Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Dana recently prescribed an in-house faucet replacement, and today was the deadline.

In 1922, the Town House was a very modern residence. Featuring four bathrooms, it was meant undoubtedly to be a showcase for indoor plumbing. Fast forward to 2007, and now we face dealing with four sets of 85-year-old pipes, valves, and fixtures. Although we both detest it, Bruce has more patience when it comes to tackling this sort of thing than I do. “Kicking and screaming” barely does justice to my attitude.

Plumbing for new construction is a trade I can somewhat comprehend. On the other hand, there’s a guy out there who we almost had to call—the kind of guy who would willingly crawl under the sink of a house built when Warren G. Harding was president.

On the Saturday before Christmas.

For money.

We all recognize, humorously, that there’s a bit of the exhibitionist in most plumbers, but what kind of freakin’ masochist would make his living repairing plumbing in old houses? (Brendan might have used some variant of fuck, but, trust me, I would never allow a word like that to appear in my blog.)

A beautiful basin with a big pitcher of water—not a bad notion of civilized living—until some twisted devil invented threaded pipes and called it progress.

As I prepare to execute the portrait of Mr. Brady, I’m using every bit of illustrator’s trickery that I have, especially the old illusion where I convince myself that I know how to paint. The facial study and color rendering are both finished, but I hesitate to commence the final piece without a reaction from Mrs. Brady. I suppose the typical fine artist would plunge ahead, but I’m too accustomed to a process that involves client interaction.

I haven’t devoted much time to anything else over the past week, other than some Christmas decorating and our annual Clan\Power bell-ringing contribution to the Liberty kettle campaign. We covered all ten hours, with the nastiest weather staying north for the day, thankfully. I couldn’t hang around town all day, unlike past years, so Rita and Seth were the only members of the family I got to see. They both looked great. It fills me with anticipation for Christmas Eve Stew at the Hall.

The overall Salvation Army fundraising effort for our five-county area of service is running behind where we were at this time last year, and it’s difficult to put a finger on the reasons. I think the Liberty kettles are doing fine, but the big difference is the Wal-Mart locations in Danville. Marty and I rang for a couple hours in front of the grocery entrance and it did seem less active that in the past. The Advocate-Messenger is sponsoring an online kettle that anyone can use to make a contribution to our local campaign, so maybe that will kick in during the closing days. The Captains are optimistic that the community will come through to meet the goal. It always has.

On Sunday I called Barefoot, my best chum from high school, and, because I hadn’t spoken to him since summer, I found myself giving a “state of the life” summary. It made me feel ill at ease. I can’t understand why. And yet I believe that my household has successfully crossed a challenging divide. Perhaps it’s taken so long that I’ve forgotten how to be at peace. If so, it’s the perfect season to work on that. Father, grant me the peace of Christ, Your newborn Son, who fulfills every requirement.

Tomorrow is a new day in the studio, and all shall be well.

(Of course I don’t know how to paint. Only Andrew Wyeth does.)

With only 12% of the precincts tallied, Dana and I knew there was no Fletcher Miracle in the making, so we found a secluded table at Woody’s lounge to mourn the end of an era. After she ate her once-a-year plate of comfort fries and I cried in my Guinness, we both had it out of our systems. If you pay attention to politics for very long, you come to understand it’s just a big pendulum, and it will always be that way. Nevertheless, that doesn’t make it feel any better when things are no longer swinging in your direction.

I’ve shrugged off the disappointment of not having my design chosen for the new library logo, and continue to be excited about the expansion taking place across Broadway. When I assess the daily progress from the vantage of our upstairs bathroom window, my memory skips back to the 1960s. We used to ride our bikes a mile or so toward town to watch the construction of a large electric-power substation on Tipp-Cowlesville Road. It’s not surprising that the rhythmic coordination of massive earth-moving equipment was fascinating to a youthful male. However, at the time, it was just another element of relentless change that I was observing firsthand, most notably the steady development of Dixonwood, our family property on Shoop Road. Clearly, much was churning in America during those years, but I didn’t sense the powerful shifts taking place in the larger culture as much as I had the perception of personally hurtling through rapid change in my own physical and emotional existence. It’s wild enough to be an adolescent, but to experience it as a “new kid” in a more sophisticated community, just as all the norms of social interaction were being questioned or summarily discarded… Before long, nothing seemed to be immune from total scrutiny, and the pace of upheaval that was accelerating month by month was rippling over my life like the waves of an incoming tide. Indeed, it was a “radical” period during which to come of age. Similar to those who had The Great Depression or The War eclipse their years as a teen, the cultural meltdown of the 60s was a fact of life, and you were just there in the midst of it, living it a day at a time, unaware of how it could have been any different. I haven’t come close to sorting through it all, and, perhaps, I never can nor shall.

— Month of September workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-10; Run-5; Lift-7; Yoga-0; Pilates-2

— My exercise regimen is starting to come back into balance after a mighty season of cycling. The Wednesday evening rides are winding down. This week we barely got in a 20-miler before the light failed. Ernst and I managed an all-out sprint battle down Lebanon Road as a final salute to summer, but I still didn’t have enough to best him. It was a nice kicker to Sunday’s long ride. Although it was more windy than we expected, I got in a total of 60 miles, after I split off from the “Bardstown-to-Berea Century” group at Burgin. Ernst and the others continued east for the full 100. On another note, I’m making good on a challenge to myself by tackling the Tuesday-Thursday Pilates class at Centre. If I stick it out, I’ll eventually file an official report in this space.

