 30

Sunday, quiet, still, sunny, easy. I have eaten two breakfasts this morning. A bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee as I drove off to the golf course, and then I stopped at the Shady Bend diner on the way home. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I like sitting amongst the Nebraskans and listening to their chatter. There were a dozen today, none younger than 65. Everybody seemed to know everybody, there are smiles for all and the voices are soft and easy. I overheard one man talking about living in Alaska and learning about solar power.

Nebraska is America the Beautiful country. In restaurants there are American Flags and Proud To Be An American posters. Waitresses at the Farmer’s Daughter diner wear Support the Troops t-shirts. At the county fair the other night, God Bless America and America the Beautiful were piped over the loudspeakers. The America the Beautiful rendition was truly country, a soft, deep voice singing a seriously slowed down version.

Nebraskans love where they live. They love the land, they love their animals, they love feeling free to breathe country air. They feel safe at home. And for that, they thank America. Along with that, for some inexplicable reason, when it comes time to vote, they pull the Republican lever, regardless of who is on the ballot. Reagan, Bush, Trump. And, in a little over a year from now, Trump again.

That their candidate will be in the midst of five federal trials will not matter. That their candidate has already lost a trial over sexual misconduct will not matter. They will pull the lever for Trump and simply say, “Oh that. That’s fake news.”

Over the next year and a few months we are going to read endless articles and editorials about how horrible a man Trump is. We will read about his upcoming trials, about his mishandling of top secret information, about his lies and cover ups. And we will read about how he claims innocence on every count. We will listen to his second grade vocabulary, his rants about evil Democrats, his references to “stupid people,” “idiots” and “morons” who oppose him. We will watch him turn every bit of negative press into a positive. In the end, we will see him lose the election by millions of votes, only to claim a stolen election and a plot against righteousness. Hopefully we won’t see him ask his supporters to use their weapons against the rest of us.

Meanwhile, the world will continue to crumble. Forest fires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes and hail storms will rain down across America and the world. Millions of innocent people will lose homes and bank accounts, some will die. School will begin and mass shootings will happen in a host of towns across America.

On Facebook and Instagram, we will see pictures of happy friends who have travelled to great places, had openings and book launches, enjoyed birthdays and reunions.

I’m sorry about having to write all of this. But it’s my blog, my thoughts, my take on this beautiful world we live in. Did I mention that I played nine holes today and was the only person on the course. Even the grounds crew had Sunday off, so it was my golf course and I felt like a zillionaire. The little things in life make you eager to wake up each morning.

Photo today, painting in progress. Black and white is harder than it looks.

July 29

I’ve just named a new holiday. Today is National Writers Day. To celebrate, all writers are to be given the day off. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Photo above is painting # 3 done here. TODAY.July 27

The attached photo is the work of an artist here at the farm. Marissa, who has lived in Brooklyn for the past 20 years is a collector of things. She brought 25 boxes of things with her and she has spent many hours here collecting more things, thousands of items that 35 years of Art Farmers have left behind. Among her items are hundreds of tiny plastic heads, thousands of tiny plastic and ceramic body parts — legs, arms, noses, breasts. She has countless tiny toys, paper clips, bolts and then about a million little things that have no names. Her collection is extremely colorful. It has a feel of timelessness.

Marissa takes these things, combines them and photographs them spinning. For her exhibit last night, she showed eight short films of her pieces spinning. They are assembled like an exquisite corpse, in sections of three that loosely resemble heads, bodys and legs.

The young artists here are each in their own creative place. Unlike me, who is bothered by the issues of the world today and focuses on them in my artwork, these artists are free from this weight. In a way, I envy them. But, I suppose, we each have our mission, and so I’ll continue on mine.

Marissa’s work is beautiful, fun, and thought provoking. I’m giving her a thumbs up.

July 28

The featured event at the Aurora county fair last night was the demolition derby (see photo). What an event! Think about a smushed up car with only three working wheels and more dented metal than imaginable smashing into another equally smushed up car. This is done for fun.

Unlike basketball, baseball or even pickleball, events covered by ESPN that have billions of dollars invested in them, the demolition derby is a non-commercial event. Each event features between six and eight cars, each of which has seen better days. The more smashed up a car is, the more you know it has been doing demolition derbies for a long time. Actual people are in each car happily willing and wanting to smash into other cars and have the other cars smash into them.

There are a dozen men circling the arena, each waving orange flags that, I think, are helping to keep some kind of score. I don’t know how you win points but there is some kind of assessment happening, because when the event is over, a man with a microphone announces the results, naming from last to first each driver. There is a moderate amount of clapping from the thousand or so spectators, who have sat rather quietly watching the event.

Why?

I’m guessing that the drivers are car mechanics who spend hours at home tweaking their cars. The demolition derby is there fun time. I think the dents are the results of previous drives. I wonder about the wheels. During the event I noticed at least five cars that were driving with only three working wheels. One car was missing a tire, but kept ramming into other cars and spinning around aimlessly.

I’ve always been a serious sports enthusiast. There’s nothing like a good basketball game. Football, baseball and even golf and tennis are exciting to watch. There’s a thrill of watching teams compete, winning and losing, last second excitement and happy celebrations. For me, there was very little to enjoy watching the demolition derby. It was funny for about twenty seconds to see these cars spinning about. It was really funny when a car got pushed onto a big mound of dirt and was stuck there for the remainder of the event. But mostly it was noise, the loud revving of engines.

