Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Milton felt positively enough about my Easter morning words at the cabin to reschedule them for this past Sunday. There were a lot more people there, thanks to his endorsement, including Bruce, Lee, and David. Keeping in mind that some of my talk refers specifically to the “Shared Silence” community, I publish it here in its entirety (full credit to my best buddy Mike for the heart of this essay).
 
 

ON DEXTERITY AND THE WISDOM OF HANDS
(After Silence: 4-8-07 and 7-8-07)

Like many of you, I have retained great friendships from childhood, young adulthood, and middle life. The concept of this talk originates with my best friend from college years, James Michael Menke, a behavioral scientist who earned a doctorate in chiropractic and currently serves on the faculty of the Program for Integrative Medicine at the University of Arizona, where he is at work on a Ph.D. in experimental methodology. Mike is the resident chiropractic authority at AndrewWeil.com and, in addition to his scientific publishing, contributes articles to “Dynamic Chiropractic,” the largest circulation periodical for his profession. I must give due credit to him for many of the facts, observations, and speculations that I include in my words.

* * *

It’s been four and a half years since I offered words after silence, when I reflected on my 50-mile birthday run, an event now overshadowed in memory by an occurrence that took place two days before—a present from Dana, an extraordinary celebration with friends and a retrospective exhibition of my greeting cards. Hundreds of these “miniatures” carried my dexterity of hand through a period of relentless computerization in my chosen field, something I never could have anticipated in my youth, when I fully expected a lifetime of evolving manual craftsmanship as a commercial artist. Although I’ve cut back drastically on my card-making hours, I see it now as an essential bridge activity that has prepared me for an increasing dedication to the fine arts in later life. In short, I accidentally found a way to preserve the traditional hand skills which so many in my profession have lost, having bartered them away for a new fluency with software, mouse, and keyboard.

* * *

Is it progress when we trade our ability to develop our hands for increasingly cerebral preoccupations? For most of our lives, American culture has equated handwork with unskilled work. “Manual” mostly means “menial”—or tasks no one else wants to do—and manual dexterity is associated with dullness. As those who work with their hands know at some level, hands work faster than eyes and minds can follow and quickly gain greater knowledge of objective reality. Phrases like “hands on” or “in touch” have come to mean being more connected with the way things really are, outside our frameworks of mental abstraction. Similarly, I often experience the way in which a captive idea is stuck on a mental spinning wheel until the hand is permitted to liberate it with a thumbnail sketch. Dana has told me it amuses her to see my hand moving unconsciously when she finds me deep in thought. There seems to be a direct link.

According to surgeon Frank R. Wilson, author of “The Hand: How Its Use Shapes the Brain, Language, and Human Culture,” a pianist is the summit of human achievement because of his or her ability to direct 400 muscle contractions per second, all in a single, purposeful action to produce music. Dr. Wilson proposes that the evolutionary gift of the human hand over 3 million years ago forced our brains to grow to direct and control this remarkable tool. Language and reasoning were just byproducts of a brain designed for “handedness.”

Neither raccoons, monkeys, nor apes have hands like those of the human. The human hand was made to sense and assess, control and force, and then express, caress, and eventually—to heal. The human hand is the product of anatomy and innervations unique in biological life. Menke believes that the Wilson hypothesis also puts a minor dent in the popular notion of mind-body. American mind-body dualism assumes minds affect bodies, and largely ignores how bodies affect our minds. He thinks it is an ingrained bias we don’t even notice, stemming from an ongoing love affair with the brain as our main source of power and identity. We have bodies simply to lug around and protect our brains, right? He goes on to propose the intriguing possibility that the musculoskeletal system expresses our true identity, and that our glands, organs, and brains see to it we have the requisite stuff needed to accomplish our mission. Perhaps our brains are mere servants of the hands. Could it be our hands make us distinctively human, and not our brains?

Is it possible that Argentina’s piano virtuoso Martha Argerich represents the most recent leap in human evolution? Maybe the arrival of a Yo-Yo Ma advances our species more than a Bill Gates or a Susan Sontag—who can say?

* * *

Consider the progressive prejudice against manual in favor of mental expertise and how Western society has pushed dexterity to the bottom of the totem pole, since the decline of the great European guilds of the Middle Ages, to the point that we have a situation where the work “Americans won’t do,” is potentially leading us to the brink of social crisis. One could make the case it was wrong to advise mamas, “Don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.”

Consider how various health care professions that are more probative and that delve into problems with hand intelligence remain low on the occupational ladder or command less respect among elites. Jerome Dixon is a beloved clinician in his adopted home of Campbellsville, but he is also thought by many of his peers to be one of America’s outstanding hands-on osteopathic practitioners. When people, who already know my brother is a physician, learn that he is a D.O., I can detect the crestfallen look in their eyes. “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Skilled Musculoskeletal Diagnosticians.”

Why is there such a cultural emphasis on working with the head instead of the hand? Working with your hands—sometimes called making an honest living, because you can see and count your accomplishments—is on the decline, even though it is the most difficult American work to outsource. It’s impossible to fight a fire, massage a spasm, wax a floor, cuff a criminal, cleanse an injury, build a road, or fix your commode from a call center in Bombay.

Manual consciousness—the wisdom of hands— is too often dismissed in our head-centric culture. Problems can frequently be found and solved by hands without all the judgmental posturing of the mind. Hands can quickly know what our minds may never grip, manipulate, articulate, or ultimately grasp.

As Yale University researcher Paul Bloom has explained, an adaptive mistake in human development may have given us an inborn comfort with the idea of a consciousness as being separate and separable from bodies. Whereas, Dr. Bloom suggests we have built into our DNA an indifference for the physical body as a temporary vessel, and are predisposed by evolution to believe in the supernatural, since minds and bodies seem to have a separate existence, Menke finds a more basic and immediate interpretation of Bloom’s data—that breaking the body away from the mind only leads us to fragmented views of ourselves and others.

