Uncle John’s Log & Co.

March Exercise —day fifteen— Spent most of the day with interactive classwork on the Web. Can’t believe how quickly the hours pass when I immerse myself like this. KET replays Charlie Rose at noon, which makes for a convenient lunch in front of the tube, if I don’t swim laps. It was another hour devoted to the NYT guys who write about emerging personal technology, and that means they talk mostly about the newest Apple products. I don’t really lust after that stuff if I don’t pay attention, but how can I not pay attention? I can’t seem to put my finger on it yet, but there’s something vitally important about these advances that directly affect my future as a creative person.

Today’s sight bite— A pit bull, brownish lab, gray shih-tzu, and some sort of Jack Russell-chihuahua mix —c-l-i-c-k-e-t-y-c-l-i-c-k— were among the assortment of canines sparked into animation by my brisk town walk this evening.

Tomorrow— Perhaps the warm sun will be back . . .

March Exercise —day nine— There is much for me to learn about adapting to the evolving field of graphic design. I simply don’t know yet what it will be like to make a living as a designer during this decade of the twenty-teens. I’ve given most of my creative life to that profession. There are things that I will do to keep pace with changes in the communication arts, but there are other things that I will watch pass by, with no intent to chase. On the other hand, I’ve determined to accept the challenge of learning entirely new skills and frames of reference for an emerging phase of life. I’m not prepared to disclose more about this now, but suffice it to say that I’m currently a couple years into a learning curve that will enable me to generate income in a completely different way. It’s something of which I’ve always been capable, and in which I’ve always held a strong interest, but advances in technology now make it feasible for me to follow my enthusiasm for developing such a new kind of expertise. I should be able to apply these new skills in earnest by the time I turn 60 years old. I expect it to become a vital part of my work-style into later years, and, when fully successful, to provide new levels of creative freedom. In actuality, there is no summer and autumn of life. There is only the promise of perpetual springtime.

Today’s sight bite— The brave blooms of March —c-l-i-c-k— that rear their purple heads when nothing else looks like spring.

Tomorrow— An important observance . . .

Teachers and school boards should embrace comic books and graphic novels as a “gateway” literature, helping children transition towards more complex narratives and helping boys catch up with girls in reading achievement, according to a new study.
—Giuseppe Valiante, Postmedia News

I was thinking it might be about time to add another entry about “The Legend” to this neglected series, but then Joan passed along a link from the Vancouver Sun that forced me to ask a question: Were comics a key aspect of my own progress toward literacy?

It’s gettin’ kinda hazy, but I recall being heavily into the Hardy Boys as a pre-teen, and comic books were a treat, like the Saturday morning “Treasure Chest.” (Remember Chuck White, or This Godless Communism?“) As readers, we used to add little summary cards to our handmade “books pocket” —until junior high years and the move to Tipp City, and then the comics craze struck with a vengeance. We even managed to scrounge funds for subscriptions! (Jimmy Olsen? What were we thinking?) I recall few youthful activities as pleasurable as absconding with an “80-Page Giant” of Bob Kane Batman stories after school (on a day that I’d made a midday trip to “Jointer’s” lunch counter). DC reigned supreme, but we still liked Casper, Wendy, and Hot Stuff, too. We couldn’t get our fill, so we hunkered down with Superman whenever we made a visit to Pam and Lottie’s. “Superman Red and Superman Blue” was the pinnacle experience. Sadly, for me, everything was downhill from there. And when someone let that litter of kittens make a stink of our comics box, the era came to a ignominious close. I moved on to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne, and Raphael Sabatini.

Should I be marked down as a statistic?

Oldenday…

March Exercise V —day twenty-nine— I had my eleventh session at the eye center with a substitute therapist, and she gave me a “Brock String,” a simple but powerful tool for binocular training that improves accommodative (focusing) and vergence (aiming) skills. Dana was gone most of the day on an EKU campus visit with Marty. When they returned, he was excited to report that he liked the school and would do everything he could to get enrolled for the fall term. Dana, who hadn’t been feeling particularly well over the weekend, took a turn for the worse after too much outdoor exposure while touring the facilities.

Today’s sight bite— Bold shapes of red, white, and black —c-l-i-c-k— as symbolic abstractions challenge my perceptions.