I won’t spend much time talking about the audience. They looked very Nebraskan and very right of center. As much as I hate to stereotype, these were solid rednecks, drinking Coors Lite, watching men in cars drive into one another. Trump 2024, every single one of them.

After the demolition derby, we toured the animal exhibits and saw gorgeous cows, goats, rabbits, hens and pigs, many of whom were sporting purple winners ribbons. I met a ten-year old girl who had two goats with her. She loved her goats and could talk endlessly about them. She told me that her goats didn’t win the competition because it was really hot and she was a bit stressed and the goats pick up on their owners stress and become stressed themselves. I couldn’t help compare her to the ten year old kids I see in New York, who only know about Cartoon Network, video games and how to push buttons. I met her Dad, who told me he knew all about the Art Farm. Ed’s ex-wife was his elementary school art teacher. Small world. Dad was a farmer who lived on 47 acres, baled his own hay and had four horses, three of which were 15 and the other 30. Getting his daughter involved in the 4-H experience is a real life saver. I wonder how these kids, who are so sweet and interesting and so intelligent about animals, plants and nature, become beer drinking car mechanics who smash their cars into other cars and vote Republican. There must be something I’m missing

July 27

The attached photo is the work of an artist here at the farm. Marissa, who has lived in Brooklyn for the past 20 years is a collector of things. She brought 25 boxes of things with her and she has spent many hours here collecting more things, thousands of items that 35 years of Art Farmers have left behind. Among her items are hundreds of tiny plastic heads, thousands of tiny plastic and ceramic body parts — legs, arms, noses, breasts. She has countless tiny toys, nuts and bolts, and then about a million little things that have no names. Her collection is extremely colorful. It has a feel of timelessness.

Marissa takes these things, combines them and photographs them spinning. For her exhibit last night, she showed eight short films of her pieces spinning. They are assembled like an exquisite corpse, in sections of three that loosely resemble heads, bodys and legs.

The young artists here are each in their own creative place. Unlike me, who is bothered by the issues of the world today and focuses on them in my artwork, these artists are free from this weight. In a way, I envy them. But, I suppose, we each have our mission, and so I’ll continue on mine.

Marissa’s work is beautiful, fun, and thought provoking. I’m giving her a thumbs up.

July 26

Returned to The Farm yesterday, 4 plane rides in 2 days. A quick trip to New York for the funeral, family, a real meal and a reminder that I live in one of the most insane cities in the world. When I came in from Nebraska on Sunday evening, I felt completely confused, even frightened when I got on the subway at Port Authority. (See photo). There were more people on a single subway car than I had seen in a month in Nebraska. A thousand staring at cell phones, another thousand staring at the subway car wall, few smiles, but everyone looking like they were worrying about something. And I’m thinking, “I can’t believe I live here.”

I watched a teenage girl sitting with her dad on the train. She was eating a banana, then a sandwich, then pulling out a tube of lip balm, then a few pills, then another kind of lip balm, then her phone. She was doing something every second and I wondered if she could stop for just five seconds and just breathe.

Why do we do it? I’ve been doing it for over 40 years. I’m good at it. But really, why? Living in New York can’t give you an ounce of serenity. Unless of course you can pay a hundred bucks a pop for some kind of new age chill pill. A spa, a massage, ten kinds of yoga, a floatation tank, a therapist (300 bucks). Or the other direction — two stiff drinks and a fat spleef.

Now I’m back with the corn. It’s a few inches higher than when I left. This morning I came to a stop on the road as a 200 car train passed by. When it passed, another train, even longer and twice as slow came in the other direction. Fifteen minutes where I could do nothing but sit and wait. And it was nice.

Juy 23

Today’s photo is TODAY, completed yesterday. TODAY has been the title of paintings I’ve made for the past five or so years. Titling it as such is easy. But for the art history books (ha ha) I should probably come up with a unique title for each piece.

I used to title my pieces. Now I can think of just two titles I have given to paintings from the past. There’s The Liar Players, a large painting on canvas that now hangs in Leo’s childhood bedroom. Six or so figures are seated and doing not so much. Colors are nice and there is an overall expressionist, or maybe a neo-expressionist feel. Then there is Goodnight Moon, a small painting, a bit abstract for me, with lots of orange. That small painting on wood hangs in my bedroom. It’s the painting I would never want to part with.

The paintings of the TODAY series are studies of NY Times photography. I could make titles that use Times headlines. TODAY, Unreliable Munitions. TODAY, One Dead in Odessa. TODAY, It’s Scorching in Iran, and There’s Less and Less Water to Help. Just a thought.

July 22

There are days when writing the blog comes fast and easy. Today I don’t have anything on my mind. It’s a beautiful summer day here. A gorgeous early morning sunrise, it looked like a perfect morning for a game of golf. But in the middle of the bright clear sky, a bolt of lightening cracked and raindrops fell, all the time the sun remaining bright and cheerful. Another strange Nebraska moment.

I drove ten miles with wipers on and curiously observing a sunny sky. Hmmmm. Well, it was just one of those mornings and within a half an hour the rain had given way to a truly blue, clear sky.