In his book on Harlan Hubbard, Wendell Berry de-scribes how the Kentucky artist and individualist committed himself to “an authentic life in his consciousness.” He writes that Harlan’s genius was in how he gave “the body a significant life in the world,” an existence that was “dignifying and pleasing to itself.” Like his most constant mentor, Thoreau, Harlan Hubbard sought first to live well, and to him, this meant a certain mistrust of mental abstractions removed from the objects of thought and one’s affection for those objects. In Harlan’s own words, “The mind tries to live by the artificial structure of the world, but the body will have none of it, holding to primeval forces. People try to be all mind….this has gone so far that now….the earth itself is but an idea.” Berry concludes that fundamental to Hubbard’s character was his refusal to live by mind alone. In his unwillingness to put his body and his bodily life under the rule of abstract ideas or monetary values, he avoided contemporary man’s tendency to use the world and its goods without love or care, a denial of both the life of the body and of the spirit.

* * *

And so, when I reflect on the particular abilities of my own body, it is with humility that I must appreciate each one’s distinctive integration of dedicated practice, mindful habit, and genetic heritage. This is painfully obvious when I presume my hand dexterity might cross over or be successfully interchanged. In other words, don’t let me transplant a seedling, touch a leaky pipe, or pick up a musical instrument. What of the untold wealth of dexterity that may exist within the group of unique individuals who frequent this cabin? What can I ever know of it? What do I know of the personal dexterity of Karen, Mary Ann, Leslie, or Sara Jane? What products of accomplished hands lie beyond my limited awareness?

Nevertheless, I won’t forget my sense of admiration when I first saw Lester run his fingers over a selected piece of lumber. How many times have I marveled as Ernst leaves the saddle to apply his deft touch to a shifter assembly, correcting a malfunction within seconds? What of the other familiar pairs of hands I know only when they hold a cup of hot coffee in the chilly air on a Sunday morning, never having witnessed their most articulate performances? What of Jim’s nuanced grip of the reins, Elizabeth’s green thumb, Dan’s expert trigger squeeze, or Victoria’s compassionate caress? What will I ever know of these? If I haven’t understood the hands, how can I hope to ever know the real person?

Having said that, I believe I can state without fear of contradiction that the most awe-inspiring pair of hands among us is forever gone from our physical circle. They belonged to someone I think of when I read what Harlan Hubbard wrote in 1932:

“There is but one great man. That is he who makes a masterpiece of his life. No accomplishment can offset bad living.’’

When in my friend’s presence, I failed to fully regard either of those immensely capable hands, preferring instead his characteristic twinkle of eye. Who else among our circle could demonstrate to his extent the genius of handedness—to execute a graceful brush stroke, to throw a well-proportioned pot, to compose in limestone with incomparable decisiveness, to improvise jazz melodies by intuitive fingering, or to repair the living tissue of a damaged joint? Even now, the thought of it nearly takes my breath away. These were not hands in mere service to the intellect, but a mind and heart in service to the world—properly and definitively through his magnificent hands.

How grateful am I for the good fortune to have encountered those hands, and the rich depth of human character they shaped in order to empower their creative potential! His world will continue to possess their diverse manifestations—animate and inanimate, evidence of the spirit they energized—long after the hands have left us for a place filled with new activities for the hands of a soul—the unimaginable creative pursuits of Life Everlasting.

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.

part one

I had all these thoughts and recollections coming out of a landmark Band Festival weekend, but once things got rolling in the studio on Monday, I didn’t take time to write them down. Plus, I’m always prepared to devote some of my blogging time to a new Paul Watkins novel, and I’ve started reading The Promise of Light, thanks to a Kentucky Interlibrary Loan (KILL—how’s that for an acronym?). Well, I’ll give it a try anyway…

• WineFest
For the first time, the Festival sponsored an event that gathered representatives from nine Kentucky wineries on the grounds of the historic Old Crow Inn, and 300 people showed up. Chateau du Vieux Corbeau, the local host winery, produced a limited bottling of red and white wines which featured my artwork for the Festival poster. I was on hand Thursday evening to help promote sales that will benefit the Festival, and I was surprised at how many buyers wanted me to sign labels. It was fun, but nobody offered me a bottle to take home. In any case, it’s as close as I’ve ever come to designing a wine label, one of my unmet goals as a graphic artist.

• Aborted Study
Anticipating my appearance at the Community Arts Center on Friday night, I had this idea that I would complete a preliminary study for Spellbound that I started last November but never finished. It served it’s purpose back then, and I proceeded with what turned out to be the final version after the first of the year. It seemed like a good idea to finish the study and make it available for a convenient sale, but once I got involved in it, I realized that the magic was long gone. I may finish it anyway some time, just for the practice, but learned the lesson again that monetary motivations don’t have the power to bring my muse to life.

• Poster Signing
The Maple Tree Gallery completed the framing of my original painting, and Lee helped me get it down to the Arts Center before I dashed home to get ready for the Gallery Hop. Pat L was there to assist, and I ended up signing about half the edition of 75, and about half of those sold that same night. Patti and Vince stopped by to inspect the original, which had a well-lighted spot near the entrance. I couldn’t read their reaction to my purchase price (or didn’t really try to, actually). Clearly they’re the best candidates for ownership, and their interior decorator told me later I shouldn’t consider reducing the price, but I still wonder if anyone will be willing to pay what I think it’s worth. We’ll see. Dana remains optimistic, but I probably should give some thought to where I’ll temporarily hang it in the studio. I was delighted when Joan stopped by, and she took some pictures for Mombo. It was my moment of glory, and, as expected, the evening passed by much too quickly.

