Archive for the ‘Verse’ Category

Various & Sundry, part eighty-seven

Monday, December 31st, 2012

Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?
—Ecclesiastes 3:22

— Year of 2012 workout totals: Swim-13; Bike-48; Powerwalk-3; Run-0; Lift-12; Pilates-0; Yoga-0; Lupus Drills-2

— Meeting my goal of a minimum of 48 bicycle workouts seems to have had a disastrous effect on my swimming this past year—a near reversal of 2011. Does that make any sense? I was able to do my sixty-mile bike + sixty-lap swim on April 30th without a lot of pool preparation, and then the swimming totally fell apart during the summer. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t looking ahead to my annual channel swims in the Les Cheneaux, because I had already decided to skip the trip to Michigan and spend my 30th wedding anniversary with Dana.

— A series of aggravations over the past few months has resulted in daily knee pain as I head into a new year. It’s hard to say how that will affect my fitness routines. I need to find a way around it until healing takes hold. Here are the factors that must have contributed: 1) Hauling nearly a ton of free sand by wheelbarrow from the parking lot construction site across the street to the back yard. 2) Too much time hunting in a stressful, Japanese-type posture with stretched knees. 3) Moving Terie’s stuff from South Carolina. 4) Slipping on a rug and sprawling forward onto my knees. 5) Additional activity that made things worse (instead of rest), such as trimming branches and cleaning the gutters up on the roof, hauling brush to the farm and dumping it, crawling around in the attic to find squirrel holes, plus raking all the autumn leaves. It feels better than it did at first, but a return to normal could take a long time.

— Highlights of the year? Well, now that the disruption has settled and I’m used to a new dog (Ru, the Shih Tzu), it really is nice to have Terie with us, as opposed to the constant worry over her previous circumstances. Mombo’s unexpected improvement over the year is an important development. Best GABBF of all? Perhaps so. Dana and I observed decade-turning birthdays and our milestone anniversary. The 2nd Veep Debate at Centre was huge for our community (plus a great time with James and Susan). My six-oh event was extremely satisfying, as were memorable bicycle outings with Simpson, Hoover, and Hower. I shall always remember 2012 as the Centennial of Collage—the year I formalized my creation of the small collage, started my new blog, The Collage Miniaturist (catalyzed by the “Tribal Monday” sessions with Kathleen), and re-discovered wheat paste as an adhesive. The local trails summit that I helped organized was a key achievement, as well as the “Uncle Bones” graphics for Lucas, even though I disappointed myself with ridiculous delays on projects for GAB and Last Adventure. A wonderful party to follow the Johnson wedding resulted in some of the coolest pictures ever for Dana and me. And, of course, the weekend in November with another Clan wedding and the Ohio trip to install a sign with Dan and Bill was one of the best experiences of any year.

— It’s time to look forward and raise the bar for a new cycle. It may seem as though negatives outnumber the positives, but it’s just a matter of attention. Nurture—Affirm—Forgive—Inhale! There is no permanent status, because each day is a new page with the same challenges and pitfalls, but also the same opportunities for self-investment, accomplishment, practice, and constructive change. Pick one problem each day and heal it in some way. Nothing is beyond me, in and of itself, but, if I let inaction coalesce to a critical mass, it has the potential to crush. Make each day count. Eliminate the obstacles, brick by brick. Nothing new added without processing something over-ripe. Set realistic goals and re-invent the checklist. Believe that all will be fulfilled as never before.

V & S

Eulogy for Bruce Joel Willoughby

Saturday, January 8th, 2011

Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:

“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”

As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”

Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.

Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:

“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”

At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.

We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):

An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.

Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.

Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.

Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.

Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”

It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”

“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”

Team approach

Saturday, November 7th, 2009

I’ve come to the end of a outstanding week that began last Friday when I headed to Monterey for my fifth workshop with Wesley Bates. I didn’t pitch a tent this year, but had the familiar loft at Larkspur Press to myself each night. The opportunity to concentrate on wood engraving for three days in that extraordinary environment made sleeping on a wood floor seem like the ultimate in accommodations. I continue to learn more about the art form with every retreat, and I now face the breakthrough act of finally acquiring my own set of customized tools, so I can maintain a year-round practice to replace my once-a-year introductory learning curve. On Saturday night, Wes, Juanita, Leslie, and I drove over to Hanna’s “house concert” by Kraig Kenning, at the home Prajna Design created for her (builder Garry Murphy was there, and I chatted with him). I’m prepared to say that Kenning is the best steel guitar performer that I’ve heard live (and I once watched David Lindley tape a Soundstage concert with Jackson Browne in Chicago). An enjoyable nightcap with Wes extended deep into the night as both of us discovered that we have even more in common as creative professionals. It was nice this time around to balance social enjoyment with lots of one-on-one time with Wes.

The subject of my block was a pair of handsome mules that worked the Realm of Greystone when James brought in low-tech loggers after the ice storm of 1994. I managed to get some decent slides while they were in the Valley—undoubtedly the last high-level transparencies I may ever take. It wasn’t a bad note on which to end my slide-shooting era. I’ve always wanted to begin exploiting those images for my art, and so I selected a shot of two mules with the tobacco barn in the background (a suitable tribute to the recently fallen landmark). My goal was to chose a style that would enable me to complete the block and print it within the weekend constraint, and that meant consulting with Wes about how to use an approach that didn’t rely on time-intensive technique (the path I found myself on last year, resulting in a missed deadline). I may not ultimately like “Logger’s Team” as much as my 2008 print, but I learned much about the medium, with a big step closer to understanding the elegantly minimal line quality that Bates has truly mastered.

Last night I headed north again with Dana and Joan for Richard’s First Friday event in Old Frankfort. Wesley’s wife, Juanita Wilkins, performed and Richard read poems from his new volume about Abraham Lincoln (commissioned for the bicentennial observation). Everything about the evening was splendid, and there was a magical moment when the unknown “Harmonica Man” appeared from nowhere with his “harp belt” to jam with Juanita. I’ve been so fortunate to hear her a number of times now, and she never sounded better to me than last night; nor had she conversed with her audience so impressively or in such a personally revealing way. Absolutely wonderful…

Wesley Bates Studio

Various & Sundry, part eighty-three

Friday, January 2nd, 2009

— Year of 2008 workout totals: Swim-21; Bike-47; Run-21; Lift-19; Yoga-10; Pilates-29; Lupus Drill-18

— If I have doubts about whether physical conditioning should be a top priority for me this year, all I have to do is look at my workout totals from the past twelve months and that should be enough to convince me a new diligence about fitness demands a high place on my list of New Year’s resolutions. I shall also add:

•   An improved habit of creative goal setting for artistic output.
•   More robust business development efforts into new markets.
•   Periodic infusions of nature, including more time in the woods.
•   Steady progress toward the 30th anniversary of our studio.
purim.jpg

from Scott-Martin Krosofsky’s The Book of Customs

— Joan sent me a link for some interesting Venetian woodcuts that I’ve never seen before. In spite of my ongoing investigation into wood engraving, I’ve yet to try my hand at an authentic woodcut, which is executed on the plank side of the block, in contrast to the end grain. Pete gave me some hemlock slabs from the Broadwing sawmill that I intend to use for my first effort, but I need to find an effective way to plane them down.

— Got a nice reply to our Christmas e-card from my cousin, Dr. Dave. For a pleasant look at a branch of our extended Clan, visit It’s a Sullivan Thing. A cool site for a cool family.

Australia! I feel sorry for anybody who doesn’t get to see this movie before it departs the wide-screen cinema. Can they still make a full-length motion picture with the same scope and spirit as the classic epics? I say they can, and they did!

— Uncle Bob’s “Farm Woman: 1936” earned third place this year in NC’s poetry contest for seniors. It was also published in Western North Carolina Woman. According to our poet, “Such times may be more relevant than we would like, I’m afraid.” I shouldn’t publish it here, but you must read it. Let me know and I’ll send it to you…

V & S

It’s 8/31

Sunday, August 31st, 2008

First task: Joan, I am so sorry that Greg Brown is gone from your life. He was a good one, and always will be remembered in the lore of unique canine personalities we have known.