A few words on golf. It’s a game I love and have played religiously nearly my entire life. I have the magic touch, but sometimes it’s not so magic. In the past year I have shown signs of age. My 265 yard drives are now barely rolling past the 200 yard marker. I’m hitting a five iron where I once used a 7. I feel as strong as ever, but clearly I’m not. I’ve seen a million senior golfers who hack their way around the course, happily moving from shot to shot, not caring that they can only hit the ball half as far as they once could. I never thought I would become one of them, but I think I’m soon to be in that group.

Well, despite the distance issues, I was on my game today and shot a 3 over par 39, including two putts that missed by less than an inch. And I made a birdie on the hardest hole on the course, sinking a 20 foot putt. This is why we come back.

Best golf joke: Ron leaves his wife of 25 years at home every Saturday morning and goes to play 18 holes with his pals. He religiously plays a round, heads home by 2 so he can spend the afternoon with his wife. One Saturday, he’s driving home after a game and sees a woman on the side of the road next to a broken down car. He pulls over and sees that she has a flat tire. He also can’t help notice that she’s gorgeous. Ron is happy to help her put the spare tire on and she thanks him and tells him she lives just down the road and why not come over for a lemonade. Ron loves lemonade, so he follows her home. And somehow the lemonade turns into a few kisses and then they are making passionate love. And then Ron realizes that it’s nearly 4 0’clock and he needs to get home. In 25 years he has never done anything like this. So he says goodbye and bolts home to find his wife standing in front of the front door tapping her foot and shaking her head. “I’m so sorry Ron says. I helped a woman with her flat and drank some lemonade and she was gorgeous and we made love and I’m so sorry I don’t know what got into me. His wife laughs and says, “Bullshit. You played another 18 holes.”

Enjoy the day.

July 21

The days are passing quickly here. I’ve been here two and half weeks. Haven’t done much, but here I am. Today’s picture is of a half finished piece I’m now a few days into. One more painting titled “TODAY.” This one has a half built border wall in south Texas and six badly beaten people. (border wall not painted yet.) When I’m painting I feel pretty good. When I’m not, I feel lost here. I’ve met a bunch of people who tell me they’ve been here all their lives. They seem comfortable here, like they understand where they are and what they’re doing here. Maybe there’s something about the beat. I’m comfortable in New York where the beat is a hip hop-soul-blues mix. Here the beat is, of course, slower. Is there a twang, or is that just me stereotyping? Let’s call the Nebraska beat “Home Corn.” It’s easily hummable and it can put you to sleep.

My stay here will be interrupted by a three day trip back home. My aunt Joan died yesterday and I will be attending a memorial service in New Haven, where she will be buried. I’ve known Joan for my entire life and I feel it important to be with the family for this.

Airfare from Lincoln was ridiculously expensive and so I decided to use my frequent flier miles. I will be flying home for 11 dollars and thirty cents. Not bad. Will have to stop in Chicago for the connecting flight.

I realized I had no nice clothes for the service, so I stopped in at the thrift store in Central City. My favorite place here, and I bought a nice pair of dark blue pants with a white stripe for a dollar and a white dress shirt for 2. Gotta love that.

Sun shines bright today, it’s all good.

July 20

I think therefore I am. Did Descartes really write this? I guess he actually wrote “cogito ergo sum.” That was 1637 in France, and for whatever reason he was writing in Latin.

Back in New York, living my everyday existence, I don’t really think much. Not about the things that thinkers think about. I don’t stop and think about why because I’m too busy pushing myself through the day. My mind is focused on the boring things like where can I park my car without getting a ticket or should I take subway or two busses to get uptown.

Nebraska is a good place to think. It’s wide open, quiet and peaceful. And I’m here alone. Alone is probably the right way to be in order to do some real thinking.

Probably the best approach is to begin by putting the things away that will keep me from thinking. I’ll leave the computer and my phone in my bedroom. There’s a really nice field just outside, a few acres of grass, some sculptures and corn surrounding the edges. I don’t need to take anything with me. See ya.

July 19

More NPR stories today that make me laugh and cry at the same time. They did a report on the word “woke.” It’s the buzzword of today, embraced by leftists, feared by conservatives. Ron DeSantis has made it his number on enemy. DeSantis has claimed that the word is a form of Cultural Marxism. He stated that “woke” is “basically a war on truth.”

No Ron. The term is derived from African-American vernacular English, meaning “alert to racial prejudice and discrimination. In the past few years it has expanded to refer to a host of social inequalities. If you’re woke, you get it. It’s not a war and it’s not Marxist.

The DeSantis people and the rest of that crowd are using the movement against wokeness to rally the crowd. They always need something to rally around and this is it: racial awareness, sexual awareness, awareness in general. They don’t want people to be aware.

Trump was quoted as saying he doesn’t even know what the word means. That’s because he’s an idiot.

Okay, I’m wide awake.

Today’s picture is my living room, which I decided to make liveable. I painted it, sanded the floor clean of fifty years of paint and now I’m making some Sol Lewitt inspired wall paintings. Having fun and finding ways to avoid the real work.

July 18

Every so often it’s good to remind myslelf how good things are. I’m sitting in my house with a cup of coffee. This is day 20 of 70 days off from work. I just played nine holes of golf and was the only person on the course. In a few minutes I can go to my studio and paint or draw or write or not. It’s all good.