Part of a mixed media collage that I created last summer for the CONNECTIONS show is featured on the current cover of Lexington’s Nougat Magazine, and also on their Website’s home page. The people at the Maple Tree Gallery are excited about the publicity, so I took in a couple more pieces—ones that were available from the KOSMOS exhibit. They’ll be on display for Friday night’s Gallery Hop in downtown Danville. I’ll be signing Brass Band Festival posters at the Community Arts Center that night. My original, Spellbound By Brass, will be presented, and I should be prepared to release my asking price to the public. Dana and I talked about it this morning, and we expect to be able to make a final decision by then. It’s going to be the highest price I’ve ever put on any example of my work.

— 7:30 am, meet cycling pals for an early 30-miler with Scott Joplin’s Pineapple Rag in my head; 10 am, have eggs for breakfast and read the Band Festival tabloid with a feature about my poster art; 11 am, worship with Marty at the Salvation Army and hear my friend Zach preach; 12:30 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty first Ned-load of driveway debris; 2:30 pm, eat Dana’s turkey panini lunch on the front porch with Marty; 3 pm, tear up old blacktop with Marty and empty second Ned-load of driveway debris; 5 pm, go to Marty’s place to shower and play video games, 7 pm, watch “Scarface” and enjoy a lasagna dinner with Marty and Terie; 9:30 pm, head home to check email and read a bit before bed… If all my remaining Sundays were like this, I believe I could, to use a phrase attributed to the Marquis de Lafayette, “die ’appy.”

— Seth had his graduation celebration at Greystone on Saturday and it “marks the end of an era,” according to James. Mombo made an appearance, to everyone’s enormous satisfaction. Mike R brought his mom down from Ohio for the event, and he said he wants to commission a house portrait from me. Kyle D was there, and Seth passed the torch to a new student leader for the Red Kettle campaign in Liberty. Kyle said Captain Zach reported a $1700 total from our effort last season. We discussed ways to boost that in 2007. I got a bit of inside news about the new girls’ b-ball coach at Boyle. Cliff teased me about my Band Festival pin, but got my commitment to bring him a poster. Does that mean I get a new t-shirt in trade? When it was time to kick back with a beer, I had a good talk with Nic, and he shared a vision of married life in the Valley, and how he’s sure he can resist the professional pressures to value income over becoming a family man. I hope he’s right! Afterwards we stopped at the Hall and spent more time with Mombo, plus I had a chance to grumble to Joan about how the TV networks had squandered a massive line-up of talent over the past months (Haggis, Liotta, Madsen, Diggs, Daly, Hutton, Delany, Sorkin, Busfield, Goldblum, Stowe, Minear, Fillion—I can’t go on!).

— Seeing Jeannette at Greystone reminded me of last Friday at Rotary Club, when I was asked to “unveil” my poster art and make remarks. I did something I don’t remember having ever done so explicitly, and that was pay tribute to the divine source of all creativity. I wasn’t sure it had been the proper thing to do in that context, until Jeannette told me how much she was touched by it. That, combined with seeing two similar but different kinds of youthful self-assurance in both Seth and Nic, makes me realize I need to trust my instincts more, even though I might think I’ve made progress in that area. Drop the reticence and push it further. There’s no other way. The previous day I’d successfully shrugged off the inner wimp to address the Governor in public when he visited Centre for the “Get Healthy Kentucky” initiative. My comments met with applause. Come on, what is there to lose except self-doubt?

V & S

— Month of May workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-6; Run-1; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— Unimpressed by my exercise stats, I have to remind myself that it’s a big improvement over my uncharacteristically sedentary April, and that my workout log doesn’t include things like hauling truckloads of crumbled blacktop out to the asphalt plant. Well, I’m still blessed with excellent health, my weight is under 160, and I’ve got a 17.4 bmi. With everything going on around me, I have to be very, very thankful for that. So, now that it’s summer, it’s time to ratchet up the physical activity and get in shape. Muscle Club, anyone?

— If you aren’t reading Peat’s European journal, you’re really missing out. She calls it “The End of Fear is Where We Begin,” and it’s classic Peat. Her smile shines right through every word on the screen. And how about that KK? Can’t wait to see the BIG BLADE!

— On a recent solo trip to Louisville and back, I finally broke into the “Zero Hour” tapes that Joan loaned me a long time ago. Who knew at the time that Rod Serling had hosted radio dramas for talents like Jessica Walter, Richard Crenna, Keenan Wynn, Joseph Campenella, Brock Peters, and Earl Holliman? Apparently, over 55 hours of drama were produced, and, like so many things these days, it’s also available on CDs or as MP3 files. I still don’t mind listening to audio cassettes, but, come to think of it, if I don’t copy my tape of Heston reading the Psalms I’m likely to wear it out before long.

— I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about an upcoming Brass Band Festival weekend, but I’ve never been the featured artist before. It helps to be enormously pleased with how my highly visible contributions turned out. I can go into the whole thing knowing that it’s my best effort on display. On the other hand, I seem to be feeling more and more awkward being in a position to take credit for things that come from the Source of all constructive influence, creativity, imagination, and beauty. I feel like I’m merely the object of good fortune, and, at the same time, I know well the moments of struggle, and the “means” it took to find my way over obstacles I wasn’t sure I could surmount. I well remember Danny D’s remark to me that “God doesn’t write songs or make movies.” Sorting all this out is why I continue to do it, I suppose, but it’s a bit of a roller-coaster at times. It felt like I could finally catch my breath this week, with Mombo home from the hospital, and supervision of the poster printing behind me. Some kind of balance has returned to daily life, deadlines are being met, and the outlook in the studio hasn’t been this bright for many, many moons. I’m not saying that Graybeard is dancing around his campfire, mind you. Things could always be better, but the worst is definitely in the past. In other words, I shouldn’t need to sell any more mediocre cartoons to a nephew any time soon. And I’m writing this with a calm heart, even though I didn’t sell a single collage from my KOSMOS exhibition. Well, enough of that. Onward and upward, as they say.