— A huge Website proposal has kept us busy in the studio for a week or so, although I did temporarily fall under the spell of Ken Burns and watched a few series pilots, too (I may stick with a couple new shows if they aren’t yanked). For many years, Dana and I maintained a standard policy of refusing to propose visual concepts on a speculative basis. First of all, it seemed rather presumptuous to offer design solutions without adequate research and client consultation. Beyond that, it also seemed an unfair expectation—asking us to render our core creative service before making a commitment to hire us. Well, unfortunately, we’ve had to discard that practice during our lingering project drought, even though these types of competitive appraisals rarely involve comparing apples to apples. These days, everyone wants to shop for ideas and low fees, and it’s getting harder to remember when we could get retained strictly on the basis of our qualifications and past honors. It’s just one more aspect of our industry that’s changed radically in the new century. Many of the others are equally distressing. Meanwhile, I navigate the choppy waters and avoid hair dye, unlike Creed at Dunder Mifflin.

— Arts Across Kentucky finally updated its site with the fall issue, but offers no peek at my featured work. I continue to rotate layerist collages at the “Tree” without my first score. Wilma accepted my Band Festival painting at her new gallery on Main Street, and I’m optimistic about the potential for a sale. The “Egg” is the best downtown enhancement of the year, but the most exciting news item is the recent decision by Larkspur to upgrade the Manning job to a book project, with my most recent wood engraving, “Boss’s Bucket,” as the frontispiece illustration.

— Bruce has improved dramatically since he came home to Danville six months ago. The imminent surgery is a good measure of his progress, although the side-effects of dialysis are a continuous challenge for him. He’s able to exercise increasingly, and is much more energetic on a daily basis, both mentally and physically. To see him helping with the household drudgery, building a routine of creative writing, working on his car, composing letters to the newspaper, and more actively moving around the community is deeply satisfying to witness.

V & S

Although I’m actually sitting in my studio with fingers on keyboard, I’m not really here at all. In my mind I’m running across the state-owned meadows of Kentucky School for the Deaf, under the patchy morning sunlight of late September. The characteristics of the season remind me of my high-school cross-country days, but soon I’m catapulted back in memory even more. For the countless time in my life, I breath in the fragrance of fresh-cut hay.

The smell of hay… I’m an elementary-schooler once again, playing with my friend David Silknetter in the barn at his family’s farm on Route 48, just north of the old water-wheel landmark. Remembering Silknetter is to relive the angst of accepting and defending his childish fantasies, and to make the painful choice between placing trust in a friend or in family. It is foolish to believe these early experiences fundamentally shape our character, but naive to think they do not have some kind of influence. For me it came at a crossroads of my sense of the “world out there.”

“Real life” outside the nuclear-family nest was intriguing in part because it seemed more than a bit dangerous, and David’s appeal was his smug disregard for the forbidden. Part of the lure of building bale forts in his barn loft was linked to the stories of kids suffocating when their improvised warren collapsed. Certainly the smell of hay was the last sensation of their brief, tragic lives. I could scoff at such hazards by trusting David’s construction skill and his brilliant idea of positioning the deepest chamber next to a supply of air and light—the largest knot-hole in the barn siding. My trust would be well placed. Or would it?

When I came to accept my family’s conviction that Silknetter lied to me about his secret machine that wrote down the name of anyone who discovered our hay-bale tunnel, it was clear I would never play with him again, and the exposure of his deception would mean that he had no choice but to mark me as his enemy. Hadn’t I betrayed his confidence? How much do these formative judgments affect our evolving sense of the external world, the nature of human relationships, the relative surmountability of life’s dilemmas, and the stability of “things as they are?” Yes, I understood that the pitfalls of life were realities unconnected to Whittlin’ Jake’s puppet shows, or the nightly Old-West perils of a television backlot. The messy business of choosing new friends and confronting the unknown was real, of course, and part of a world that appeared, to a developing degree, forebodingly unpredictable. Boyhood imagination about such things can be a rabid creature when infected by rumors and fragments of truth… Or unexpected developments—like the time John Herman threatened to beat me up if my brothers continued to laugh at him. And they continued to laugh at him. It was a known fact that the real world had its share of John Hermans, and that rural existence was filled with grim eventualities. The Iddings boy had two fingers and a thumb chewed off by a corn-picker mechanism. A local farmer, a family acquaintance, had accidentally killed his own son when the youngster fell off the back of his tractor and under a hay mower. I eavesdropped with astonishment when the older boys talked about how Elwood’s brother had ”half his head blown off” in a shotgun mishap.

During those years I probably reached a turning point of which I was not consciously aware. In other words, which perspective seemed more inviting to me—the hidden potential of taking on the outer world, or the possibilities of fashioning a plastic inner world? How did I prefer to risk my creativity? When mixed with the harsh moral instruction and institutional propaganda of the 1950s, is it surprising that I found less comfort in the mode of an extrovert? Is it difficult to understand why I chose internal family mythology over practical community engagement, Hollywood over literary realism, art over science, seat-of-the-pants intuition over sober accountability? Or, had my gears been calibrated and set in motion long before? Was I already imprinted by an invisible heritage to turn and grind a particular way?