Nebraska is a lot of things. One thing great about being here is the sky. It’s a really big sky that never ceases to amaze. The word beautiful hardly describes the Nebraska sky. Clouds are enormous. Colors — a thousand shades of blue, gorgeous hints of orange and pink. The sun could be shining bright overhead when in the distance a crack of lightening appears. It can be bright blue here and, in the distance black. Shades of gray are spectacular. As weather changes and storms roll in, the thick grays fill the air.

I found this (picture above) on the golf course today. It was running along the grass. At first I thought it was an animal that I had never seen. Then I realized it was the wind that was blowing it along. I think it must come from a tree, but I don’t know which tree. Anybody else of course will laugh and me and say, “duh, it’s a xoxoxoxo,” but I was clueless. As I walked along the course I saw many of them. I suppose it’s their time of year. All good.

And so another day begins here.

July 17

Thought for the day: What makes people creative? I don’t know much about the nature vs. nurture argument. Are we born creative or do we become creative as we grow up and experience life in certain ways?

Yesterday I was talking to my new housemate who arrived from California. Augusta is a poet and she is doing a graduate school study of the poet Paul Celan. Celan was a holocaust survivor whose parents were killed in the camps. Which made me wonder about the link between creativity and trauma.

Celan, a Romanian Jew, was in his early 20s when he was sent to the camps and witnessed the deaths of his parents. Philp Guston was a ten year old child when he opened a shed and found his father hanging, dead. Andy Warhol was a sick, bedridden child who couldn’t go out and play with friends. And then there’s me, who at 14, witnessed his mother’s sudden death. One minute, my closest ally, the next gone.

I began making art soon after she died. And I have always felt that art helps me remember that the world is a good place. In a way, art is the beauty that has replaced the beauty that was taken from me.

It’s certain that if my mother hadn’t died, I’d be a very different person. A lawyer, a business mogul, a mathematician? These were things I was being raised to pursue in school. Well, I’m certainly not glad she died, but I am happy to have become an artist.

Okay, I just googled the subject. There’s tons written about it. One person says trauma keeps you from your happy creativity, another says that artists and musicians can’t create when life is too good. Looks like I’ve got some reading to do.

The above photo is the just finished painting, my first piece made here at the farm. These people and places exist in the same world as me. Such very different realities. Together they describe TODAY.

July 16, 2023

Nebraskans are a real hoot. They probably say that about us. But really, Nebraskans really make you shake your head and say, “wow!”

I took the above picture last night. I was having a Saturday evening night out, dining at the Lincoln Manner in Central city. The Lincoln Manner is the one place in town where you can eat a meal that isn’t made in a fryer and normally served at a window where you have driven up in your car to collect your meal.

There are always a handful of locals in the Lincoln Manner, a few couples, a family and always a few cap wearing guys at the bar, sitting alone, sipping a beer. I’m always the only New Yorker. It’s relaxed and it’s easy to get into a conversation with the guy sitting next to you. They usually love it when you tell them you’re coming from New York. They want to know what you’re doing here and then there is always talk about the differences between the two places. Open highways and no traffic jams is often mentioned.

The three men in the photo, who are out to dinner with their wives aren’t just wearing those hats for show. They are ropers. Which means they compete in roping exhibitions at state fairs. When I sat down at the bar I immediately noticed the hats. So I asked them if I could take a tourist photo and they all laughed and smiled and happily obliged. They were a lot of fun to talk to. They too were curious about why I was in Nebraska and when I told them about the Art Farm, one of the men told me he could never be an artist. I assured him that everyone was teachable.

Ya gotta wonder. These are people with cell phones, instagram and twitter accounts. They shop at Wallmart and have most goods delivered by Amazon. And yet here they are in 2023 roping cattle for fun and dressed like real old time cowboys. It’s kind of nice to think that these are people proud of their culture. And they really do have a history and a culture to admire and dream about.

The roping competition is today at the Central City fairgrounds. I’m going.

July 15

Everybody gets their 15 minutes of fame. Yesterday it was Eli Crane, an Arizona Senator who, addressing Congress referred to Black Americans as “colored” people. Let’s first remember that this happened yesterday, in July of 2023. 148 Years after the abolition of slavery.

After being called out by congresswoman Joyce Beatty, he apologized and said he had misspoke. Really? Did he misspeak? What does that even mean? In fact he said exactly what he thought, that Black people are colored. We used that term 50 years ago. I think it had replaced Negro. And soon followed “African American, people of color and on and on.

I don’t know anything about Eli Crane, except that he’s a Republican congressman serving his first term. From his comment, even it was a mistake, it tells us about what he learned growing up. To Eli Blacks are colored. People are entitled to their own beliefs. But when we elect them we should expect more. (And then again, we do elect them, which tells us about who we are as a nation.)

In my school, countless hours are spent on diversity training. We are in an age where words matter. We are learning to ask before we decide what to call somebody. He, she, it, they, other? So many words are not appropriate anymore. It takes getting used to, sure, but we need to get with the program.

On a somewhat connected plane, let’s talk about advertising. After all, isn’t our country really all about money? The advertising industry has latched onto the diversity thing in a frightening way. The business wants to know exactly who we are. What “color” are we? What religion? What do we like to eat? What do we like to wear? Are we left, right or central? When they think they know who we are, they try to sell us things that apply.

How does Google even know I’m Jewish? I don’t go to synagogue, I don’t observe the Sabbath and I don’t send money to Israel. And yet, when I log on to Instagram, I am bombarded by clips of Jewish comedians insulting themselves and their fellow Jews. Some of them are funny, but again, why am I being targeted?