Previously on M-Ex— At the home stretch, I get good news. (3/29/07)

Tomorrow— The roofing crew is due at the Town House . . .

Our conventional and limited view of adult neuronal plasticity derives in part from the specific ways that scientists and physicians have designed laboratory experiments and clinical therapies. We cannot understand neuronal plasticity by studying brain circuits in isolation from the whole person. Only by considering a person’s adaptations and response to her condition can we really explore the amazing plasticity of the human brain to rewire itself throughout life in order to recover from injury, learn new skills, improve perception, and even gain new qualia.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze

Susan Barry’s book is certainly not for everyone, but like many works that explain a long misunderstood aspect of human health, reading it has been invaluable to someone who must personally face the unknown, accept a daunting challenge, and believe that one’s own body has the capacity to respond positively to a holistic, self-corrective discipline. I’m thankful that the book was recommended and glad that I read it before undergoing my first therapy session tomorrow morning at the Vision and Learning Center. I feel fully committed and as prepared as possible for 30 weeks of treatment. I’ve placed my confidence in people who might be dismissed as charlatans by some medical specialists, but that’s nothing new for me. I even heard a top expert on the Charlie Rose Brain Series recently insist that there is a “critical period” during childhood that governs the development of visual perception, which makes it impossible to correct some eye disorders later in life, a misinterpretation of research that Barry says has been long discredited by scientists and vision therapists. Well, I’m about to conduct my own experiment, under the guidance of individuals I consider to be knowledgeable, trustworthy professionals, and I’m eager to get started. Enough preliminaries! I’m fortunate to have the Center within a reasonable driving distance. Sure, I wish it wasn’t so dang expensive, but isn’t that why The Guy in the Sky grew plenty of oak trees on my knobs? Onward…

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

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

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

March exercise—day twenty-eight— At the end of last month, my astonishment at randomly meeting an art student who’d written a paper about my artwork on display at EKU caused me to write on Facebook that the incident blew my mind. Long-time friend Craig S commented that, “Dix has been recovering from a blown mind for 40 years.” Putting all nonsense aside, I’m pleased to have that student, Jonathan R, take the time to email his finished assignment to me. Coming from someone of his demonstrated talent and artistic dedication, I consider it an honor that he selected my work for investigation. There are times when I’m convinced that all one needs to do is follow creative intuition and let the universe take care of the rest.

Today’s sight bite— The plate-steel square at 300 yards —c-l-i-c-k— alarmingly small to the naked eye when positioned above the tip of a rifle’s front sight.

Tomorrow— Final Sunday of the month…

March exercise—day twenty-four— My thoughts were with Marty today and his college entrance examination. He’s making a conscious choice to seek higher education. For me it was just a given. I’ve been spending a considerable amount of studio time designing graphics for organic pork promotion, although I need to find a way to balance my hours with a wider array of projects. I tend to do this—focus intently on a single creative task, which I enjoy, but if I can become more agile with my versatility, I believe I’ll find more ongoing satisfaction with what I accomplish on a weekly basis. On another subject, I feel like I’m getting back in the groove with the Pilates class. Back troubles took a big chunk out of my exercise program this winter, and I’m ready to put that into the past.

Today’s sight bite— Fingers of rose extend above the downtown view-scape —c-l-i-c-k— as I break the crest of a hill at sunrise and direct my walk toward home.

Tomorrow— Rain clouds and more dental work…

March exercise—day fifteen— Made some decent progress on a new safari artwork and prepared two final-number engravings that I’ll send on approval to a print collector. Accidentally spent time in front of the tube watching an art history program on the KET-ED digital channel. Realized I must never forget to learn even more about the roots of modern art. It dovetailed with our recent viewing of The Rape of Europa, one of the best documentaries I’ve seen in a long time. Dana produced art in the kitchen with a another day of fine meals. As usual, I am the fortunate beneficiary.

Today’s sight bite— A Sunday invasion of workmen and their equipment —c-l-i-c-k— executing a belated but welcome pick-up of our ice-storm waste heaps.