V & S

— I fell short of my goal to get the Band Festival poster into final production today when downtown Danville had a power outage. It had to do with a line that fell down near the college, possibly due to “metal fatigue” from a previous lightning strike. With our cordless handsets useless, I had to make an important call with our old rotary dial phone, still hard-wired on the ground floor of the Town House. The sound quality was excellent. Don’t knock old tech—it can still provide an adequate butt-saving now and then. On the other hand, I let the back yard grass get so long that cutting it with Uncle Art’s old push-mower is out of the question. Time to fire up our Troy-Bilt for the first time in several years.

— You’ll have to consult with Brendan about how far Jennifer Brummett has to go before she’ll achieve any level of credibility with him, but perhaps the hole she dug a while back is not quite as deep after this past weekend. In addition to putting together a rather nice feature on my KOSMOS exhibition for The Kentucky Advocate, she selected my donated art when her ticket was called at Saturday night’s Art-Full Raffle. It was an enjoyable event, with proceeds funding the Arts Scholarship Program of the Arts Commission of Danville/Boyle County. The piece (which I titled Microcosmic Musings) was the smallest collage from the body of work created for KOSMOS, so I decided to donate it to the Art-Full Raffle. Since its inception in 2004, the program has awarded more than $5,000 in scholarships to 74 children for extra-curricular classes their families would not otherwise be able to afford.

— It’s been a while since the old Graybeard first went into the Knobs to stake a claim, but it’s finally paid off with a project from Casey County. The Central Kentucky Ag/Expo Center is an extraordinary investment, but has always struggled with its marketing image. Not a bad strike for our studio, and, if things work out, we might have the opportunity to drop a connecting shaft into a few other promising veins.

V & S

— Month of April workout totals: DON’T EVEN ASK . . .

— Well, it’s May—Derby Day at that—and I had my best night’s sleep in weeks. I even dreamed about my old employer in Evanston, with a very pleasant, lucid conversation. I’m glad to be comfortably back in the blogiverse, and it hasn’t had anything to do with News Bruiser’s recent excommunication. It’s had everything to do with a wild convergence of commitments in April that shoved aside all activity but the most essential. I’m pleased to say I was able to fulfill each of my pledges: to lead the annual meeting of our five-county Salvation Army, to participate in the spring conclave of the Kentucky Bicycle and Bikeway Commission, to attend the quadrennial national conference of the Salvation Army in Dallas, and to mount my first solo art exhibition since 2002. Whew… Can you believe I pulled it all off?

— The experience in Dallas was, without a doubt, the most powerful package of consciousness-raising stimuli that I’ve had the privilege to absorb in many, many moons. An amazing line-up: Jerry Jones, Laura Bush, Rick Warren, Jim Collins, and Israel Gaither. Plus the many workshop sessions that astonished me with their solid informational excellence, including an opportunity to hear Stan Richards, a legend in the advertising world who would’ve been a prize key-noter at any professional gathering. He’s the creative mind behind the Army’s recent “Doing the Most Good” branding effort. On top of it all, we had the wonderful gift of time spent with good friends from Danville (nine of us were there), plus an exhilarating two days at the Anatole Hilton, which is like being inside a museum, because it has a world-class collection of Asian art distributed throughout the spacious complex (Reagan held the Republican National Convention there in 1984). And I haven’t even mentioned our evening at Texas Stadium: a picnic supper on the turf, lots of entertainment, and a chance to nose around an NFL locker room. Far too cool for a guy who can probably name less than a dozen pro football players. Eat your heart out, Marty… Oh, I forgot. You hate the Cowboys.

— Also wedged into last month was a particularly refreshing “Council Day” at the Valley. Both Terie and Bruce were there, and I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Makes me a bit prouder to be the namesake of the House of John. See you all at the next Clan gathering. Same time, same channel…

— After months of preparation, my exhibition at Danville’s Community Arts Center was hung and opened without any serious mishap. True, I had to abandon several items on my wish list, including a desire to display my first “Joe Box,” but, as usual, things worked out the way they’re supposed to, and the room was arranged with enough creations to satisfy my fondest anticipations. It was a delight to welcome lots of Clan and dear friends (plus many local poobahs were in attendance). Thanks to Bruce for his home-stretch assistance, and, of course, to my ”partner in all things,” who supported my preparatory effort for much of the year, and laid out a delicious spread of goodies outside the gallery on Thursday evening. Wow. This is not the end, but only the beginning of many more successful shows. Just take a look in my eyes. I can see the vision.

V & S

Last night’s Salvation Army Annual Dinner was a smashing success. Today I realized all the work for my May exhibition has to be completed and framed within two weeks, so we can leave for Dallas and the NAOC. We had a double birthday celebration this evening—the entire House of John plus David. Lee is in Virginia with her mother. I was having such a good time I forgot all about recording the season finale of “Friday Night Lights.” Must have been the Gnarly Head.

Ok, it’s 65. Happy Birthday to you.

My two major volunteer projects of the year seem to have converged in a single work week, and if I can just get through the next twenty-four hours in one piece, I should be able to use the holiday to wind down a bit and refocus on my preparations for the May exhibition.

Oh yeah, it occurs to me that there are now some clients who desire to pay me if I spend some creative time on their behalf.

A wise man would comply.

March experiment—day twenty-eight— Today was one of those days when Dana and I shared thumbnail sketches at breakfast, resolved an advantageous division of labor, and then entered the studio with the minutes ticking down on an important presentation. Call it experience, professionalism, or old-fashion maturity, but a morning can take shape like that nowadays without my wading through all the anxiety and worst-case mental brambles which used to clutter the way. I like to think it also has something to do with trusting one’s intuition, but how does one develop intuition without struggling through all that trial and error? Oh well, it’s made for some good war stories, anyway. After I printed the layout for Kentucky Trust Company and Dana was off to her meeting, I prepared a preliminary design for the Band Festival T-shirt and Elaine liked it. She seems quite bullish on my work right now and is instigating some publicity opportunities for the Festival that will also gain a bit of recognition for me. Hey, that’s the way this deal was always supposed to work!