Oldenday…

Call it Nine-One-One
— Needless to say, our wedding anniversaries now tend to start out with a somber mood, but that’s just part of being an American, so we put it aside to begin our own joyous observance. We took a nice drive up Highway 33 after stopping at Shaker Village and then spent part of the day in Midway, where I made arrangements for the Damselfly gallery to display my wood engravings. We enjoyed the sunny afternoon together and had a delicious dinner at the Heirloom restaurant. In downtown Lexington we discovered the same spot that Dana’s parents stood for a wedding photo, when they eloped to Lexington many years ago. Several times, leading up to the event, we talked about having a picture made on our milestone day, but we didn’t even have a camera with us, so we had dessert, did a bit of shopping at Wild Oats, and then headed home.

Lalo the Magnificent
— Joan paid a visit and made a closing installment of anniversary gifts, even though she’d given us a new Mhing game back at the Seitz Reunion. She told me about the recent NPR interview with Schifrin. My favorite part was when the interviewer asked how he was able to move effortlessly from one type of music to another. Describing himself as a “chameleon,” he said he can do it because he’s able to see the “essence” of each form. That idea speaks powerfully to me.

Lust for Lit
— To have discovered the joy and consolation of literature at this stage of life is an unexpected blessing. I recently read my first story by Paul Horgan. Joan gave me a copy of Flannery O’Connor writings. Both are masters of the short story who happen to have been Catholic. A good friend of artist Peter Hurd (brother-in-law of Andrew Wyeth), Horgan also created little hand-made library-card pockets that now sell to collectors for $500 each. He died in 1995. I don’t know anything yet about O’Connor, but I read one of her stories and found it interesting, but just a bit creepy.

Lucky’s Day Wasn’t Lucky’s Lucky Day
— I didn’t even know about Smoked Mullet until the recent BillyBlues concert at the Constitution Square Festival. James and Susan urged us to come back and catch Aaron’s performance the next day. He’s obviously looking for that elusive “hit” for which nearly all young songwriters yearn. It reminds me of my conversations with Danny D about his long haul through the music industry. Danny hit paydirt overnight when he wasn’t much older than Aaron; he hasn’t seen anything quite like it since. I also remember how a friend of mine from Yellow Springs watched his son go to Nashville to strike gold, only to see him throw away the whole opportunity when the lad couldn’t steer clear of the whiskey bottle.

Kelly Watch
— Urban Picnic received a slideshow highlight by The New York Times, and the young talent from Danville was mentioned by name. Not bad. She’s one to keep watching.

Still Crankin’ Forward
— I’ve been ingrained with the committee approach through my board service and community involvement (Band Festival, Chamber of Commerce, Salvation Army, Rotary Club, etc.), but I’ve picked up resistance about going that direction with the B.I.K.E. group. The “c-word” doesn’t seem to have taken hold as a positive idea. Too many meetings. Perhaps a more workable approach is to have a volunteer “project manager” for each objective. Those people can “take ownership,” rally a few helpers to move the ball, and then get back to the steering group with a progress report. The whole thing reminds me too much of the foundering honcho system within the Dixon Clan Council. Hopefully Mombo’s new trust will be a better context for a workable committee arrangement. To be honest, I have diminishing enthusiasm for attempting to structure the cycling-advocacy team. I’d rather devote myself to individual creative and lobbying efforts, like our area master plan, a “share the road” promotional effort, and the planned multi-use trail along the new bypass connector. Although we’ve made some great progress, I’m somewhat weary after 18 months at the helm. I’d like to see a different leader with more management skill to succeed. This would free me up to work on actual projects instead of administration. Meanwhile, the need for studio activity outweighs all these other considerations. Where’s that old Graybeard when we need him?

V & S

Local headline:
Library offers $1000 for winning logo

What’s next?
Patient offers $1000 for winning diagnosis
—or—
Defendant offers $1000 for winning defense

I laughed back in the 70s when one of my UC professors proposed that graphic designers, like architects, be licensed by the state.

Need a Website?
You can get one from this chicken farmer.
—or—
Maybe you’re a chicken farmer, but can’t design.
—or—
Wait, you just need to look at an award-winning Website!

Hey, I’ll just change the name of our studio:

Dixon Design and Live Bait

So, you think this entry is a big joke?

Who’s laughing?
I’m being swallowed by a black hole of insignificance, as my achievements are being ascribed to an impostor.

AAAA-i-i-i-i-i-EE-EE-EE ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

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

Oh, Johnny… no Johnny…
— Although I never did go out to Pioneer Playhouse for the closing performance (to roll the dice and hope for a Johnny Crawford sighting), we did make the last showing of Raintree County at DHS. Well, it stunk as bad as I was afraid it might, except for Lee Marvin, who admirably carried every scene they put him in. I even found the bull-whip sequence a let-down. I’m not sure Mombo thought it was that good either, knowing she would use GWTW as her standard of comparison. There are numerous reasons why this expensive production flopped fifty years ago, but the list starts with 1) Lousy Screenplay. The only way they could have made this picture more disappointing would have been to ask Monty Clift to take off his shirt. Nevertheless, plenty of people around town knocked themselves out to put on the anniversary festival. It would’ve been more than worth it had Eva Marie decided to make an appearance, but she wrote organizers and said she couldn’t. I did enjoy watching her on a big screen and imagining her time on location in Danville. ”Old-timers” all say she was just as sweet as Taylor was aloof. In any case, I’ve decided that if I ever get a custom phone tone, I want to have a Raintree recording of Eva Marie saying, “Johnny… Oh, Johnny!”