Wow. Thirty days since my last entry. It’s been one of the more intense months of my life, with all matters giving way to concentrated artistic effort. The result—two creative milestones disguised as brand promotions for Maker’s Mark—is perhaps the most mature expression of the mixed-media style that I’ve had under gradient development for more than a decade. Beginning with my first “cosmosaics” of the late 90s, I sought a personal approach to collage that would fuse the characteristics of my greeting-card miniatures with fine-art aesthetics at a new level of archival craftsmanship. A stronger forward momentum took place when I studied the work of Kurt Schwitters, in preparation for the 2006 CONNECTIONS exhibition, and to produce my KOSMOS show the following year. Concurrently, I’ve given greater attention to the durability of my pieces as “artifacts,” and, beginning with Pearallel Universe, to the introduction of more hand-rendered elements into my compositions. More details to follow as we get closer to the opening reception at the historic distillery.

Yesterday, after Dana and I delivered my new collage artworks to Loretto, we headed north to submit four of my wood engraving prints to the gallery at Elk Creek Vineyards as part of an exhibition that will feature Wesley Bates. We also stopped at Larkspur Press to meet with Gray and get an update on the project for Maurice’s poetry. As usual, the master printer is composing this publication with a stunning regard for letterpress quality. What started out as a broadside sheet has expanded to a limited edition of bound collector booklets. He showed us the latest proofs, and I borrowed back my maple block to do some additional clean-up in the white areas. Although I doubt if I comprehend how important an event this will be considered in the world of fine book arts, I do appreciate that my creative work never before has been presented in a context of such literary distinction.

After the marathon push to fulfill these August obligations, I figured I would spend today catching up on rest and doing a bit of reading and writing. We ended up taking Bruce to UK’s ER with another worrisome episode of GI bleeding. He’ll stay there indefinitely for more diagnostics and possibly some transfusions, too. Unlike earlier this summer, I hope that this time around they can identify the root cause and deal with it properly.

Feel the Love and Follow the Beauty

Sunday, April 27th, 2008

I know I haven’t been writing much lately, but I recently promised myself that if I couldn’t dwell on positive things, then I best not record anything at all in this space. Although that may seem to indicate my prevailing mood, good developments continue to unfold. It is necessary to remain focused on practical goals. Each day sees progress on multiple fronts, even in the face of adversity. Extra time spent at the Blue Bank Farm, working on the stone flue, allowed me to overcome the deficiencies of my extended learning curve. Now I know I can complete the masonry job this summer according to my original vision. I helped produce a successful annual dinner for The Salvation Army, which fulfills a major volunteer commitment. Although I cut back on my involvement with the Brass Band Festival this year, I felt obligated to complete the poster series I started in 2005. That should be wrapped up soon, which clears the deck a bit more in favor of a greater commercial workload. Yesterday I woke up with a solution to the Town House storm water drainage problems that have bedeviled me for years. I’m reading Dr. Dyer’s book on learning to live one’s imagined life. Creating the prerequisite balance is a daily challenge that I can surely meet, but only through the relentless re-alignment of my inner thoughts and awareness, and I’m convinced that I shall do that only by truly accepting the all-sufficiency of God’s love.

Far away in the sunshine are my highest inspirations.
I may not reach them, but I can look up and see the beauty,
believe in them and try to follow where they lead. . . .
        —Louisa May Alcott

Hold on; press on.

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
      If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
      And treat those two impostors just the same…
                        —Kipling

My expectations for January are now cast aside, miserably out of character with harsh developments and deficient efforts. There is nothing to do except press on with the same clear appraisals and cautious optimism that I would apply to more agreeable circumstances and outcomes.

Bring on tomorrow!

Thanks for nothing

Thursday, November 22nd, 2007

“A wiseacre on the Oakland to Los Angeles shuttle this week said the next technological leap would be implanting cell phones into people’s heads. He was kidding—we think.”
—Chuck Raasch, USA Today

Someone on the news said recently that 80% of Americans have a cell phone. I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked at that, but I was, and it made me feel distinctly in the societal minority, since I don’t carry one. Not that it makes me uncomfortable. I’ve been mildly concerned from the beginning that their use might eventually cause adverse health effects, but if somebody gave me a free iPhone, I would bear-hug them and then find a private spot to dance in my underpants.