Will we ever see the day when a Black person, who really isn’t black, is simply referred to as a person? I hope to live to see that day.

Today’s photo is a cattle ranch that I discovered while driving from Grand Island. Makes you think twice before biting into a burger or slicing up a filet mignon.

July 14

Nebraska life on the farm is isolating and feeling very far away from the rest of the world. Still, I hear things. Radio reports of 118 degree heat in Phoenix and massive flooding in Vermont remind me of how bad things are. Today’s report — evening temperatures in Phoenix were 95 degrees. One hundred million Americans are suffering extreme heat conditions. In Vermont, at least one person has died from flooding and more rain is expected this weekend.

Are there still people who deny climate change? Are we going to reelect a man who will pave the way for more destruction of our planet?

It’s easy to joke about how the end is coming, but it isn’t comforting when you realize that it really is coming.

I killed a fox this morning. The little animal darted so quickly in front of me on Road 21. I couldn’t react until the fox was under my car. I didn’t hear a sound, but as I drove on, I could see in my rear view mirror that he was lying still on the ground. I’m so sorry.

Oh and I also heard an NPR radio report about a new group of people who call themselves Abortion Abolitionists. They believe that women who get abortions are criminals and should be tried. Some believe they are murderers who deserve the death penalty. And so, these are people who don’t want you to kill your unborn but want to kill you.

On that note, today’s blog will come to an end. Sorry for all the darkness. Let’s hope for sunshine and a little happiness tomorrow.

(Accompanying photo is a section from a piece I’m working on now. Shacks in a detention center in southern Texas.)

July 13

That little black truck in the attached photo is pulling up to a railroad crossing on the edge of Central City. Let’s hope he’s not in a rush, because he’s going to wait there for nearly five minutes watching the train pass. I was walking along the street when I saw this and I happily stood there and counted 162 train cars. Every one of them was the same model, some were graffitied. This could easily have been a shot from an old movie, a scene before or after a cowboy shooting or a stampede. And yet, here we were on a warm day in July, 2023.

Chances are that person in the truck was not in a rush. Though many of the drivers on the 65 mph highways here push past 80, there’s really no rush. There is little to do here besides waiting for the corn to grow.

It’s a 11:30 now and I’m lying in bed. My daily routine of early morning golf was cancelled due to a thunderstorm that started as I was on my way. This is the second morning in a row that rain kept me from the links. Today, a gorgeous morning sun shine was quickly covered in a thick fog. Scenicly beautiful, but soon the rain came and washed out my plans. So I headed for the Home Depot to buy a paint brush (Ed has three that are hardened and useless as anything besides sculpture material) and then to the the recycling center near the airport. There you can help yourself to items that have been left there. There are buckets of paint, household cleaning supplies, varnishes, motor oil and even sun tan lotion. I found cans of white, brown, blue green and red, enough for my kitchen project.

I made my way home and stopped at the Shady Bend café, a little diner on the highway that I’ve been curious about. Inside it was warm and cozy with three tables occupied by Nebraska senior citizens. The one waitress was a fifty something woman, lightly tattooed, who was moving quickly from table to table. Besides me, she knew them all. There was Ed and Ted finishing their eggs and coffee at the table to my left and Bev and Dave in front of me. Bev was digging into her short stack. Another man came in and sat down with Ed and Ted. He laughed and called over to Tom, who was sitting with another man. “That’s some fine legs,” he said, noticing Tom in short pants. All the others were in jeans. “You want me to do a little dance for ya?” Tom asked. “I could dance right here on the table.” And that’s about the size of it at the Shady Bend.

As I drove home I felt a wave of exhaustion. Strange because I hadn’t really done anything yet today. I got home and hopped into bed and the next thing I know I was waking up and it was nearly noon. I’m hoping I was just tired and that this isn’t a new form of depression. I’ve always been a high performing depressive. And you know me, I’m a New Yorker with a lot to do.

July 12

As part of being on the farm, we are asked to contribute a dozen hours a week to Ed. There are many projects here that need attention. In past years I’ve fixed a roof (and fell off it while working on it), dug a giant hole for a septic system (one of the most disgusting projects ever as we were digging next to an existing septic system that was full), laid a floor in what would become a new studio and driven a tractor.

This year I decided to spend some time making my house nicer. I live in the original farm house, which is the house that Ed grew up in. In a past year I actually slept in his childhood bedroom. Now I think I’m in the parents room. The house is worn and tattered, filled with junk and has a linoleum floor in the kitchen circa 1936. Walls are cracked and it badly needs painting. So, I decided to spend some time cleaning it up.

I bought a few gallons of joint compound (yes there are Home Depots here) and began scraping and spackling. In just a few hours the kitchen looked like it would soon be sweet. Looking around I decided that if I threw out all the things nobody used, the place might actually start looking like a home. And so I grabbed a few garbage bags and got rid of at least fifty things — a rusty scale, two broken coffee pots, unidentifiable plastic things, filthy towels. I saved a few old photos that I think are of Ed and his sister from around 1945. Ed has a nice smile.