Hurry! Hurry! Step right up!
— Don’t know yet if the new issue of Arts Across Kentucky has been published yet, but I managed to get my revisions to our studio Website uploaded this morning. To somebody else, it may look as though I’m comfortable when tooting my own horn. Self-promotion is something I can’t avoid, but it’s never felt natural to me. I’d always rather be pitching someone or something else. I figured that eventually the output would sell itself, but, sadly, it doesn’t work that way.

Bay-bo smile
to the rescue
— Recently broken hearts were soothed when new pictures of “Baby Molina” arrived. Everyone in my Clan already knows that the birth mother of the second hoped-for child made a decision to withdraw from the adoption process. Many of the indicators were suggesting that might happen, but it doesn’t make it any less painful for Janet and Jerome. No matter how philosophical I try to be, my soul aches for them.

V & S

— 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?

V & S

part two

I know I have a very selective memory. That’s probably both a good and a bad thing. On the one hand, it’s not difficult for me to put unpleasant things out of mind. On the other hand, it’s not difficult for me to put just about anything out of mind. Dana thinks that I have a propensity to make things up in order to compensate for a memory bank like Swiss cheese. It’s not that simple actually. All my memories seem valid to me, even the ones that apparently never happened. And when stressful things occur like what took place last Friday—thinking we’d lost Walie before she turned up at the animal shelter—it gets flushed almost instinctively. Joan’s recent mention of it at her MO-JO site took me by surprise. Apparently I forget things really fast! That’s why journaling comes so naturally for me. I’ve relied on it my entire adult life as a back-up memory. I believe I get it from Mombo, an incurable chronicle-keeper, too. That’s not to say I tend to forget my emotions in the same manner. I struggle at times to figure out why I’m in a sour mood. I can’t recall the negative stimulus, but “forgot” to jettison the associated emotion at the same time. Pretty strange. I won’t even begin to go into discussing my dreams. That’s another story and big waste of time. And so why am I rambling on about this? Just preparing to recollect some things worth remembering from the last week, but, as I said yesterday, I failed to make any notes. Just about the only fearful aspect of blogging is knowing this about myself and realizing I might be leaving important things out—not because they have any true significance in the grand scheme, but because someone who follows this log may find the omission hurtful.

• Festival Saturday
Saturday started early at the Town House. As Dana continued to work away at picnic preparations, I planted flowers and did the annual June clean-up outside. As usual, it caused me to think of “raking the tackle-pits at dawn,” and other narrative allusions to The Legend. That’s just typical me. We were able to take a break for the Atlanta Trumpet Ensemble at the Courthouse bandstand before it was time to mount our picnic table set-up in front of the main stage. In addition to Terie and Marty, David and Lee joined us, plus the family of our new clients, John and Vi. Guest artist Phil Smith was absolutely extraordinary, and both Vince and George were inducted into the GABBF Hall of Fame, the Festival’s highest honor. After all these years of having a table, we continued to score a superb central position near the stage, but this time the amplification seemed a bit too much. I don’t remember being bothered about the volume in the past (oh, let’s not revisit that memory thing again), but we put up with it until the last act. Joan was out and about and she came to the table later for a glass of vino, but, before that, we saw each other at the marketplace tent. I was disappointed to discover that the gold pins had already sold out. Now, due to my procrastination, I’d have to wait for a re-order.

• Morning Bike Ride
Sunday morning arrived quickly and I was the first to show up at Danville Bike and Footwear to greet participants in the first Brass Band Festival bicycle ride. I was eager to see if my new idea would bear some some fruit. Two out-of-town couples brought their bikes for the advertised ride and we had a decent turnout of locals for what will be remembered as the inaugural event. After an hour or so in the countryside, we rolled to Centre’s campus for the traditional Community Worship Service. The weather was perfect. How many communities in America can produce such a high-level music festival, keep all the concerts free of charge, and include an out-of-doors, music-filled, ecumenical church service, too? It still astonishes me. Afterwards, I made my way over to the marketplace and learned that a few unsold pins had surfaced overnight. Slipping my pal Harlan a five, I managed to get an example of my 2007 design and keep the pin collection up to date.

• Festival Sunday
After all the energy of the previous days and a successful bike ride under my belt, I was at the point in the Festival when I could just take it easy and enjoy the music. Sunday afternoon on the grass might be my favorite part of the annual weekend, and I couldn’t wait for it. Dana, Lee, and I put together a simple picnic of leftovers and toasted the day with a cold Stella before heading over to campus for the final hours of glorious sound. As usual, I kicked back with my shoes off and my pin-hat down over my eyes, drifting in and out of a lazy nap while the bands played. When favorite soloists came forward, I grabbed our camera and hugged the front of the stage like it was my personal work zone. The satisfying musical peaks of Festival Sunday convince me that all my hours of studio effort over the months are worth it. Multiply that by hundreds of other volunteers and you’ll begin to understand how this event has thrived for 18 years and shows no signs of doing anything but solidifying as one of Kentucky’s summer highlights.

I rode my mountain bike out to the cabin this morning for Shared Silence again. Dan W and I put in some saddle time afterwards, and it was a good workout. So now I’ve ridden almost 90 miles on knobby tires this spring in preparation for the road-bike season. I know, way behind schedule, but I’ve been convinced it was prudent this year to make sure my conditioning and balance were in better shape before I clipped into the pedals on “Teeka-Hindoh,” my Peugeot racer.