Last night, Dana created a wonderful meal with crab-stuffed shrimp for Marty’s 16th birthday, and he showed us his new iPod nano. We got to talking about Apple, with me speculating that the company might be planning to enter the game market. Marty said that idea sounded logical to him, and he predicted it might make its move when Sony inevitably faltered. I suggested that it would probably be a radical leap forward in graphic technology and user interface. He said Apple was sure to compete in that sector eventually, but wondered if they also might decide to make cars. That notion took me by surprise. “Think about it, GrandyJohn,” he added. “Before too long, a car will be basically a computer.”

Sixteen years old. Unbelievable. What kind of a nano-world will exist when he’s my age, and will I make it to age 96 to share it with him? Of course—I need at least another 40 years to figure things out. Will I still be able to get on a bike? Maybe not, but perhaps I shall have created at least one enduring work of art that will have made my life’s journey worthwhile. Hey, if I’ve made it this far, there’s no reason why I can’t declare my personal mid-point and tackle the second half of my expedition.

Joan sent me a delightful poem about becoming an old man who wouldn’t have “a computer or a clock or a phone in the house,” and the desire to “learn something just watching the birds and the weather.” I’d be that guy tomorrow if I had the nest egg, but I don’t, and I won’t anytime soon. Yeah, I know the reasons why. Most of Dana’s contemporaries are beyond their careers, and even I have classmates that retired years ago. I intend to keep working as long as someone will hire me, and, if I’m being honest with myself, I probably wouldn’t have it any other way, because I know I have a lot to learn. A day doesn’t pass without my seeing some creative thing to which I still aspire.

There are times when I think I’m the world’s most miserable excuse for a “multi-tasker,” even though I’m supposed to be able to handle numerous creative goals simultaneously. I was reminded again of this over the past week when I tried to make progress on more than one thing, but the only checklist item I could focus on was my digital illustration for our client in Lexington—which she loved. I was successful in getting past an initial creative block, and brought the process to a very satisfactory conclusion. Something in which to take pride, but all I could think about is what I hadn’t gotten done. In addition to my other assignments, I was hoping to compose a holiday-related “Joe Box,” as part of the local Art Center’s “White Christmas” exhibition, and I also expected to put in another productive session as an amateur stonemason before gathering with my Clan later today. Both of those deadlines slipped by. I’m learning to let them go—to release the sense of perpetual failure—to maintain some modest momentum of accomplishment—to forget about how far short I fall, compared to my expectations. When I grapple with these frustrations, I reckon that most high-performance multi-taskers have a personal assistant or an apparatus of managers, and then I flirt with regrets about not having built an organization around myself, but I have to stop and remind myself to avoid pointless rationalizations. I remind myself that I have an invaluable partner who supports me, and the freedom to achieve any level of personal discipline that I set my heart and mind to attain.

Today is the day set aside to give thanks, and I’m inclined to say, “Thanks for nothing.”

I give thanks for nothing new, because I already have what I need. I have my health, my talent, my independence, and people who love me. When it comes right down to it, that old man in the poem has nothing on me. I can discover delicious food on my plate every day. I can put Häagen-Dazs in my holiday-morning coffee (now, that’s why I exercise!). I can still weep when I listen to beautiful music. I don’t have to take medicine, and I can do virtually any physical thing I can think of wanting to do, and perhaps a few that I shouldn’t, being old enough to know better. I can spend a morning in the woods with a lever-action carbine and bring home to my mate a harvest of young, whitetail buck. I can marvel at my new friend’s ability to extrapolate that primal experience as an entire book of verse written in the voice of Kentucky’s most revered pioneer. I can coax my hand to execute just about any visual style that I can harness my perceptions to absorb. I can express my ideas and longings to others who care about what goes on in my head. I can dream. And I can still tell my mom that I love her.

Thank you, Father, for nothing different than all those blessings from Thee.

“Art is worthless unless it plants a measure of splendor in people’s hearts.”
—Taha Muhammad Ali

Spooky music

Wednesday, August 22nd, 2007

I continue to have a powerful belief in the synchronicities of life, but, for some reason, I’m astonished when they occur.