Today’s sight bite— Bradford pear blossoms drifting on the breeze past my kitchen window—c-l-i-c-k—masquerading as a springtime flurry of snow.

Tomorrow— Our new automotive client makes his big pitch out East, elements of the Salvation Army Annual Report are to be assembled, a last opportunity for final touches on Spellbound by Brass, plus more progress expected on my preparations for KOSMOS: Discovery and Disclosure…

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…

March experiment—day twenty-one— I’ve hit a set of conditions in the studio that dictate subjects for my attention that are different than I originally intended for this time of the month, and I’m trying to adjust. Heightened awareness is the key. I can’t lose the joy. I have to remind myself that in many respects, the external framework may be the least important aspect of the experiment.

Here are the only other things I feel like mentioning today:

1) Mombo called with good news that Janet and Jerome have a strong position with a baby girl born in Guatemala this past Saturday. Everyone smile and pray hard.

2) Dana is showing excellent progress on healing her knee injury, with other beneficial side effects.

3) Uncle Norm closed on the Indy mobile home, and we’re all set for moving Bruce to Danville this weekend.

4) The Salvation Army dinner next month is shaping up to be the best one I’ve helped organize.

5) Friday Night Lights really is the most outstanding series currently on television.

March experiment—day nineteenth— A big chunk of my day was devoted to The Salvation Army. We’re getting ready for our annual Appreciation Dinner, planned for the Tuesday after Easter. Our distinguished guest speaker will be General Paul Rader. Before retiring and making Kentucky his home, General Rader served as worldwide commander, the only American officer to lead The Salvation Army since its founding. We’ve been trying at least four or five years to bring him to Danville, and this time Captain Zach was able to pull it off. As a result of my activities on behalf of the Army, I didn’t get into the March rhythm today, but tomorrow I’ll begin again…

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 twelve— For what it’s worth, an “Ephraim sighting” suggests a day of receptivity and creative alertness. I may spend some time at the library and see if I can bring my March objectives into coherent alignment with realistic expectations. This must be achieved before the experiment is half over, although the sense of a new beginning is already upon me. I want this to be as challenging as possible, but a touch of the absurd can bear only so much fruit before it becomes counterproductive. Later in the day— My entries for “Exploring Multiple Dimensions,” the SLMM national exhibition in Albuquerque, are in the mail. The relief of having this done makes me realize how important it is to have periodic completion points, as opposed to long spells of effort with no “payoff.” Not very profound, I suppose, but it seems like a revelation at the moment, because I’ve been working too many days without the gratification of finishing something. This puts my daily checklist in a new light. Having so many completion points scheduled at the end of the cycle was the wrong way to plan this. Steady reinforcement is better, if I can avoid a “celebratory” lapse of momentum (that old, familiar pitfall).

Today’s sight bite— The tiny formations of purple, yellow, and gold crocus shoots catch my eye—c-l-i-c-k—like miniature Swiss Guards reporting for duty.

Tomorrow— Launch a revised series of deadlines, speak to the local prospect about a lettering commission, and meet with B.I.K.E. members about the emerging season of cycling priorities…

March experiment—day nine— Captain Zach and I talked “Army Biz” while we flipped pancakes for Rotary at KSD. When I returned home, I was happy to find a delicious meal, admittedly much more nutritious than what I’d been feeding to others all morning. Something about the full awareness of all the requirements for the Salvation Army banquet in a month, ongoing commitments to the Brass Band Festival, the delicate business of wooing a new client, the necessity of moving Bruce to Danville before the end of March, and everything else I’ve challenged myself to accomplish over the short term—well, it made me feel like I wanted to collapse this evening. Maybe I just need some rest.

Today’s sight bite— Three exquisite watercress salads with avocado and sprouts—c-l-i-c-k—prepared lovingly by Dana and Lee for our lunch in the mild air on the front porch.

Tomorrow— Back to the checklist, after a good night’s sleep…

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.

Sometimes these deadline experiences are like chuting down a pipeline—there’s no thought to doing anything but surrendering to the power of the flow, all the time hoping you make it to the end of the tunnel without a disaster. Mombo used to talk about when she was a kid, and they would play in a rain-swollen ditch, letting the water suck them into a storm-water culvert that ran under the street. Long ago that image got stuck in my mind when I realized I’d chosen a deadline-driven lifestyle. So, for what it’s worth, that’s what the suction of a deadline is like for me. (Her story also convinced me that my mother really was a tomboy, in case there’s any doubt about it.)

And, so I made it to the end of the latest chute today, presenting my study for a painting I’m developing to feature on this year’s poster for the Great American Brass Band Festival. The new executive director is delighted with my approach. The idea has a focus on the music makers. I want to illustrate the intensity of the performances with a montage composition. I don’t know why I always have to complicate things, rather than come up with a simple idea, other than the fact that “less is more” is easier said than done. I’m excited about the idea of including Vince prominently in the artwork. He’s always been the inspiration for much of my toil on behalf of the Festival.

Now, all I have to do is complete the final version by the end of the month without getting stuck in that darn storm pipe.

— A Mombonian Correction!

Much is going on—my concept for the new Band Festival poster is at critical mass, I’m convening a cyclists’ meeting tonight to discuss our upcoming presentation before the City Commission, and the Medicine Woman is putting her moccasin firmly in the Graybeard Prospector’s hind end. That being said, I’m thinking about Seranus Victor Seitz, who turns 90 tomorrow.