Tomorrow— Second-half buzzer sounds…

photo by Rita Dixon, 2005

KK called the Clan Hall from England on Thanksgiving to announce that she had answered “YES” to Kyle’s proposal. Two days later, “Our girl got her furry hood!” —to quote her proud “mum.” That should be “gril,” sister.

A fiancé and an Oxford degree to go with her blade. Sounds like she’s on a bit of a roll.

Jeanne e-cast the good news yesterday— Hayley has scored her sought-after “full ride” to Campbellsville University. The Advocate published an interview today, and I always get a kick out of these stories about Belle, because she’s been so quiet around me, and then seems so verbally expressive in the journalistic context. Her mom reports: “She worked hard and overcame obstacles to realize her dream to play college ball and have her education paid for. She has visited several times, really likes the coaches, spent time with the girls (has scrimmaged with them, too) and most of all, likes the “feel” of the campus. Her next dream/goal is to be a school counselor and coach girls basketball. You should see the look on her face… it’s priceless.”

— As a kid, I think I first heard about Rube Goldberg from Mombo, and, although I never investigated his career in detail, he became another piece of supporting evidence with which I built the notion that I could grow up to be a cartoonist. The other day I was talking to a friend and fellow advisory board member at The Salvation Army HQ and learned he’d just attended the Rube Goldberg Machine Contest at Purdue University, where his grandson is an engineering student. Relying on their solid “home court advantage,” the Purdue team kept the prize at home for the third time in the last four years. My cousin Joe’s daughter, Michelle, goes to school at Purdue, but I’ve never asked him about her area of concentration.

— Watchmen is without a doubt the most satisfying “comic book” I’ve encountered since Joan and I discovered the story of “Superman-Red and Superman-Blue” at Pam and Lori’s house back in the 1960s. To call it a comic book will be off-target for those unfamiliar with the Hugo Award winning publication, which TIME Magazine included in its 2005 list of “the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to the present.” When Brendan found out I’d never seen it, he dropped off a copy during his cross-country road trip. Thanks, NB. You know what I like.

— In less than a month, my level of inner peace, tenuous at best in this stage of life, was shaken twice. First I learned about my Godfather’s death in Ohio, which brought a deep sense of personal loss. I looked over some of his characteristic letters about dogs and gardening and things, traveling north with Dana to represent my Clan at a family service in St. Marys. Then came the aftershock news of Charlton Heston’s demise, a different kind of sadness, having of my own volition attached my spirit to his particular brand of patriotism many years ago. I took comfort in reading again the short letter he sent me around the time of his last public announcement. It was a personal note of appreciation for my having mailed him, over a period of years, a series of handmade birthday greetings. Greater consolation came in a message from my own Godson about my Uncle Don, and the statements Nic and his brother Seth made at Facebook about their regard for Mr. Heston, including recollections of meeting him with some of us who attended his book signing in Lexington. It was heartening to know that men of the next generation will value his enduring contribution to safeguarding the array of civil liberties we enjoy as Americans. Two resolutions honoring Mr. Heston—H.Res. 1091 by Congressman Don Young (R-AK), and S.Res. 512 by Senator Jim DeMint (R-SC)—were introduced this week in the two houses of Congress.

— Joan’s blogging has set a recent standard that can only be described as outstanding, and I need to regain my rhythm. Much to report about events in March and my current activities, but the emphasis remains with daily efforts to spin straw into gold. A life engaged in hustling after the next buck just seems to be the governing principle, or, as Mombo used to say when I rubbed the morning “sleepers” from my eyes:
Another day; another dollar…

V & S

I think I’ve accepted that happiness is not a state, but an event that should be savored each time it occurs. May we all be blessed with many regular occurrences, and learn how to pursue their arrival.

Kyle is right, and probably Caitlan knows it deep within, but part of coming to terms with that eternal “kk dilemma” is understanding that we aren’t called to perfect ourselves with a single endeavor or cycle of accomplishment. It’s more about the will to strive—and the steady commitment to a more difficult path—than it is the measure of any product at intervals along the way.

There’s one thing this graybeard has learned—the key is Balance. But, as I’ve so often stated, “Easier said than done.”