The wood engraving I’m working on will accompany a poem by a teaching artist who also wrote a book of verse about Daniel Boone, and it will be printed in Monterey, Kentucky.

Joan had a blind date with a teaching artist from Monterey, Kentucky, who is also the curator of the museum about Daniel Boone at Boonesborough.

Dana and I have talked for several years about the possibility of bartering for a painting by Irina, the extraordinary Russian artist who lives in Danville. irina.jpgRecently she chose Dana as the person to provide her personal assistance while recuperating from a broken hip. When we visited to pick out one of her works, she offered to loan me an art book from her collection. The first one I saw had КРАВЧЕНКО on the spine, a name that meant nothing to me. I thought it might be pronounced “Kravchenko,” but Irina seemed to be saying, “Kravkinkja,” so I looked inside. I was stunned by the reproductions. Who was the artist Кравченко? Without a doubt, one of the greatest Russian wood engravers of the early 20th Century.

Andante: at a walking pace

Friday, August 17th, 2007

The sense of marking time characterizes my days, although I know that personal progress is taking place. There is no standing still.

The same old angst surfaces when we purge records and remnants of past projects. What is the underlying nature of this difficulty in destroying the evidence of how I spent a portion of my life? It is not, as Dana misinterprets, an issue of trust. I trust her with vast areas of my well-being, and have for decades. Perhaps it has much more to do with what Maurice Manning touches on in his poem, A Possible Blessing:

. . . the man who understands diminishment
will lay down in his coffin from time to time
and practice disappearing, like a bug
riding a twig on a stream: a speck of un-
belonging, immersed in careless undulation.
You lose your obligation to remember,
which frees you to the quickened world of matter.

—from A Companion for Owls, 2004

Various & Sundry, part fifty-eight

Friday, July 27th, 2007

— I just had my first meeting with Maurice the Poet about my wood engraving, and it’s such a privilege to be collaborating with someone of his intense perceptions and literary abilities. Not surprisingly, I’m battling those silly old currents of inadequacy. In a moment of weakness, I told Gray I hadn’t expected to be invited in at this level for my first Larkspur commission. He let out his characteristic laugh and said, “John, there’s only one level around here!”

— Brendan must be very busy getting ready to come back to the States, but he took time to send me a cool link about Haruo Suekichi, the Japanese timepiece artist. If, like me, you’re fascinated by the creative process, the interview is full of insights. You can form your own judgments about his watches. Brendan knew I would agree with him that they’re awesome. These are watches a mad villain from The Wild Wild West would wear with sinister pride while defiantly counting off the final seconds of Jim and Artie’s lives.

— After my presentation last night before the Boyle County Planning and Zoning Commission, I believe there’s significantly better than a 50-50 chance that the authority will adopt stronger language in its Comprehensive Plan Update to acknowledge the future needs of bicyclists and pedestrians. If nothing else, the level of public awareness had been raised another big notch, and our group, B.I.K.E. | Boyle County, received a “thumbs up” from the Advocate-Messenger editorial page today.

— Anyone who knows me, knows my affection for cycling, and appreciates how much time I swipe from other activities to advocate for a more bike-accommodating Kentucky… Well, you have to read this article about a recent tragic loss in Louisville. That’s all I can write about it.

— Discovery’s Contador is now wearing the yellow jersey, leading a dispirited corps of the world’s top cyclists. It may take years for the Tour to recover from the scandalous developments of the past week. The Spaniard says he’s clean, but that’s what they all say, whether they are or not. Tomorrow’s time trial will determine the winner, but Evans and Leipheimer both are now in a position to challenge. Unfortunately, whoever wins will stand at the pinnacle of a tarnished sport. It’s nearly impossible to remain an exuberant fan of pro cycling. On the other hand, ask yourself this: What other professional sport would be willing to undergo such zero-tolerance scrutiny, and, if it were, could emerge any less ruined in the eyes of the spectator public?

