I wonder, sometimes, when our fascination with the digital world will pall. 

Like any product, the digital world must constantly keep its users coming back -- offering something new, improved, different, exciting. Often, however, this new, improved, different and exciting is little more than packaging. Take phones, for instance -- it's great that they take pictures; fun that they access the Internet; occasionally they even successfully make calls, but at some point, this toy will lose its shine. The shine dulls even further when the toy is used as a tool by others to track where we are, what we look up, and what we buy. No number of new ringtones can effectively make up for our lack of privacy.

One thing that doesn't pall -- through the ages, through our lives -- is interaction with other human beings. Genuine relationships with friends and family deepen and grow through time, constantly surprise us with their changes, keep us energized and creative. Even interactions with strangers -- over the oranges at the grocery store -- add a smile to our day.

The painting, Out Sailing, celebrates this very real, very normal, very essential interaction of humans with humans. Oh, we can connect with people on Zoom, do facetime on our phone, text back and forth -- but these digital replacements for human relationships are not the same thing. No matter how many governors and ministers earnestly exhort "their people" to celebrate the holidays digitally, it's a poor substitute for reality, and they know it.

I wonder, however, do we?

Gone Sailing, original oil painting and art print.

When I was a kid, various adults referred to the TV set as an Idiot Box. I thought they were being harsh, trying to take away my, and others', simple enjoyment of cheesy Westerns, cheaply made sci-fi flicks, those super sappy sweet variety shows, and the various situation comedies that, for some reason, I spent hours watching after school. All I can say is that, as bad as the latter were, they engaged my attention more than school.

Now, as an adult who has lived without a television set for all of my adult life, I see indeed what those grown-ups of yesterday were saying. TV -- whether it's via "conventional" TV or "modern" streaming -- is indeed an idiot box. Whether you're accessing it on a flat screen, notebook, phone, or a Dick Tracy (remember him? if not, it's okay; he's as forgettable as the rest) watch, you're not getting much in the way of intellectual stimulation, deep thinking analysis, or interactive relationship.

"But I'm tired, and I just want to relax!" is the response. In reality, when we watch the screen, we're in a passive state, our mind as collapsed as our bodies, ingesting actors' words and slick images as readily as the chips we grab from the bag we're holding. Rare is the person who, after an evening of this, pops up out of the chair and announces, "Wow! I feel better! Those programs really made me think, inspired me to do something creative, gave me hope for my future and that of my kids and grandkids!"

We're more tired. We're not relaxed. And we haven't been doing any serious thinking, which is what we really need to do in a world that hurls a message of constant fear, insecurity, anxiety, conformity, and, well, ugliness at us. When do we process the words we're hearing, the images we're seeing, the messages we're getting?

We need time, space, and quiet to think. And the Idiot Box steals that from us.

Quiet Contemplation, original watercolor and art print.

It's okay to escape, to get away, to leave behind the frenzy and the fear for calmness and peace.

It's not only okay, it's normal and healthy. What's abnormal and unhealthy is our fixation on electronic devices, our unending brain and heart connection to the latest "news," updates, analyses, expert advice, recommendations, orders, mandates, and decrees. None of these promote a sense of calm, peace, goodness, or hope -- nor do they offer solutions to the problems they propound. 

Their simple, constant, and relentless messages is: "Fear!" "Listen to the experts!" "Obey!" "Tune in at 11!"

It's no wonder we want to turn them off and walk away.

So . . . why don't we? It's not as if we're actually missing out on actual, verifiable, real and true information; it's more that we're not getting the latest prod and poke, the daily and hourly booster in our psyche to inoculate us for The Next Bad Thing, about which we can do nothing but cower before and fear.

Better to walk outside into a quiet place, a peaceful place -- someplace, any place where we see the hand of God through Nature, as opposed to hear the ugly Voice of Oligarchy via our screens. And the more we escape to these places and times of calmness and peace, the more we find a better way to live.

Mountain Refuge, original oil painting and art print.

For the last year and a half, and for the foreseeable future if sensible people continue to let it, we have been pressured, pushed, shoved, and essentially told to put our lives on hold.

Where I live, our present and ongoing dictator announced,  "Two weeks to flatten the curve!" Then three more weeks. Two months. Six months. And on. And on. And on. And somehow, it changed from flattening the curve to eliminating the . . .  threat . . . altogether. And the threat itself changed from sudden and horrendous death to . . . "cases."

The constant, relentless message -- which is still ongoing -- was that we need to suspend what we call normal living and hunker down in a state of trembling fear; to push other human beings away; to safely tuck ourselves into a darkened room and, if we hug anything, let it be the TV screen where the somber flickering faces tell us more things to fear, more things to not do, more days and weeks and months and years before we can get back to, well, we can never get back to normal, they say. But to sub-normal. To a lowered baseline that should be very nice. Very nice indeed. We just need to stay in our darkened rooms and quietly accept that this is what our lives look like now.