We had our Mother’s Day follow-up After Silence. I forgot to bring a picture of Mombo, probably because I was getting ready to leave on my bicycle. Obviously, when this idea of talking about our mothers came up, it never occurred to me that she might be in the hospital. When it was my turn, it was a bit difficult to get started, and I was nervous, but I didn’t choke up. It seemed like everyone else has extraordinary mothers, too—not perfect—but special. Not surprising, since these are some of the best people I’ve met in my life. Exceptional people usually have exceptional mothers.

I’m not in the business of comparing my siblings to each other, but more than once in recent years I’ve had the realization that the one person who reminds me most of my mom is my sister Jeanne. That, in combination with a recent conversation (about how much Jeanne has taken the lead in being there for Mombo over the past ten days), got me to thinking more about my kid sister—our “Pinkie.”

Growing up, “Little Jinny” was a kid sister, too. Both have keen perceptions and a deep faith. Jeanne almost matched her mom’s family of seven children. Like our mother, Jeanne is shy about her feelings when among others, reluctant to be critical, but quick with laughter, and nobody’s fool. She has devoted her life to her husband and family.

But Jeanne reminds me of our father, too. She carries many aspects of Dadbo’s temperament. Like him—and I’ll be brutally honest—she hasn’t always chosen the best way to manage her stress. She’s not alone in that. With Mombo’s heart condition, the evidence is now abundantly clear. Cardiovascular disease runs on both sides of our immediate heritage. Dadbo gave away so much of his magnanimous heart that, in the end, there weren’t enough beats left for himself. “Generous to a fault” is the expression. My little sis is similarly self-sacrificing, and it makes me love her so—but it worries me.

I’m also like that man I was named after. I worry about things.

Start riding a bike, too, Pinkie. I promise I’ll be there.

Dana took Bruce to St. Joseph on Monday for surgery on his arm that would facilitate extended dialysis. Unfortunately, his potassium level was too high, so he stayed until the following day. He had two dialysis treatments (Monday/Tuesday), and then he was in shape to get the procedure. It was a blessing that the surgeon found a way to work on the problematic left side. Bruce had been very reluctant to condone any vascular manipulation of his good right arm.

We broke away from Danville to be with Bruce after his surgery, and then got the good news that he was being discharged. It was complicated for me, because I was trying to remotely handle authorization for necessary revisions to the Band Festival poster, and also make sure the proof got back to Louisville. After we left St. Joe, it was time to pay a visit to Mombo over at Central Baptist. Both Jeanne and Joan were there.

Joan had already told us about the setback on Monday when Mombo’s heart rhythm became erratic. Dr. Martin said it happens in 25% of cases. They put her back on an IV and stabilized with medication. According to Joan, “She got a pretty African violet plant from the Gels Family. Many friends and family members have been by to see her, and she has had some welcome phone calls. She has been pretty wheezy, so they took x-rays,” which indicated fluid in her left lung. My mom told Joan she can feel the power of the prayers on her behalf.

We had a nice visit, but this is the part of the saga when my awe of modern surgical technique collapses into misgivings about extended stays in the hospital environment. Having just read Gladwell’s chapter on the powerful influence of context, from The Tipping Point, didn’t calm my apprehension. She doesn’t seen to have any appetite for hospital food, and she’s struggling with the motivation to get out of bed and walk. Mombo needs adequate care in recovery, but I can’t help but wonder how much the simple fact of just being in a hospital room can adversely affect a patient’s sense of well-being and resistance to potential complications.

I want Mombo out of that place as soon as possible…

Everything felt rotten today. Terie went to the ER with severe spinal pain, and Bruce almost ended up there, too. I was stressed out anyway, because I’ve been trying to get the Band Festival poster to the printer for the past three days. There were last-minute revisions to the sponsor list, plus I’ve had pressing commercial deadlines rubbing my nerves raw. A local reporter keeps calling about doing a feature on my painting, Spellbound By Brass. In a momentary lapse of discipline I say, “If I don’t get this poster right, there will be nothing to toot my horn about.”

Damn… tripped up again by an illusion of chaos and the sense of disorder. Ralph Waldo reminds me that, ”There is no chance, and no anarchy, in the universe. All is system and gradation.” I must believe it’s true, even on days like today. I must have full faith in a divine order—the reality and foundation that underlies this “kingdom of illusions.” I must never think I’m too busy not to keep this reality before me, hour by hour. “Whatever games are played with us,” Emerson writes, “we must play no games with ourselves, but deal in our privacy with the last honesty and truth… and taste the real quality of existence, as in our employments, which only differ in the manipulations, but express the same laws; or in our thoughts, which wear no silks, and taste no ice-creams.” Why is it so difficult for me to “see God face to face every hour, and know the savor of Nature” when in the jaws of masticating days such as these—not on a day when it’s easy, but on a day when it matters?

This line of thinking takes me back to my birthday, flying from Dallas to Detroit, unable to pull my eyes away from the images far below my window’s point of view. I was expecting to review my notes from three days of high-intensity exposure to powerful speakers, significant motivators all, but I couldn’t ignore the sights under the speeding craft, the living plains and wooded river bottoms as we crossed the heart of my beloved motherland. I could see the hand of Nature in the centuries-old patterns of meandering watercourses and how the farmers had endeavored to exploit the riches of her fertile, changing designs—everywhere, the evidence of God’s magnificent Kosmos, and it caused my soul to sing. It triggered previous experiences of knowing what is real, in contrast to what I’ve conditioned myself over my life to think is real. I wanted to have that profound knowledge stay with me always, but I recognized it would pass, so I tried to hold on to one point of reality that might “stick” with me—that I am loved, that I can love in return, and that I can be in that reality no matter what is going on around me, no matter what conditions or circumstances challenge my thoughts or emotions. I wondered if I could hold on to that idea, and not fail to safeguard it, as Tolstoy’s Olenin had failed when he returned from nature to the Cossack village. And so I prayed, as I watched America sliding by, knowing there would be times like now, when my resilience to illusion would be shallow in the face of daily influences.