I recall a time in my own studies when I received the second of my two most treasured letters from Dadbo. The first was when I was an adolescent, but this second note was in response to my angst at the tremendous rigor of my undergraduate program. I could dig out the correspondence and include a quotation, but I won’t. In some ways, the message that sticks with me now (and always) remains more profound. He took time to reinforce for me the old wisdom of “all work and no play.” It was a lesson about Balance—a lesson that he was still learning at an age (then) that was a bit less than mine (now). Within a relatively short time, he would suffer his first heart attack. Easier said than done.

Nobody worth listening to will tell us the journey toward balanced self-refinement is an easy one. I’ve had my periods of 60-to-70-hour work weeks, as well as my indulgent—and ultimately pointless—excursions into doubt, fear, and denial. I guess it’s part of the terrain, or it was for me. Sometimes there is no discernible outward difference between compulsive depletion and focused commitment, or between apathetic procrastination and therapeutic relaxation. I hate to admit it, but it’s not always inwardly apparent either, although it usually is. The conscience is rarely fooled. Nevertheless, the intuition of the heart is not always equipped to pinpoint the nature of its discomfort, and can only signal that something doesn’t feel right. We must continue to train our faculties of spirit and intellect to solve the puzzle of personal destiny. And, take it from me—the whole thing can still look like a miserable mess without the proper physical component. It’s quite amazing how a brisk walk, a long bicycle ride, or a mile in the pool can provide a fresh perspective on most troubling situations (not to mention the value of sound nutrition and a good night’s rest).

My mind is running this course in part because I’m using Leap Day to prepare for a third annual March Experiment. I’ve decided to pull away from the online journal to enable a more sustained level of active concentration. Whatever can be temporarily set aside for intensified focus needs to be put on hold during the exercise. I’m beginning to get excited about it, feeling the positive anticipation that comes with diving into the regimen, much like putting on the wet suit for a Lake Huron swim, realizing it will be cold, but concerned more with the determination it will take, after the initial plunge and past the inevitable yelling of an underwater “fuck,” to gain the efficient forward momentum required to cross the channel safely, with no thought for my turning back, because mental defeat is unthinkable—no obstacles exist but the outworn patterns of consciousness.

Nothing is impossible to the man who can will.
                                    —Mirabeau

Before the month is over, I’m extending my personal Black History studies to include some outstanding African-American women.

During this month I’m attempting to learn more about the African-American men that I revere most. It goes without saying, but aren’t Wikipedia and Google something else? I can’t imagine what it would be like as a young student, having at my disposal these remarkable tools!

— Each time this year I’ve run the 5+ miles back downtown from the cabin, the time has felt shorter, even though I’m running pretty slowly these days. The silence transpired more quickly for me this morning, too. Milton handed out his periodic survey to the group, and I discovered a 1961 Horizon in Mack’s studio that had an interview with Andrew Wyeth, famous at the time, and now the greatest living American painter. I’ll have to digest the whole article during another visit, but I was able to scan a few stimulating quotations, and then Sara Jane offered me a new commission, with the freedom to interpret a photographic image with my choice of style—the perfect assignment. Everything conspired to boost my motivation to aggressively advance the Brady and Eckerle projects, plus my fine-arts enterprise in general. I couldn’t think about anything else as I ran home. So, why am I sitting here with this log entry?

— Cliff and I had a conversation about blogging the other day and it got me thinking about my string of 616 or 617 consecutive posts, and how important making daily entries used to seem. Brendan still refers to this site as a daily journal, but that hasn’t been true for well over a year. Once again, time is malleable, and, as Arnold has said, there’s adequate time each day for everything meaningful enough to do. Blogging isn’t about the time, but about having something worth saying to yourself, maybe worth recording, possibly worth sharing. I eventually figured out that doesn’t happen every day. When it does, not much time is required to get it down.