My Uncle Si was born in the midst of the Great War, but the next time the entire world was back at war, he was more than old enough to sign up. Like Dadbo, he went into the USAAF and became a fly-boy. He named his fighter plane after his kid sister. Most of us learned about this only recently. Even Mombo had forgotten about it, and she was overcome with emotion when the fact resurfaced with an old photo. I think it has something to do with Uncle Si scrupulously avoiding any romantic entanglements before he shipped off. Apparently he didn’t expect to survive the combat that faced him. Neither did a lot of others, including the brass. These boys could “do no wrong,” because, hell, they probably wouldn’t make it back tomorrow anyway, so why give ’em a hard time? For example, when Uncle Si buzzed a control tower because some generals were up there and Uncle Luke was watching. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the more tame episodes.

Uncle Si got to the skies of Europe as the Luftwaffe was fading into history. Air-to-air wasn’t the primary mission at that point in the war, so he provided ground support as a tank buster and dive bomber. But don’t be mistaken—the anti-aircraft defenses of a desperate Wehrmacht must have been pure wickedness. On top of that, Uncle Si said that every day he got into the cockpit, he might be sitting behind a new aircraft engine more powerful than the previous one he’d gotten used to. All he would know before takeoff was the numerical boost in horsepower. He told us once about the fine art of blasting a locomotive. The pilot needs to swoop elliptically at a low angle to avoid being caught above the massive steam explosion. You get the feeling he learned that by watching somebody else get it wrong, or perhaps he narrowly missed boiling himself like a lobster the first time he bombed a train. He tells stories like that without braggadocio, but you can always see the intensity in his eyes. Like most WWII vets, he doesn’t think of himself as a hero. In their minds, that word more properly describes all those pals that never returned. I guess you can’t differ with that kind of logic.

Uncle Si is known for inspiring a famous word in the Dixonary: Sicu. Basically it can be defined as a “lame excuse.” The original sicu was the time he said, “We’ll come down one of these weekends I take off.” It was no secret that Uncle Si might go months without taking a weekend off. It bummed us out to hear that, and so we were forced to bestow the dubious honor. Years later, when I was living in Dayton and my brother James was putting in long hours at AdMart, we laughed at my notion, “You’ll take off one of these weekends I come down.”

Uncle Si is one of those uncles that you love too much to ever tell him, and I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you just can’t tell a tough guy things like that because he’s made you tough, too, just because you’ve loved him. Like Mombo used to say, “Luke probably started the fight, and if Bob couldn’t talk them out of it, Si had to finish it.”

Eventually he helped finish the biggest one—over sixty years ago, up in the sky, above the devastated fatherland of his ancestors—but he came back home and made it to his tenth decade, with a sweetheart he didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to find.

God bless him!

— Month of January workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-1; Run-3; Lift-1; Yoga-0

— It looks like Mother Nature took a chain-saw to Florida’s midsection overnight. I need to find out if any of the damaged areas are where we have family. I hope not. Here in Central Kentucky we have our first blanket of snow for 2007. No Rotary Club meeting today. The schedule is tied to Danville Schools, which are closed. I’m going to have to keep an eye on the weather for a few days. The national football holiday is coming up this weekend and that’s when we do our afternoon Super Bowl Sunday mountain-bike “ride around the block” in Forkland. Twenty miles, four knobs, and plenty of time to ponder our own sanity (or lack thereof). It looks to be slippery and a bit on the frigid side. The moment of truth comes after the first climb (Elk Cave Knob), and a rider must decide whether to opt for the 11-mile short route or go for the full deal. I’ve been known to go either direction, depending on how numb my sense of self-preservation has become at this point in the ride.

— For many years, my Clan had a tradition of gathering as a “planning committee” in January. It didn’t make sense in one way, because it was basically the same people who would ordinarily attend a regular Clan Council, but the mood was a bit more “visionary,” and that made it a special annual event. It started out as my idea and I’d always chair the meeting. Back in the 80s we’d sometimes hold it at the homes of various householders, rather than at the farm. This past Sunday we put that era behind us and moved forward into a new one that begins with Mombo’s Trust. Our desire for a more “corporate” structure with a solid legal foundation has been a long-standing family goal. It goes back to the formation of the Clan as we know it. It goes back to a time before the planning meeting. All things must change. Congratulations to the Clan, but let’s hope we can occasionally slip back into that old practice of sharing our dreams.

— There’s street smart, and then there’s street smart. It depends on which streets we’re talking about (right?), and when it comes to Josh, we’re talking about Baghdad. I inquired on Sunday about whether he’s heard anything about possible orders to return, but he just shook his head. He was recently out in Kansas, where he reportedly spent his days waging video war games from a comfortable hotel room. He’s also been asked to spend time with other soldiers on the eve of their overseas deployment, and if I know Josh, he won’t be sugarcoating what kind of attitude he thinks it takes to get the job done and make it home. I wonder at times to what degree our forces find it necessary to blur lines that the rest of us think are always morally hard-edged. I had a talk with Marty about Iraq not too long ago and I posed the question, “Does success in warfare require doing evil?” His reply: “GrandyJohn, that’s the whole point. We can’t. We’re Americans.” Damn good answer.

V & S

Today I spent a lot of time preparing my application for full membership in the “Layerists” society. Thinking so much about my artistic intentions and work process has my head spinning. Truthfully, it started to whirl yesterday after my friend Captain Zach gave an inspirational speech at Danville’s Rotary luncheon. We talked about making a trip to Dallas in April for the national conference, and I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced Jeannette and Ben to go with us. Zach had his first tour of their home, and that’s always a treat for anyone. So far, that makes at least ten of us locals “thinkin’ Texas.” Then, later in the afternoon, the Captain phoned to share his excitement about the latest development—the youth-group proposal on which he and his wife have worked so diligently (and to which I donated a logo design) has been selected by the Salvation Army leadership for nationwide implementation. Wow! Club 316 is suddenly very big! In other words, “It’s MAIN!”