In the kitchen there is a small cabinet that is chipped yellow. I found some yellow paint and decided to give it a fresh coat. Ed’s paints are old and it’s hard to figure out what they really are, but this looked like real paint and I was pretty sure it was water based, so I went with it. A few drops spilled on the floor and when I started to wipe it up I decided that the wash of yellow on the floor actually made the floor look better. The floor is a speckled yellow, beige and brown pattern (see attached photo) and the wash of yellow made it look a lot less dirty and old. And so, I gave it a little thought and decided I’d paint the whole floor. This went rather fast as all I needed to do was wipe the paint on with a watered down rag. In twenty minutes the job was done and I thought I had achieved a minor miracle.

But.

An hour later, the paint wasn’t drying. Another hour later, still wet. I turned on a few fans and left for a few hours and when I came back it was still not dry. Eventually the paint kind of dried but walking on it turned your feet yellow.

Day turned to night and I thought about what to do. I decided that if I painted a matte polyurethane over the floor, it would dry hard, problem solved. It was seven PM and I decided to make a quick trip to Home Depot to buy the urethane. But as I started the drive I decided it was silly to do this in such a rush and that maybe I’d wait til tomorrow and see what happened. Maybe all would be fine.

Years ago, when Leo was little, he named me “Daddy Overdo,” because I had a tendency to go a bit overboard from time to time. Today has been a day where the name fits. I woke up and found that the floor was still making everything that touched it yellow. I thought about the polyurethane idea and then I thought maybe I should just clean up the floor. And so, at 6:30 in the morning I headed out to buy cleaning supplies.

It is now noon and my floor is back to its original condition. I spent two hours with comet, an hour with bleach, another hour with Mr. Clean. I made a second trip to the store to buy a mop, paper towels, more comet and sponges. I mopped an mopped. My sneakers are speckled with bleach, which actually looks kind of cool. My knees are red and scraped. I wonder how much poison I’ve ingested.

Why?

Because I’m really good at avoiding my real work.

July 11

Good morning Nebraska. I love being the first one up. The sun is just rising over the cornfields. A large flock of birds flies their pattern in the sky. Deer hop across the road. It’s good to be alive.

Time is difficult. I’m not good with it. Some people know when they did something to the day. That was a Tuesday in March of 2017. I can’t do that. I barely remember today that we’re in 2023.

Here in my farm house we have a collection of movies and a working television. Most of the movies are ones I have no interest in, but I found a copy of Little Big Man, a film I saw fifty years ago and remembered it having an impact on me. In the film, Dustin Hoffman is a 121 year old man retelling his story of living during the age of General George Custer. Hoffman was a child whose entire community was wiped out by “Indians.” Only he and his sister survived. Hoffman was rescued by a Cheyenne man who brought him home and raised him. It’s a brutal tale of American history at its worst.

In thinking about this, I realized that there were people alive when I was young who had lived through and remembered the Civil War. To this day I had never realized this.

We learn about history and think of it as having happened a million years ago. But really, it was yesterday. And the ways of the world then aren’t really much different today. Lots to think about.

July 10, 2023

Until recently, I never thought about my age or getting older. I’ve always felt young. I never celebrated big number birthdays like they meant something. 30, 40, 50, even 60, no big deal.

Things are different these days. I’m feeling old. I wake up with aches, I’m tired in the middle of the day and I can’t see as well as I used to. In past years, my students would try to guess my age and they would never go past 45. Twice in the last week I was given a senior discount without even being asked my age.

I always thought I would live forever. If that’s true, then I guess I’m going to live forever with aches and pains. I suppose I can take advantage of the senior discounts.

They say that with age comes wisdom. I’m not sure that applies to me.

Today’s photo is a train passing over a bridge. There are so many trains here. I love it when the arm comes down across the road and I have to pull to a stop and watch the train pass. I’m a counter and I often count two hundred trains and wonder how an engine could possibly pull that much weight. And I wonder what is in those trains. And why are they here in Nebraska and not in New York?

These trains seem old, like me. And, like me, I think they’ll be around forever.

Note: My age 64 years, four months and 18 days. That’s approximately 23,500 days. 560,990 hours. 33 million minutes. 2 billion seconds. And counting.

July 9

The small city of Grand Island has a population of about 30,000. Every house looks the same, there are thousands of fast food joints. Wallmart, Home Depot, Best Buy, dot dot dot. In town there are a number of stores, most of which appear shuttered and from another era. There are a few coffee bars, antique stores and dress shops that look more 1950s. On the edge of town there is a two block by two block section dominated by Latino shops. Here it is dustier and a bit broken down, just like Mexico. Mexican men sit in front of shops. A man drives by in an old Ford that has no muffler. When people pass in front of one another, they wave hello and greet each other with smiles. Time stands still here, the clock has stopped.

The accompanying photo shows Menas, a food truck parked near 4th street. Menas is Mexican and when you are there you feel like you could easily be in Tijuana or someplace south of the border. I ate there yesterday afternoon and was happy to be able to speak Spanish to the young man who took my order. Two men sat at an outdoor table, also very Mexican. Tacos were served with a lime and salsa and my quesadilla came with arroz y frijoles.

Of the 30,000 residents here, 32 percent are Latino, mostly Mexican though there are Guatemalans, Salvadorans and Colombians too. The majority of these immigrants work in the meat packing industry that is big here. There is plenty of work.

Near this section of town there are also a few Vietnamese food stores and a Mongolian restaurant. And so, Grand Island is in many ways, a typical American town, once Christian and white and now home to all who have come here. I read that the median household income is 93,000 dollars. I’m pretty certain that meat packing is not paying that kind of money. And so, Grand Isand is America.