17thStage.jpg

V & S

Various & Sundry, part fifty-seven

Thursday, July 19th, 2007

Brandon (not Brendan)
— Brandon mentioned me in his CAC Director’s Blog, so I seized my opportunity to yap a bit about Kurt Schwitters. I appreciate the job Brandon is doing here in Downtown Danville and I like him a lot—not because he really does understand collage, but because he’s just cool. Many moons ago, I taught a Saturday art class for children in Willmette called WeakEnds. The center there was managed by someone Joan introduced me to, a young guy named George, who was probably about the same age Brandon is now. I thought George was cool, too.

Where’s the buzz?
— Pretending like I know how to juggle, I do my best to keep as many balls as possible in the air at all times. This means continuing to promote cycling on a local, regional, and state-wide level (painfully aware that it has nothing to do with earning a living). In addition to circulating our KBBC Recommendations for 2007, I made public remarks at a local hearing before the Planning and Zoning Commission, as they prepare to adopt an updated Comprehensive Plan. I also followed up with written material to their director. To keep the community in step with emerging trends, and to boost opportunities for grants and development funding, the comp-plan requires stronger language to acknowledge the future needs of bicyclists, walkers, runners, and multi-modal users. I was told that my recommended language to beef up the transportation section has been included in the revised draft. I also used the WordPress site to set up a public forum for local advocates called B.I.K.E. buzz. It’s intended as a space to promote new ideas and stimulate communication within our community of cycling enthusiasts. So far, nobody else has made comments or posted any topics for discussion.

Brendan (not Brandon)
— Although I was a reader of Anacrusis from the beginning, I understood how great an admirer of Brendan’s prose I’d become by the end of December, 2005. Now, as a devoted follower of his remarkable site, I can witness to the progressive improvement that’s taken place over hundreds of constrained exercises. Like a literary bodybuilder, he can flex this or that and make it look too easy—make you forget the 1000+ trips to the weight room. That’s why The Implicit (a long way from The Explicit) is such a huge deal, and why I’m flattered about my small contribution to the celebration. Don’t stop. They say it all turns to flab if you stop…

Speaking of good writers…
— I feel like I’m in the middle of something much bigger than I can fully comprehend. Being asked by Gray to illustrate a Manning poem without realizing who he was or that he’d grown up in Danville. Having his mother stop me on the street and awkwardly admitting to her I hadn’t read the book of verse that won his prize from Yale. Finding myself immersed in his vivid literary visions while knowing that my deadline was looming, the remaining time relentlessly ticking away. But, on the other hand, I know things are going to work out. Engraving wood has never been about labor or struggle. It’s always been about convincing myself to trust in the outcome. Acknowledging to myself that everything I’ve learned about the essence of graphic interpretation will find its own way to fruition when I make that first mark…

V & S

Cabin Porch Musings

Friday, July 6th, 2007

The rain everyone has been yearning for,
Hours of steady, windless, perfect precipitation—
A cistern-replenishing pattern of sound above,
While gravity drums the pond surface
with its soft patter of life-giving noise,
As audible nourishment strikes every leaf,
And the random “glug” of a frog the only other
Sonic
Element.

The pleasurable glow of yesterday among friends,
Celebrating Uncle Sam’s 231st birthday
With a salmon meal of grilled Lake Huron steaks
And the delayed flash of digital device,
Capturing our toast from the guest-room doorway—
Vessels with an Australian vintner’s liquid harvest
Suspended above hot bread and a splash of
Salad
Endowment.

An interlude of relaxation at the range—
The Enfield’s .303 British cartridges alternate
With Martini brass impressive to my eye,
To satisfy a double rifle’s twin digestive tracts,
And short-clip video to simulate an extra dose
Of firing-line pressure, like the buzz of competition,
Or a sub-continental feline’s unexpected flash of
Savage
Explosion.

The odors of black powder haze and gun oil,
With a mild numbness of eardrum
To match the right shoulder’s dull ache,
Linger in a montage of memories punctuated
By the solid “plinks” of steel swingers,
And, from a hundred yards away,
The precise punch of bullseye, surprising me with
Sudden
Effusion.

Day twenty-three

Friday, March 23rd, 2007

Much to do today before we go help Bruce move home. I’ll post my weekend notes when we get back. The only entry I’ll make now is to publish a poem that cousin Dan sent to me this morning. It was written by his father—my Uncle Bob.
 