— If you like Howard Pyle, N.C. Wyeth, and the “Golden Age of American Illustration,” Paul Giambarba has put together a smashing collection of biographical notes, artistic comments, and rarely seen images. I just love this handsome stuff, and tip my hat to anyone who would spend the personal time to compile such an extensive reference site.

— I grabbed a few moments of “mind time” in Harrodsburg while Dana got a haircut, thinking LJS would be a relatively quiet place at that time of day, but the music was a bit more electric-70s than I was expecting. I still haven’t given up on achieving a new level of organization, and it’s that time of year anyway. Business development remains priority one. Nevertheless, I find myself pulled continuously in a different direction with so many art deadlines and volunteer responsibilities demanding my attention. I have another milestone facing me within a week as part of my contractual obligation to the Band Festival as 2007 featured artist. And I must make steady progress on preparations for a one-man show in May at the Community Arts Center. If I don’t find a way to more successfully block out my time, there are some intense experiences that I won’t be able to avoid this year. One good new client would take much of the heat off our situation, and that has to be my focus, one way or another.

— We had a full house at the B.I.K.E. meeting tonight, including our newly sworn-in mayor. It was an important kick-off for the year, a discussion of our first major proposal to the city for infrastructure enhancements and repairs. If I didn’t have so many experienced community leaders at the table, I think I’d probably spin my wheels a lot, but they have a way of making sure I keep getting the traction we need (I don’t know if that pun was intentional or not).

— Dana and I continue to chip away at our three hours of P.J. O’Rourke on tape. He says he dislikes memoirs, and so I can only assume he’s never read the extraordinary Paul Watkins book, Stand Before Your God. He really doesn’t like bloggers either. According to him it’s like “what I did last summer” for adults, and he seems to detest the whole phenomenon. As far as this blog goes, it appears we have an every-other-day pattern of entries developing and that suits me fine. It’s half the level of blogging I was doing a year ago, arguably a more reasonable pace for my current situation. If you desire more than that, dear reader, all I can say it this: you must have way too much time on your hands.

V & S

I went to the Leadership Boyle County reunion Thursday evening and I was the only member of the 1990-91 class that showed up; that seemed way too strange. Almost anybody that sees me anymore starts talking about bicycling. This has to be good, but I also remind myself that I don’t make a living that way. I’ve got to balance this out somehow.

So how did I spend my day? I finished writing up bicycle project suggestions for the new Leadership class (as requested), and then I joined a group that rode the 47-mile round trip to Forkland for the “Great Outhouse Blowout.” I won’t even try to describe that event, but it was actually much nicer than I was led to believe, and the live music was outstanding. We were trying to be clever and avoid the rain, but we were just lucky instead. Although we crossed patches of wet pavement, it never rained on us.

Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) was at the festival and he pulled me aside to say he wants to talk about the meeting I had with the Danville City Manager on Wednesday about B.I.K.E. Hugh showed up and sat in on the meeting, but I’m not sure what he has on his mind, so I’d better chat with him soon. The subject of the meeting at city hall was the downtown Streetscape Project. We were seeking the formal inclusion of B.I.K.E. in the planning process, but it seems we’re too late to hold an official “stakeholders” meeting with the consultant. We did learn that there will be two public meetings in October, so we’ll plan to show up in force to advocate for a design approach that is bicycle friendly. Much of our group’s effort is now taking place outside of meeting time, and we’ve decided to converge monthly instead of every two weeks, as we’ve been doing all summer. B.I.K.E. now has three committees coalescing to take on the top priorities that came out of our deliberations last month. Maybe this means I can delegate more and start to diminish the time I spend with this activity, but I doubt it. I just need to stay organized and be efficient when I’m thinking about it.

— Month of August workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-7; Run-1; Lift-2; Yoga-7

— I saw Sheldon at the gym again this morning, well into Brian’s strenuous workout. I’m convinced that Sheldon really wants to get in shape. If Brian was putting me through that routine, I’d be having a tough time of it, too. Sheldon is one of the best fine artists in this part of the United States, but that distinction doesn’t exempt him from his sedentary profession. Good for you, my friend. Health, wellness, and life extension are something we can all be pro-active about, and that’s the service Brian provides. He’s one of the most fit young men in this part of the United States. On Wednesday night he came flying by me and called out, “Hop on!” I was already pedaling hard, but took the challenge to catch his draft at nearly 30 miles per hour. I could only “suck wheel” for a couple hundred yards before I fell apart. Man… Now that’s cycling.

— The Breidenbach 50th Anniversary collage had been sitting on my art board all week, so I set myself to the task of completing it this afternoon. While she was making constructive comments, Dana accidently smeared some fresh ink. She felt terrible. All I could say was “Just leave the area.” I wasn’t sure what to do at first, but within several minutes I managed to clean and repair the damage—with no indication of anything having gone wrong. I flashed back thirty-two years, when I’d doctor the dates on European rail passes. Yes, I could’ve been a master forger… I might’ve even become a David Halifax!

— Hugh (my friend the mayoral candidate) stopped by while we relaxed on the front porch this evening to enjoy the most refreshing air we’ve had in quite some time. We got to talking about the Town House, and tapped his wealth of knowledge about the history of local real estate. Our home on West Broadway was built in the 20s by W.A. Walker for a railroad man named Arnold, who also had a twin dwelling constructed for his daughter on St. Mildred’s Court, close to campus. She married a Bush Nichols, whose brother, one of Danville’s only Republican mayors, lived in the house across the street from ours. The Arnold daughter died at a young age. The second wife and widow of Bush Nichols still resides in the Twin House today.

— We haven’t indulged much network TV in ages, but last night Dana and I found ourselves glued for 90 minutes. We watched three consecutive episodes of “The Office.” Actually, the term “glued” is not correct usage. This might be the funniest show since “Seinfeld.” If that’s the case, it’ll be impossible to ignore.

V & S

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.