July 8

Drove to Grand Island to buy carbon paper. Simple, right? My phone told me that Staples was on 13th street. My phone also told me that the nearest Staples was in Lincoln, 89 miles from me. Hopeful, I drove to 13th street, but as I approached, noticing a street of suburban homes and no commerce, I was doubtful. Sure enough, the lady on my phone said I arrived when I came to a nursing home on the left and a broken basketball hoop in front of the small house across the street.

Googling office supply stores I found that the Office Max was both open at 9 and now no longer in business. There was an Eakes stationary store three miles away that was “open at 8 AM” according to the phone. Just four miles away. Yes, Eakes was there, but the doors were shut and no lights were on. And so I continued the search. McWhirter Stationery was just six miles from me and I decided to call them to be sure. A recorded voice answered and gave me information about medical assistance. At the end of the message I was told I could go online to seek help regarding stationary. I drove the six miles and found the medical offices, which were closed.

A further Google search led me to the UPS store and Best Buy. I didn’t think the UPS store would have carbon paper, so I googled Best Buy and typed in the necessary search to find that indeed they did have carbon paper, for only $3.49. Best Buy was just nine minutes away. But getting there was not easy. Best Buy is located on a major road, sharing space with any number of large chain stores and fast food joints. You know how that looks. Only there was road construction everywhere and Best Buy was fenced in with no apparent roads leading to the store. It took some clever navigation, but eventually I found my way, only to find out that the store didn’t open for another forty minutes. This was getting ridiculous.

Across the road from Best Buy was a Hobby Lobby, the nightmare craft store that sells everything you would never want to own. As much as I hated the idea of going there and giving money to a Klansman, I caved and drove across the street, though I didn’t really drive across the street. I had to drive three quarters of a mile down the divided highway, loop around and find my way.

Have you ever shopped in Hobby Lobby? I’m not sure there’s an appropriate metaphor. My estimate is that there are three million items for sale, everything from American Flag coffee cups to God Bless Your Home can openers. I noticed a few people’s shopping carts filled with the can openers and coffee cups and countless other nonsensical items. I wondered what kind of people actually made these things.

I needed the help of two people to find the carbon paper. I made a $4.49 cent contribution to the Klan and Trump. Can I write this off as a political contribution?

Oh I forgot to mention that I had also stopped at Walmart, but among the six million items there, there was no carbon paper. To discover this, I asked for help from three people, two of whom had just started working there and didn’t know where anything was and the third directed me to aisles 35 and 39, neither of which had carbon paper. I asked helper number three where people bought office supplies in Grand Island and he said they used to go to Office Max. Then he suggested a store in town near the old post office. This no name store was down past the old post office and near the senior center. Sure.

I’m back on the farm now, after driving some ninty-five miles in and around Grand Island. I will put the carbon paper to good use and remember this day forever.

(accompanying picture painted yesterday. I’ve never drawn a swastika before. Hopefully my last.)

July 7

We had a little poetry reading last night here on the farm. Two young Art Farmers are leaving today and so there was a little event at the Victoria house. We are a collection of 7 young artist/writers/creative types, Ed and me.

Juliette, a Philadelphia based writer who grew up in Hastings read first. She spent the summer writing about water and her fears of pollutants that make water questionably drinkable. She has done a lot of research about the kinds of scary things found in water in various places. She writes intelligently and beautifully, a combination of serious questioning and humor. I am someone who rarely thinks about what I’m drinking when I turn on the tap. There are so many other things out there that present danger, the last thing I want to think about is whether or not I should be drinking the water. But Juliette’s writing has made me think twice. She is a writer who is going somewhere good.

We wandered from Victoria to the School studio to view Blue’s art piece. She has spent the summer building a transsexual guillotine that includes streaks of blood, a banana, a large gourd that I think is supposed to represent a male penis (can I say male?), and some angry writing. (See accompanying photo.) Wow! Blue spoke for a while about transsexualism, America and mistreatment and I realized that we live in two very different worlds. Her piece is nicely built and I can imagine that many art critics will give it some thought. Later, I thought about her piece and I wondered why so many LBGTQ . . . people are so angry. Well, of course there’s reason to be angry, but isn’t there plenty of reason to celebrate. Every year we get more and more accepting of people’s differences. Of course there will always be idiots out there who are so afraid of their own shadows that they won’t accept anybody’s other ways. But really, who cares about them. Our job is not to convert them. Today, there are galleries, bookstores, television shows, movies and every kind of cultural institution that not only accepts, but promotes. Lets celebrate this.

We returned to Victoria and heard the reading of a section of a novel by a young woman who had received a Fulbright to go to Lithuania and write. She is working on a novel that takes place in 14th century Lithuania and involves a Jewish transsexual who was married for ten years, but because of his sexuality, he could not impregnate his wife and so, by Jewish law, a divorce was instituted. The wife remarries and the story focuses on the relationships between these three characters. It’s a beautifully written, rather funny telling of a very strange story. Isaac Bashevis Singer, move over.

Which brings me to me, who is working on his own Jewish tale. Why is it that Jews are obsessed with their Jewishness? We aren’t particularly religious and yet we can’t get away from it. We know that we are Jews, we are labeled, we have a thousands year history of persecution. We have a laundry list of nobel prize winners, famed artists and writers, psychologists and political thinkers. We are proud of who we are. But we have many, many questions and so we search for meaning. One person goes to Lithuania to find out who she is, another goes to Palestine.