Home Schooling
      by Bob Dixon

Grandpa, teach us of truth.
I will help you study mathematics.
Is mathematics a language?
Yes, but it never speaks of good or evil.
Where shall we learn of good?
We will read poetry.
But must we not study God.
Yes, yes, we will read from the Greeks.
Is that not history?
No, I will teach you the history of your family.
But Grandpa, that is not written?
Writing destroys the sense of time passing.
So will we stop studying writing?
No, write on paper that does not endure a century.
What about the Greeks?
Their words were lost for a thousand years.
Was that bad?
Probably not, wisdom is better when it’s not seen as fact.
What about science?
Certainly you must study it, but it is always being revised.
You mean it is just theories?
No, science is about ways to make guesses about the future.
Grandpa, why do you always make us guess the answer to a problem?
We have mental processes that can not be put in words.
Is that like when people talk about art?
Exactly, or when athletes talk about playing ball.
Grandpa, have you learned much in your 70 years?
Yes, but if I told you it would be like yesterday’s ball game.
Is it sad that when you die that will all be gone?
No, you have a quarter of my genes.
But must we discover again all that you already know?
It seems that life requires refreshing everything but the bare essentials.
Does that mean having children?
No, it means having grandchildren.

      © Bob Dixon / All rights reserved.

The day’s sweet vanity

Saturday, March 17th, 2007

March experiment—day seventeen— Today has been a strange day, in a sense, full of subtle contrasts, not as I expected it to transpire, but the nets of artistic progress are full to the bursting point. I haven’t spent so many hours in a deeply intuitive mode for a very long time. The relentless momentum of decision making set the stage for many days of labor, and I was able to preserve that orientation, even though I took TV breaks to watch four different closing contests between men’s NCAA basketball teams, including one that almost went into triple overtime. All the way through this, I felt the tension born of knowing what I wasn’t doing, and, piled on that, the awareness of how odd a vein of aesthetic ore I’m mining, for God knows what reason. The more I get into this, the more I wonder what it’s all about, what part of myself I’m paying tribute to, what meaning or lack thereof I bring to others. On Saint Patrick’s Day, there isn’t a beer in the house, just the words of William Butler Yeats scratching at my soul—

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose
Perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

When all that story’s finished, what’s the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day’s vanity, the night’s remorse.

Just keep moving and don’t fret

Tuesday, March 6th, 2007

March experiment—day six— Good grief. I think I’m complicating this too much. Isn’t it just a matter of how hard I crank the pedals?

Before
enlightenment,
chop wood
and carry water.

After
enlightenment,
chop wood
and carry water.

Wu Li

Various & Sundry, part thirty-six

Saturday, April 29th, 2006

— It was a small group of local runners this morning, due to the Derby Festival in Louisville. I’m sure most of them were competing in the 13.1-miler, but my pals Don and Larry were doing the full Marathon. Mort and I did ten miles at a comfortable enough pace to talk the whole time, covering a range of subjects from mentorship, aging, rail trails, grassroots activism, minority politics, and the separation of church and state, which was a great way to start a birthday. After I got home, Lee stopped by to present her gift—a copy of The Emerald Book, which she found in her grandmother’s attic. It’s troubling to think it wasn’t so long ago that third and fourth graders were reading the poems of Shakespeare, Stevenson, Kipling, Tennyson, Coleridge, Hawthorne, Riley, and Emerson. It also contains reproductions of works by painters like Hals and Carpaccio, with short lessons in art appreciation. What happened to the idea of children having the imaginative freedom to be kids while they simultaneously advance on a gradient apprenticeship to adult culture? Instead, we have a glut of twenty-something adolescents attempting to understand the roots of Western Thought by watching a Brad Pitt movie, as primary schoolers learn that “fuck” can be either a verb, noun, or interjection. Does anyone know how we let this happen?