— Terie and Marty bought the M:I:3 DVD and left it at our house, so, late last night, I watched the J.J. Abrams picture for the second time, and I liked it a bit more this time around. I think Tom Cruise is the Burt Lancaster of his generation. Regardless of what I might think of his personal life, his work product demands respect. (Hey, not all celebrities can be a James Stewart or Charlton Heston; Lance Armstrong falls into the same category.) If Cruise had not become an actor, he would surely have been an Olympic or professional athlete in some discipline. He has the mentality and natural capacity for high-performance physical achievement. Although one of the least flamboyant stunts, his Chinese-village tile-roof footwork is probably the riskiest choreography in the movie. As I’ve declared before, I think he squandered the full potential of the classic franchise and put its longevity at risk, but this sequel is the best of the lot, the most team-oriented, and it fits nicely into our ancient family idea of an M:I Saga Series. In my opinion, Abrams is a creative, meticulous director with a feel for the spy genre compatible to Mission: Impossible—Cruise certainly can’t be faulted with his selection—but Abrams will need to have further honed his story-telling skills to do justice to his upcoming Star Trek feature, another Desilu-originated concept from the “silver age” of television.

— Local historian, R.C. Brown, is dead at 90. He once saluted me on a Danville street as, “Mr. Dixon, the Spin Doctor!” We often held different political perspectives, but shared a fascination with local heritage. I recruited him in 1991 to expound before a camera, as part of a fundraising documentary (the same program in which we cast Alyx as a child actress). He was in his 70s then, and I was young enough to think I might have a future directing videos (as close as I got to being Ken Burns when I grew up). Brown was the doctor, not me. He was from Ohio, too, but went on to get a Ph.D. from the University of Wisconsin. He taught history at Buffalo State College for 28 years. When he retired to our area, he rapidly became an authority and wrote The History of Danville and Boyle County. I’ll always believe that Professor Brown respected me as a talent, even though I consider his remark shaded by a mild one-upmanship. Perhaps he did understand better than most the true nature of my commercial craft, but I hope he wasn’t thinking of Victor Papanek’s quotation:

“In persuading people to buy things they don’t need, with money they don’t have, in order to impress others that don’t care, advertising is probably the phoniest field in existence today.”

I prefer this one:

“The only important thing about design is how it relates to people.”

— Thomas Bewick, my newest hero, couldn’t escape the ongoing necessity of making money with “coarse work” (as his daughter called it), despite his artistic reputation and unmatched skill as a wood engraver. I wanted to return the library book and avoid fines, but couldn’t help myself, and finished the biography by Jenny Uglow this week. As I said previously, learning more about his life has reinforced for me the notion that, although everything changes on outward levels, nothing really changes in the human dynamics of making a living as an independent, creative craftsman. I was notably saddened when I learned that he never fulfilled his dream of having the cottage workshop close to nature described in his memoir:

“The artist ought if possible to have his dwelling in the country where he could follow his business undisturbed, surrounded by pleasing rural scenery & the fresh air and as ‘all work & no play, makes Jack a dull Boy,’ he ought not to sit at it, too long at a time, but to unbend his mind with some variety of employment — for which purpose, it is desireable, that Artists, with their little Cots, should also have each a Garden attached in which they might find both exercise & amusement — and only occasionally visit the City or the smokey Town & that chiefly for the purpose of meetings with their Brother Artists.”

Dana reminded me that we all tend to get what we desire if we want it badly enough.

V & S

I’m chest deep in deadline mode, plugging toward a Monday presentation, but I have to stop for a moment and muse a bit about the wonderful womenfolk in my Clan.

My sister Jeanne stopped by yesterday and made a gesture of astonishing generosity that I won’t describe here, but that warmed my heart. A week ago, my sister Joannie gave a gift of her time and helped us make progress on our remodeled conference room with “galley kitchen” project. I have amazing sisters and I try to convince myself that I deserve them.

Yesterday, my niece Jerusha had her third baby—this time a girl—named Torrance Rylee. She has long fingers and is sweet to behold. Dana and I stopped by the hospital for a spell before heading out to the high school to watch my niece Hayley lead her team to a decisive win over a good team that defeated them earlier in the season. It was a 28-pointer for our Belle, by my count, and that missed her season high by a point. I was really rooting for another basket, but she kept feeding her teammates instead, helping them in achieving their own season highs. Magnanimous… like her mother and father, and like her Grandy-bo, too. I also thought about the other grandfather she never knew—Len. He might have been even more proud than any of us last night.