My picture appeared in the local newspaper again— front page, above the fold, and embarrassingly HUGE. My public image as a local cycling advocate is nearly out of control.

After months of organizing, public relations, and preliminary activity,
the B.I.K.E. group
we started last spring sponsored a meeting in the community room at Inter-County Energy, opening the floor to any bicyclist who wanted to show up and suggest ideas, express concerns, or identify issues that need attention. In my remarks I said that our common objective is to find solutions that will enable the community to become more bicycle friendly. I thought we could declare some success in boosting participation in local cycling and increasing awareness of cycling as an emerging trend. I challenged those present to take the framework begun and to build a vision for a community where it is safe and enjoyable to ride a bicycle. Whether we take this groundwork and develop effective partnerships to make improvements happen depends on the interest, enthusiasm, and energy of the cycling community, because the imagination of the general public won’t be sparked unless they see those of us who ride bicycles take the lead to identify, promote, and work for beneficial projects.

Steve did an excellent job of facilitating the session, and out of it came three major and three minor priorities:

Major

• Public Awareness of Cycling Issues

• Bicycle Infrastructure Improvements

• Grant Applications and Project Funding

Minor

• “Share the Road” Promotion

• Safe Routes to School

• Cycling Events

It wasn’t a huge turnout. Many more people routinely show up for a Wednesday ride, but it was a quality group that will become a corps of activists. They took the time to be there and define the projects to which they are willing to devote their volunteer effort. They included a city commissioner who wants to promote cycling at a regional level and a Centre professor who wants to study the economic benefits of bicycle friendly enhancements.

It’s almost as if my flights of fancy from last December finally settled back to earth in front of me…

I gathered with friends at the cabin early for Shared Silence and Milton’s summary of what we’ve learned about Process Theology—how the language of religion and the language of science can be translated into a third, new language that integrates spiritual, philosophical, and metaphysical concepts with the most current understanding of quantum physics and string theory.

I lent a hand picking up litter and trash along our adopted highway, Chrisman Lane (Kentucky 1273). When I first started doing this I figured I was making up for the candy wrappers I tossed on the ground as a kid and the beer bottles I threw at speed limit signs after I turned 18. I don’t know how many garbage bags it took before I figured I’d balanced my karma. Now I do it in tribute to my friend Mack, who I miss every time I travel his favorite road, one of the prettiest in Boyle County.

After sending out an email notice to areas cyclists, I made the drive to Blue Bank Farm. I mowed the Clan graveyard, helped Jeffrey pick garden vegetables, and brought some apples down from the orchard for Mombo. When I got back home, Dana and I finished cleaning up the porch and front yard before munching down on fresh tomatoes.

God — Friends — Community — Family

When it comes to the important things, days probably don’t get much better than this.

— David and Lee scheduled an appointment to look at a house on the 400 block of West Broadway, so we tagged along. I had a bad feeling about this. Californians bought the house last summer, and it seems as though they had more money than good sense. Workers and dumpsters suddenly vanished a few weeks ago. Our look through the property confirmed my worst suspicions. One of Danville’s finest historic homes had been hung up and gutted like Duke Brian in “Gorky Park.” Reportedly, the owner can’t be located. To add a ludicrous element to the whole thing, a daughter is now asking prospective buyers to pay an even higher price than her mother paid for it—a perfectly livable home that was stripped, raped, and left for dead.

— Analysts are predicting that the demand for refurbishing Web formats may soon overtake the need for new site designs. Prices for domain names are dropping, a clear indication that the market for original sites is slowing down. Some agencies and firms are staffing specialized divisions devoted to economical “creative makeovers.” Deep within his Sanctum of Fortitude, Website Makeover™ Man is contemplating his fate.

— Watched a copy of “Broken Trail” last night, which Terie taped for us (before our vacation with Marty), because we no longer pay for channels like AMC. It was interesting to study the similarities and differences in Duvall’s performance, compared to “Open Range,” along with the contrasting directorial styles brought to similar subject matter. And speaking of contrasts, the radically different character that Church personifies, versus his memorable Jack in “Sideways,” is worth the viewing. As much as I liked “Broken Trail,” and as much as I admired its aura of authenticity, the screenplay does suffer unfortunately from what I’ll refer to as presentism. For the most part, in my opinion, Costner managed to avoid presentism when he made “Open Range,”—an impressive personal achievement, quite frankly, since his indulgent first western reeked of it. Nevertheless, who doesn’t like the entertaining “Dances,” in spite of its PC tone?

V & S

I had a city commissioner, our tourism director, and the lead economic developer look to me to suggest some bicycle-pedestrian language for the Bluegrass Area Development District’s “Comprehensive Economic Development Strategy” document. Admittedly, had they done that last fall I might have totally freaked, but today I was able to come up with something in short order, essentially off the top of my head. Hmmm…

An important thing happened at my
B.I.K.E. meeting tonight. The people that showed up took the bull by the horns and put my idea of holding an open forum back on the table. The difference this time is that it’s going to be for bicyclists only, by invitation, and not promoted to the general public. An experienced facilitator agreed to moderate the event. The consensus was that it’s time to put our organizational framework in front of the cycling community and see what they want to do with it.

I think that many who were there felt a bit uneasy about moving things sharply away from my proposed agenda items, but I was pleased with the development. My goal all along was just to provide enough leadership to get a team of volunteers moving forward with their own defined priorities.

Tonight we had over 30 cyclists show up for our ride from downtown Danville, a new record. Most of us would agree that it has a lot to do with the outstanding bicycle coverage provided this year by the Advocate Messenger.

B.I.K.E. has had a goal of boosting participation in regular group rides. A turnout like we had this evening causes us to intensify our focus on safety. Another priority for us is to increase awareness of the “Share the Road” attitude. I’m hoping that our advocacy organization can work my connections at the newspaper to develop a story idea that better explains the issue of motorists and cyclists coexisting on local streets and highways.