the land tells stories in languages of its own

contemplating the implications of turning law enforcement over to citizen vigilante gangs. sigh.

I pour out my complaints and my friends they listen

I learned that deer populations in the US are now carrying the COVID-19 virus. Then I learned that they probably got it from commercial deer farms, along with a deer-version of bovine spongiform encephalitis. So basically we are doomed to accommodate this virus now that it has reservoirs in the wild, as well as among the humans that refuse to get vaccinated or to isolate when they might be contagious. It’s hard not to feel that we are an awful species, when we get disconnected from the world we live in.

Anyway, there’s sort of a deer resting among leaves here.

I really have no idea what’s going to happen on the paper when I first sit down to draw. Today I started late, after a long day of meetings, and only had a half hour or so before I needed to get to bed. I’ve been irritable and grumpy, and really half-expected to produce a mysterious scary demon, but this is what happened. Maybe the root of my anger is really sorrow, and I need the comforting and the laughter.

swamp trees

Thinking about the way we make and tell ourselves stories about our lives