What should people in our situation do when a client turns “icky?” How does one balance a professional independence earned through years of effort with the pressing need to build more business?

Not an easy decision . . .

just took on more “ownership” of cycling advocacy at the state level — don’’t think about it — too much to accomplish before we fly to Texas — don’t doubt yourself — missing Hurray Day with my Clan — don’t fret about it — haven’t gone to the gym in a week — do some pushups — can’t think of titles that will help sell my art — don’t fear the unknown — grass is still growing — just mow, dammit

— Dana and I had an interesting conference yesterday. We met a guy at a Starbucks in Lexington, unsure about exactly how his role dovetailed with our new project for ftb-automotive. We thought he might be a bedroom Web designer, and he turned out to be a top executive with HOST Communications, one of the most prominent providers of interactive services in Central Kentucky. You never know.

— The Arts Across Kentucky deal came through, and I was able to get a drum-scan of my Band Festival poster art in time to touch it up and forward it on to the magazine for today’s deadline. Dana took time to revise my biographical profile, and it’s almost beginning to sound halfway credible.

— NBC makes episodes of its series available online, so Dana and I just had to watch the season closer for “FNL” that we missed on her birthday. Even though it was inside a little box, and the video was kinda jerky and crude, and I was listening with cheap headphones, the finale choked me up. Peter Berg’s extraordinary show has me totally captivated. Now I’’ll be on edge ’til I find out if it gets picked up for a second year.

— This weekend is David’s scheduled event at the Simpson Range—his .310 Cadet and British Single Shot Sporting Rifle Matches. I’ll be combining some business with pleasure, and it’s certain to be a great time, but I have to admit I’m getting a bit concerned about how many days I have left to prepare for KOSMOS.

V & S

March experiment—day twenty-seven— The morning began early, with Bruce needing to start his first Danville dialysis treatment at 6:30 am, but it was already obvious that the March Experiment was on life support. Whether I had it in me to shift from the grueling pace of the Indiana move to my ambitious studio checklist was up in the air. I was just about to declare to myself that the whole thing was “oh-vah,” but then thought I deserved one last effort at re-imposing the exercise, so I picked the most difficult thing I could think of to self-assign—complete my intimidating graphic interpretation of cornetist Vince DiMartino for the Band Festival merchandise. It’s a style of symbolic abstraction that is commonly seen, but often poorly executed. Although I’ve previously pulled it off with reasonable competency, to be honest, it’s a style I’ve never come close to mastering. Nevertheless, I attacked the demanding project, overcoming waves of doubt and discomfort, fighting computer crashes, and dealing with a steady stream of interruptions. And the result? Others will be the judge, but the Experiment is still alive, by Jove!

Today’s sight bite— The enormous black crow, perching high in our “Simon Kenton” maple—c-l-i-c-k—as I wonder if his rhythmic caw is laughter, mocking my insane pursuit, or a series of congratulatory salutes.

Tomorrow— Testing an invigorated schedule and the desire to persevere…

Terie, Marty, Dana, and I (plus Walie) travelled together to Indianapolis on Saturday. Bruce had dialysis in the afternoon, but he was home by the time we picked up the box-van rental and arrived as his place. When I saw the condition of the contents in the mobile home, including the state of unreadiness in the bedroom, and the storage shed, too, my mind raced with frantic calculations of time and labor. I struggled with myself to avoid the brink of panic. Inside I was almost like Heston’s Taylor when he cried,

     

“It’s a madhouse!”  
 

March experiment—day fifteen— I was able to take care of my physical fatigue with a good night’s sleep below an open window. I needed to find another way—perhaps not as foolproof—to deal with my mental weariness, and so we watched a DVD that Terie had recommended, Stranger than Fiction. It’s an exceptionally good motion picture and hits rather close to home for me. I’m feeling a bit disappointed about learning that another company is abandoning one of the well-recognized logos we designed in the 90s. On the other hand, I’m happy about Hayley’s honor. The director of our Community Arts Center abruptly resigned, so I’m concerned about how that will effect my scheduled one-man show in May. My dear friend Shirley C sent me an email today with news that her husband’s 48-year-old son died unexpectedly. It’s important for me to transcend these emotional cross-currents and maintain focus on the goals I’ve laid out for this month.

Today’s sight bite— Abstract patterns on the natatorium ceiling pass by—c-l-i-c-k—gliding, drifting, fading above my backstroke—as devoid of meaning as the non-thoughts in my mind.

Tomorrow— Bump the cadence, just like I’ve done when running negative splits in a 5,000-meter race…

March experiment—day fourteen— Various difficulties made for a challenging day. No cause for alarm; I just don’t have the energy to write about it tonight. On top of that, I’ve been worrying more than a bit about the quality of some of my ideas, and—wouldn’t you know it—I encounter this statement from one of the most successful artists of my lifetime…

“Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and work.”