Susan and James came to watch, and I found out that my niece Rita will be studying in Europe this summer—traveling, writing, and making photographs. I can’t wait to enjoy the results of that creative adventure. And, speaking of adventures, my niece Caitlan has added competitive rowing to her extraordinary schedule at Oxford, England. Unreal. Keep it up, KK!

They’re all so awesome, and I could go on with more, but I’ve already rambled for too long. It’s time to return to the drawing board, and I’ll be thinking about my Uncle Bob’s noteworthy proposition that the story of our family is a story of strong women. Indeed it is.

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!”

At the end of the workday, Dana and I rushed over to EKU for the opening reception of the “Compassion” exhibition. I saw Beth and Jim at first, and was even more surprised to see that Mombo had come along with Joan. I felt oddly self-conscious, almost as if I was sure they’d be disappointed. It was a completely irrational thing, because everybody seemed to think it was an interesting show, and the best part was to be together and talk about it. My collage earned a hundred-dollar merit award. I also got to meet and talk to Dobree Adams. The head of the art department told me about the media and animation lab he’s currently setting up. After a quick inspection of progress on Fourth Street House, we had a yumptious Indian dinner with Joan and Mombo to top off a very special night. The others had to dance around the big news, because I hadn’t recently paid a visit to NFD, but I found out as soon as I got home —Brendan is doing it!

Marty was here to interview me for a writing assignment, and it’s impressive to see how seriously he’s taking the school project. I filled one side of a cassette tape during our Q & A. That should give him plenty to work with for his rough draft. After a hearty supper of turkey burgers and sweet corn, we hauled more loads of brick from across the street. Since Marty started lifting weights, he’s gotten noticeably stronger. He matches my height now and, judging from his big shoe size, he still has some growing to do.

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.

Tonight’s supper was simple, yet incredibly tasty, thanks to the addition of my brother’s garden produce. He offered us a couple buckets of veggies last night when we visited the Blue Bank Farm to dump yard clippings and pick a container of blackberries. It’s sad that I nearly forgot how good a tomato can taste. The generosity of Dadbo lives on in the heart of Fron…

Saw Nic with his long hair on the way into the Valley, and he helped me unload Ned at Ivan’s old repository. Mombo wasn’t home, but I picked up my copy of the legal papers, and got to see the Virginia E. Dixon Revocable Trust documents in their final form. Turns out that our family meeting wasn’t rescheduled after all, so we actually did miss it while getting settled in Michigan on the 16th.

Much of my time today was spent preparing to lead my first B.I.K.E. | Boyle County meeting in two weeks. With respect to this type of public service, my reflections during the recent southbound trip, after leaving Barefoot’s Resort on Saturday, have me convinced I need to focus on the tasks at hand and avoid the temptations that come with community prominence. This ego needs to be kept on a particularly short leash, so just get the job done.

It was fun to talk to Seth when I saw him briefly in the driveway upon arriving home—on questionable leave from GSP, but in the company of his smiling mother. That he was totally engrossed in his “eye-opening” academic adventure was evident. It’s great to see him grappling with his dreams. Set your sights high, lad…

• He overcame his childhood learning challenges to become the most highly educated and professionally accomplished member of the family—a Clan Treasure.

• Compassionate, open-minded, tireless, inquisitive—all the qualities one would hope for in a physician.

• More than a superb clinician, he’s truly earned the descriptive term of healer.

• Many call him friend—I’ve never seen a person more naturally comfortable in the role—and a generous one he is.

• He selected his mate as carefully as he picked his vocation. He chose both wisely. And now he investigates the responsibility of fatherhood with the same sincere, prayerful, conscientious approach.

• He could have given up. He could have carried hatred. He forgave instead, and unlocked the door to a lifetime of victories.

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

I think Seth was minding his own business with his date tonight in downtown Danville when he suddenly discovered the rugged terrain of a Danny D conversation. It was good to see him before he begins GSP at Centre College next week, but I stupidly neglected to acknowledge his recent 18th birthday.

— Last night I did the 30-miler to Stanford and back and felt strong. Back in July of 2005 I did that same ride and I was burnt toast by the time I got home. This is called progress. As a result, my legs felt a bit spent in the pool today, but I almost broke my 300-yard record time anyway. If had the buckers, I’d locate a challenging summer triathlon and go for it. “My favorite thing that makes me happy is… money.” Tell that to the Graybeard Prospector.