But this is not what our lives were meant to be, trembling in fear as we check the nine o'clock news, and the latest update on some trusted website, then the nine-oh-five news, and an analysis by a trusted scientific expert on a special edition before the ten o'clock news. We are our own self-police, limiting not only our actions and lifestyle, but our very way of thinking, creating, and being, as we allow the sinuous, snaky words of paid actors to dictate what we do this day, what we think, how we feel, what we believe.

Turn these people off. Pick up a mystery book. Make spaghetti and invite friends and family over to enjoy it. Take out the boat -- even if it's only an imaginary one -- and get out onto the water -- far, far away from the darkened room with the flickering screen. Life confined to a musty cave isn't life. It's prison.

Outing, art print. Original oil painting sold.

You don't have to be an expert to think, although the "experts" want you to believe this is so.

For instance, how many times have you heard a variation of, "Trust the Science"? 

Which science? Whose science? Which message? Whose message? The impression is given that Science is a monolithic being, a Personage or Force that says one thing, and brooks no disagreement (if this sounds suspiciously like a religious cult, well, maybe it's because certain factions are transforming Science into . . . a religious cult).

A thinking person instantly asks questions: Who is speaking? On what basis do they speak? Do any others, with equally credentialed papers and letters, disagree with them? And if so (and this will obviously be so, since universal agreement among human beings is not remotely common), then where is that voice? Why do we only hear one side?

Questions. Questions. Thinking people ask questions, and this bothers people who need us to simply accept what we're told. Because most of us have been raised in a public school atmosphere than emphasizes conformity, many people can be shut up by simply being told,

"No one else has had a problem with this before. Who do you think you are? Are you smarter than the experts?"

or, 

"Independent Fact Checkers find no validity to this argument."

In which case, the next question is, "Who are these 'independent fact checkers'? Who pays them?"

Smart people ask questions. Lots of them.

Model Thinker, original watercolor painting and art print.

Choice is one of those words that through constant media harassment has come to be associated with abortion, or not. As anyone who seeks to make actual, verifiable choices concerning what kind of "medical" "treatment" they choose to have or not have -- especially since early 2021 -- choice, according to the government, doesn't extend other arenas.

Which then begs the question, how much of what we do every day is based upon verifiable, real, free choices that we make, and how much is performed because we have to, due to mandates, commands, decrees, laws, regulations, and coercion?

How many of us, really, "choose" to pay our property taxes? Or any other myriad of taxes, fees, fines, and assessments?

"But we must! To keep things running!"

Anyone else out there underwhelmed by how public money seems to be spent these days? Are the roads looking great? The parks clean and maintained? The schools turning out graduates capable of great thought, clear and cohesive writing, superlative analytical skills? Do we really need trillions and trillions of dollars worth of bombs and fighter planes? What do you get, really, when you shell out thousands of dollars each year for health insurance, other than the obligation to meet a high deductible before any "protection" kicks in?

We are born to be creative, intelligent beings, capable of doing great good when we choose to put our minds, hearts, and skills in that direction. Choose to think. Choose to ask questions. Choose to envision, and work toward, a world that does not consist of endless rules imposed by self-imposed leaders who feel they are entitled to rule. Choose freedom.

Rugged Coastline, original oil painting and art print.

It seems like you can't walk into any office these days, or buy something from a website, without being told how much your privacy matters. You get a piece of paper that you must sign, saying effectively that your information won't given out to anybody except any government agency or business that wants it, or you digitally agree to a similar statement.

It's one of those legal things that protects everybody but, well, us.

Privacy does matter, although not to big business, the medical establishment, government, and all the other behemoth agencies that want to know what we buy, how fast our heart rate is, the names and ages of our children, how much we make, what we think, and on and on. How they would like to get into our home and listen to our conversations. (Got a smart phone?)

Aside from our minds, our homes are the last bastion of privacy left to us, and in the same way we wouldn't hold the door open to a hostile stranger, we need to think twice about allowing those strangers in by other doors: they blather at us from behind podiums, giving political speeches on TV; they sit behind desks with scary video flashing behind them, droning on and on about how we need to be afraid, and salvation lies in listening to, and obeying, the experts; they waste our time saying absolutely nothing on social media; they scream at us silently from newspaper headlines and magazines.

All of these voices we can turn off and tune out because, at the end of the day, they have added nothing to our spirit and heart, and have done all they can to invade the privacy of our minds. These people aren't our friends. Why are we inviting them into our homes?

Autumn Dreams, original oil painting and art print.