— Chuck Close

March experiment—day eleven— After we got home last night from our enjoyable date, I discovered a “giganto” wood box by the garage, plus a message from Joan on our machine. Joe definitely had an eye for cool boxes. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for their potential to be exploited artistically was not matched by the ability to accomplish everything I set out for myself this weekend. I won’t go into the reasons, but most of them can be cured by adequate rest and some mid-course corrections in my goal setting. A possible analogy could be, “My eyes are too big for my stomach,” if you follow me, but I’m not sure it fits. There’s something to be said for avoiding late-night analysis. I’m giving this my best effort, so I’ll take a fresh look at my game plan in the morning. Too easy for thoughts to turn negative when on the brink of exhaustion.

Today’s sight bite— As we travel east on Lancaster road toward Mack’s cabin, a fiery orb burns through the horizon—c-l-i-c-k—with the realization that I would’ve missed a spectacular image without the clock change that I’d just been belly-aching about.

Tomorrow— A top-to-bottom evaluation should provide opportunities for creative synthesis…

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

March experiment—day five— After a Sunday break, I struggle to dominate the desired level of focus at the heart of the exercise. Rest is important, but I shouldn’t have to learn all of last year’s lessons over again. I’m not happy about my productivity today, but I’d best not stress about it. Perhaps there’s something important to learn about maintaining the essential inner momentum, even when the outer goings-on don’t match the prescribed agenda—for example, this morning’s distractions with a plumber down the hall, and my unforeseen but necessary email replies. Tonight’s Mozart at Newlin Hall is not on my checklist either, but if I’m receptive, it may prove more inspiring than a full box of collage scrap.

Today’s sight bite— Ancient trees in McDowell Park—c-l-i-c-k—engraved by sunrise against a blue sky.

Tomorrow— Making up for a bit of lost time…

Last evening, just as I was preparing to depart for a key presentation to the Danville City Commission, Dana was coming up the stairs and hurt the knee she’s been carefully nursing for a month or more. It was weird to leave the house with her sitting on the floor, the painful joint bundled in ice packs.

In my remarks, I provided a formal introduction to B.I.K.E. | Boyle County and our organization’s purpose and priorities. This was the fourth meeting of the newly composed city government. My friends Bill S and Dave A followed, summarizing our infrastructure recommendations and the diverse benefits of creating a bicycle-friendly community. The Commission voted unanimously to approve the “Safe Routes to School” grant application that we developed in collaboration with the city manager. As we approach the first anniversary of our local group, it was a great milestone for our pro-cycling advocacy.

When I got home I realized that Dana’s injury had taken a turn for the worse, so we decided to listen to Hayley’s tournament game on the radio instead of traveling to Garrard County. The Lady Rebels crushed cross-town rival Danville, with our amazing Belle putting the game out of reach in the second quarter (after a slow start). She ended up scoring 25 points, with a strong free-throw percentage.

Dana is heading down to Campbellsville with Terie to see Jerome this morning, and I’m praying for the best diagnosis. Whatever happens, she’ll be dedicating herself to a natural recovery, and I’ll do everything I can to help out along the way.

Early childhood accumulation is the most authentic form of collecting—that first little box or drawer with trinkets to stimulate the bud of imagination. Certain special shards of quartz from your “rock store” just couldn’t be carelessly tossed back into the driveway gravel, could they? When it came to postcards or match-packs, adults would facilitate, but most likely it wasn’t their idea at the outset. Not all children collect, but for many of us, the desire was innate. What was it about that hoard of popsicle sticks or milk-jug caps that gave us a tingle of satisfaction? It was only a small step of forward progress to coins, stamps, baseball cards, books, antique tools, vintage toys, etcetera. Or was it the opposite of progress? Some types of collections made you feel “big,” but now I am, and everywhere in the world of grownups are admonishments to clean up the mess, downsize, and banish your clutter. I caught a few minutes of Dr. Phil the other day, apparently a whole program about the dysfunctional pack-rat, in which the message was unequivocal—needing to keep all that junk is the latest fear-based personality disorder.

Well, maybe it is, but I was happy to recently discover the other side of the spectrum with In Flagrante Collecto, Professor Marilynn Gelfman Karp’s fascinating, richly illustrated treatise on our essential impulse to acquire—the rare, the strange, the unsung, and the incidental. How, as a life-long collector, she’s found the ability to survey the topic with such intelligent objectivity is quite remarkable to me. She defines six shared traits among all collectors:

1) Unquestionable Dominion • the total mastery of your self-defined territory.

2) Hands-On Gratification • the satisfying communion with your booty.

3) Empowerment by Delimitation • the boundaries and criteria of allowable desire.

4) Hunting and Gathering • the fulfillment of discernment plus the exhilaration of the quest.

5) Possession • the self-affirming ownership of historical era by osmosis.

6) Husbanding and Transference of Characteristics • the salient attributes of the collection which accrue to the collector.

Her bottom-line assessment is that “loving the unloved is the purest state of collecting from which all collectors’ motives may be deduced. An object of material culture is any object that a person deems worthy of collecting.”

I suppose most of us who face piles of stuff fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum between connoisseur and cripple. So the question remains—what do I do with all of it? Much has no intrinsic value and begs to be pitched (if it isn’t actually begging, then my patient mate surely is). To me, it’s an archival record of what has appealed to heart, head, and hand throughout my life. Ah, precisely… there’s the source of its abiding interest to me. It represents the creative opportunity to organize, process, synthesize, repurpose, and present to others a “culminating artifact” that maybe, just maybe, will achieve some level of extrinsic value greater than its inherent nature as a sum of overlooked ingredient elements.