I was asked last night if my work changes. One of the easiest to answer questions. If I’ve made 5,000 pieces of art in my lifetime, I know that I’ve never made two the same. Which, of course is why I love making art.

July 6

Getting started can be difficult. I came here with a purpose, a goal in mind. I want to write the story that will accompany an animated film, an idea I’ve had for a long time. I guess you call what I’m writing a screenplay, but that word sounds pretentious. This film will not have an eight figure budget, nor will the credits roll for six minutes announcing eleven producers, casting directors, makeup artists and grips. For now it’s just me. And I’m stuck.

It’s a bit strange to be in Nebraska, writing about Israel and Palestine. I’m a bit distanced from the struggle. When I was there a few years ago, it was easy to feel the vibe. Being in Ramallah, talking to people who lived there allowed me to understand a lot. I remember feeling pulled toward the Palestinian viewpoint. I wrote about it and received lots of criticism from Jewish friends who reminded me that Arab schools taught hatred and that Israel had a right to its mission. Have you ever been to Palestine I asked? Have you talked to people who carry nine pieces of identification, needing to show all nine in order to travel a mile or two outside their designated place. Have you seen the demolished homes? Have you visited the refugee camps? Have you looked across from a dusty, dirty Palestinian street to see green fields, fruit trees and sparkling homes of the Israeli settlements?

Here in Nebraska, I’m very far away. As you can see from the attached photo, the focus here is on America, land of the free. Stars and stripes. This photo was taken in Hobby Lobby, the only store in Grand Island where I can buy art supplies. I bought eleven paint brushes for two dollars and twenty-four cents. I passed on the American flag paintings and the million other mind boggling silly items. It’s time to get to work.

July 5

Nebraska is big weather. Yesterday’s oppressive 98 degree heat has given way to today’s cold front. I’m dressed in jeans and a long sleeved sweatshirt. Last night the skies darkened and the wind started. Softly at first, but soon it became ominous. There were tornadoes just a few miles away and we wondered if we’d be headed for the cellar, a place I’ve hoped never to have to visit.

The Nebraska evening skies are quite beautiful. As the clouds roll in, you can still see bits of golden sun shine in the far off distance, illuminating bits of corn fields and dusty dirt roads. You can see for miles, miles and miles of empty beauty. And the best part about it is the quiet. Actually it’s a loud quiet produced by birds, buzzing insects and, of course, the wind. It’s loud, but it feels like silence. Which brings me to thoughts of the noise I’ve escaped. The New York noise, where you can’t walk ten meters without hearing music blasting from any number of speakers. In stores and restaurants at 150 decibles, at the gas pump, from ghetto blasters waiting at a stop light. And the TVs too are everywhere. And the phones. The millions of images on your phone that you scan while doing something else, talking to a friend, walking down the street, driving in your car.

Ok, enough. I’m here and can enjoy the loud silence.

The picture accompanying today’s blog is my studio, which I painted yesterday and set up for my stay here. It’s time to get to work.

FARM 2023

Here we go again. I’m back in Nebraska for the fifth time. I haven’t been here since 2018, but not much has changed. There is corn everywhere. Besides that, there is more corn. I shopped for groceries this morning and I actually recognized the woman behind the cash register from five years ago. I asked her if she’d worked at the supermarket for a long time and she said yes and I told her I recognized her. I was also greeted in the pro shop at the golf course by a man who remembered me as Bill and another worker at the course said, “He’s the guy from New York.”

For the few loyal readers of this blog (THANK YOU), you know that I write a few words every day during my summer escape from teaching. I have always enjoyed keeping the blog. Putting my thoughts down on paper — well not really paper — is a good exercise. It’s a good start to a day and helps me get back in touch with my creative side. So, here goes.

It took me three days to get here from New York. The Holland Tunnel was closed Saturday morning, so I had to drive through Staten Island, which I discovered was not only quite easy driving, but the highway was impeccably clean. The ride through New Jersey was uneventful, but soon I was winding through Pennsylvania and it wasn’t long before my New York world ceased to exist and I was driving in what felt like a very different country. Highway billboards always let you know where you are. As I drove through Pennsylvania and into West Virginia, in addition to the usual signs for personal injury lawyers, there were also Trump 2024 billboards and loads of signs announcing the miracle of Jesus. He helps, he delivers, he heals, he returns, he wants us.

I spent three days in West Virgina, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri and Iowa and here’s what I saw: People are 150 pounds overweight. They drink two large sodas at every meal. They are covered with tattoos. They don’t talk to each other at the dinner table. They order enormous plates of food, mostly fried or batter dipped. Everything is coated with something crispy and unhealthy. They wear “Support Our Troops” t-shirts.

And the American flags. They are everywhere. On front lawns, on cars and trucks, in front of stores, on people’s shirts and pants.

In Wheeling, I played poker with seven West Virginians. I told the man next to me I was from New York and he told me I was ruining the country and that I lived in a bubble. Well, he was right about the bubble. He then told me he had plenty of guns and that he was safe.

We’re a year and a few months from the next presidential election. At home, we are reading about how pathetic Donald is. But two steps out of New York there is a whole different picture. Sadly, we share a country with them.

Tomorrow I will begin to work on the project I have brought out with me. Here’s hoping.