— Although we had a good turnout at our banquet Thursday evening, most of our strong Centre College supporters were absent because, unfortunately, we were competing with the appearance of Helen Thomas as part of their Press Distinguished Lecture Series. Not surprisingly, the veteran White House correspondent directed her criticism at the president, suggesting he follow the advice given to LBJ during Viet Nam and “Declare a victory and leave”. Please pay closer attention, Helen—that’s what our enemies may already be in the process of doing. Jordanian Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, in a desperate attempt to impede the steady rise of Iraqi democracy, revealed his appearance in a recent propaganda video. In another tape, Egyptian Ayman al-Zawahri pleaded impotently with Muslims to oppose our Arab allies, and he declared that militants have “broken the back” of the U.S.-led effort. In the face of such frantic attempts on the part of Al-Qaida to remain relevant in Iraq, now is not the time to abandon the fledgling coalition government.

— Terie and Marty came over for either a late lunch or an early dinner—not sure which—with berry pie and ice cream (I don’t do cake on April 29th, thank you). Marty described his new pc game, Rome: Total War, and we watched a classic M:I episode, “The System” (we used to call it “Johnny Costa” back in the 60s) while Dana and Terie finished the tuna melts, keeping an eye on the NFL draft at the same time. I’d already received my gifts of a wristwatch and set of Koh-I-Noor Nexis art pens from Dana. Terie and Marty surprised me with a Serenity DVD. Well, maybe my home is not a hotbed of high culture, but who can find fault with a full day of pleasurable cooleosity?

— Ok, it’s 54. Happy Birthday to me.

V & S

Your turn

Saturday, February 25th, 2006

Everyone is playing the California Game!

_ _ _

Where is Atlantis? Continent of mud.
Where is the mud? It’s buried in crud.
What is the crud? A dream in decay.
Whose dream was that? They squandered their day.
When was the day? An age of great life.
Why was it great? They abolished all strife.
Who gave it up? The creative few.
What did they make? Themselves, anew.
Where is the self? Enshrined deep within.
Why are they gone? The price of the sin.

_ _ _

Inner Storm

Sunday, January 22nd, 2006

Beyond the realm of thinking
Or mere philosophy,
You hoped to comprehend it,
Unlock reality.

The mind is much too wondrous
To squander in a rut.
You must have felt you’d find it
In your heart, bones, or gut.

“Teach a lie, conceal the whole,
And satisfy with crumbs.
Chew another piece of soul,
but let them keep their thumbs.”

Sed libera nos a malo
And tortured Gospel cries.
You always feared to swallow
Those precious infant eyes.

The pictures were too jarring,
Each time you stopped to stare.
You never thought to measure
A mother’s simple prayer.

You’ll make it through the downpour,
When you reduce your speed,
With steps the Lord will show you,
Sufficient to your need.

J A D

Magic Island

Wednesday, December 14th, 2005

I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.

Beverages included? What about spices?

Ok, ok…

If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—

Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.

And we get to share, right?

How about if we add to the game?

I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.

What three volumes would you choose?

Here are my selections—

The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.

When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.

What about you?

Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?

Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.

Hurry, but choose wisely…

Hope for the dawn

Thursday, June 9th, 2005

I saw Dr L at the Whitehouse opening, and he told me that he’s seen patients with two normal kidneys lose all renal function dealing with hemorrhagic pancreatitis. So I guess I can’t be too discouraged about
Bruce’s ongoing struggle. Tomorrow adds up to 12 weeks, and that’s enough to test anyone to their core. Danny D loaned me his copy of Dark Night of the Soul. If he thinks I need to better understand this level of suffering, he’s right.

Listen; partake not of quotations ye disdaineth, but believe

Monday, April 25th, 2005

“Every noble work is at first impossible.” —Carlyle

His transplanted kidney declared a loss, Bruce nevertheless takes up the fight.

“An enterprise, when fairly once begun, should not be left till all that ought is won.” —Shakespeare

Branches of prayer extend as the roots of the faithful deepen.

“A good intention clothes itself with power.” —Emerson

Thirty-eight days later, when renal function is restored, doctors are heard to use the word “miracle.”

“The divine insanity of noble minds, that never falters nor abates, but labors, endures, and waits, till all that it foresees it finds, or what cannot find, creates.” —Longfellow

And to top it all off, a lost hat is restored!