Will that make it art? It’s worth a try…

Olden…

Yesterday my favorite big sis had her birthday, and I won’t comment about whether I think she’s officially “pushin’ 60” or not, but I need to confess that one of my hand-made greeting cards was not among her collection this year.

When I made the decision to cut back the activity at John’s HAUS of CARDS, I figured I’d still be making my originals for family, but the redeployment of my creative resources has decimated the old HAUS far more than I ever expected, and I miss that time spent meditating on my loved ones. I haven’t found a happy medium yet, but I must, because I’ve always refused to do store-bought cards. I can’t start now—not at my age…

Of course, this is a nontrivial matter. An artist can take many paths, and most of them will cross minefields of egocentricity. I’ll need to be on guard as I make my shift from a gift orientation to this new focus on personal artistic goals. I believe it will all balance out over time, but there are sure to be some pitfalls ahead. What appeals to me about the “Layerist Premise” is the emphasis on connectedness and a holistic perspective. Much of the art in my life has been in service to a specific recipient or client. I must take the positive aspects of that motivational framework and merge them with an effort to evolve my own voice, to avoid the undesirable side effects of self-absorption so prevalent in the world of art.

Hey, enough of that— My valentine sweetie awaits!

I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.

My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.

My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.

Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?

Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:

You can seek your life to find

Answers that satisfy your mind,

But Jesus spared your life by giving his,

And, Brother— That’s all there is.

We keep death close by—in our literature, art, news, and entertainment… perhaps most of all, in our humor. We tame it, sterilize it, and box it, so we can sprinkle it like black pepper for a bit of “zing” on the tongue each day. Death is like fire—interesting to watch in a fireplace, safe and familiar at the tip of a waxy stem, but when it decides to run its own course, it can be frightening and devastating, quickly rendering almost anything hideously unrecognizable. When it slips its leash, death’s bite is excruciating, and the pain lasts a very long time.

Martin joined the Wednesday bike ride tonight, and I heard myself utter the typically hollow words of sympathy. It seemed like I was watching myself do it; it was not much different than watching others do the same thing… mouths moving without any words reaching my ears. I found out more information than I really needed to know about his son’s tragic accident at Red River Gorge, but human nature has a perverse way of investigating details when a friend is mourning… God knows why.

Leave it to me to have made unwarranted assumptions about the circumstances, imagining a noble, athletic demise. Leave it to grim reality to assemble a colder, inexplicable scenario. This is how death operates outside of its package. This is what death is like on the other side of the illusory boundary we convince ourselves will contain it, for our insatiable fascination and amusement.

We can be such fools… and we know we are.

Even though Dana made me blueberry pancakes this morning, we almost quarreled about the upcoming pirate gig. I realized later that it really had nothing to do with that. I was upset about continuing problems with my Mac G4. Make no mistake about it, Apple Computer has manufactured at least one miserably poor product, and it happens to be sitting on my desk.

A more enjoyable thing was taking what I learned in Kathleen’s studio yesterday and starting work on Florence and Bill’s 50th Anniversary collage. However, the best part of my day was finding out that Fron had already string-trimmed the gully at the Clan graveyard. I was shocked to discover that it was finished, and all I had to do was mow the grass in the orchard. And then he filled my box with tomatoes again. I definitely like this guy…

Last night I stayed in Tipp City with my chum Bill and we enjoyed our shared anticipation for a September fishing trip to Michigan. Even though I failed to reach him by phone and he was bone tired from a day in the sun (after clearing fallen trees from the Great Miami with a chain saw), he welcomed me with a bear hug and set his last Bud Light in front of me—that’s what I call a friend.

It took me ten hours to get home from Ohio today. The joint in my rear drive shaft broke south of Kenton County, but I was able to arrange a tow and successful repair before the end of the day. I felt like I’d sweated off a couple gallons, baking on the shoulder of I-75. It was almost the exact spot where years ago a state policeman pulled me over after the Cincinnati Marathon to test my sobriety. Old “Ned” continues to give me fits if I don’t keep spending money on him that I’d rather not. I’m glad this didn’t happen yesterday with Mike.

Crucial to getting out of my predicament: 1) Dana insisting on Monday that I carry a cellular phone. 2) Being able to talk through the details of the breakdown with my brother Jay, an expert truck mechanic. I was so focused on his long-distance analysis and advice that I completely forgot that today is his 45th birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my brother, “Bub.” I love you, forever…

Sitting for a long time at a garage in what barely passes as a “waiting room” can be a strange experience. I watched part of a “Gunsmoke” episode featuring Anthony Zerbe playing opposite himself in a split-screen double role, but my mind was on a personal crisis more critical than a broken pickup. I thought about the counsel of my best friends from youth. Each has his own brand of wisdom, having survived his own chapters of adversity. Both genuinely care about the particular challenges it’s my turn to face.

Dadbo once said to me after his buddy Joe died that a man is lucky to have one or two true friends in life, and now I know what he meant.

It might have been one of those ideal days, had I not left up in the air my potential plans to attend a rifle match with David. Eventually the uncertainties seemed to resolve themselves by default, and I was able to focus my creative attention on preparing artwork for the Layerist exhibition scheduled this autumn in Lexington. At lunch there was an enjoyable Rotary program with bright, bubbly representatives from the “graduating” GSP class. Tonight we had a delightful dinner with Joan—lamb chops, sweet corn, plus Fron’s tomatoes with basil and cheese. To that we added red wine, soy yogurt over mixed berries, and good conversation about how our families ate when we were all kids.