— If you can believe Zogby, 20% of 18-24-year-olds think that Germany was our ally in the second World War, and 52% could not name the American president who fought it. OK, the only solution is to produce a new WWII movie blockbuster that drills it into their heads. Here’s the cast—Dennis Quaid as FDR, Hilary Swank as Eleanor, Ed Harris as Ike, Paul Giamatti as Truman, Tim Robbins as MacArthur, Pete Postlethwaite as Montgomery, Ethan Hawke as Ernie Pyle, and Michael Gambon as Winston Churchill. Top that! I know, I know… lots of big battle scenes and pre-deployment consummations.

— I’m starting to see indications of blogging backlash, and maybe you’ve seen the same thing or—Heavens, no!—are part of the lash. Well, if you have any doubts about how constructive blogging can be, check out the way Dr. Weston has integrated it into his teaching at Gruntled Center.

— I had my second meeting with Wilma today and it looks like my having a one-man show at Danville’s Community Arts Center in 2007 is nearly a “done deal.” Stay tuned…

— Take the “Which Superhero are you?” quiz. I am ROBIN!

— BCA got a digital camera for his birthday present. Look out—the torch has passed. I didn’t go to his party. I figured I’d be too intimidated by all the celebrities.

V & S

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

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

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

— Ok, it’s 54. Happy Birthday to me.

V & S

— Month of March workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-5; Run-5; Lift-9; Yoga-9

— Word arrives from Greystone that Nicholas received his letter of acceptance from Auburn University’s College of Veterinary Medicine—news that makes his uncle and Godfather very proud. This is clearly an extraordinary year for graduates in our Clan. In addition, Caitlan is finishing up at Georgetown, and then she’ll be heading back to Oxford University to begin working on a second degree. Congratulations to both of them!

— Although it rained most of the afternoon yesterday, David, Rick, and I were able to have an enjoyable shooting practice under the range shelter since there was no wind. We alternated with four different antique rifles—the London-made Martini-Henry sporter (to which I’ve completely bonded), a Martini full-military “Long Lever,” a Winchester Model 94 in .30-30, and a Winchester Model 95 in .30-06. For the first time ever, I was able to hit targets at 300 yards with iron sites, despite the difficulty of contrasting recoil, trigger pull, and site configuration for each firearm. By Jove, I think these friends have made me into a long-range marksman! It was an ideal prelude to a meeting of the Wood Duck Society. When I showed it to him before dinner, Rick had a positive response to my artwork commemorating David’s South African safari. So far so good. Tonight we’ll see what the people in Louisville think of my “Legacy Art” concept.

— Still capturing sight bites — An energetic pair of fowl, landing on a surface that mirrors dawn’s first hues—c-l-i-c-k—joined moments later by a second couple… The wood ducks have returned to Simpson Knob for another season, on the weekend that pays tribute to their modest splendor.

V & S

March experiment—day twenty-five— I spent my 30 minutes of silence at Mack’s increasingly dilapidated cabin praying fervently for my uncle, who’s fighting his way back from critical care, so he can get the heart surgery he desperately needs.

I ran back to Danville afterwards, just as I had run the five miles out to the cabin, but my legs became alarmingly stiff at nine miles or so and I had to walk a bit. I smiled to think that only a few minutes before I’d been advising J M on how to accomplish his 50-miler next month. Obviously, I’m no ultra-marathoner these days. When I mentioned it to Dana at breakfast she reminded me that it’s been four years since I did mine. True enough.

After the silence, our friend J R (Buck) shared eloquent words about how an aging athlete faces the traumatic decline of the physical body. Fortunately I have no experience with this subject, so far. Uncle Joe does—more than he deserves.

For decades, there was no greater advocate for physical fitness in Southwestern Ohio than Joe Sullivan. He’s had a positive influence on hundreds of educators and literally thousands of young people. He introduced things like tumbling mats and trampolines to the region and designed numerous state-of-the-art gymnasiums. And that doesn’t even touch on his contributions to coaching or his achievements as a college professor. You would think that he’d earned some points that would spare him the pain and indignity of a physical breakdown—he of all people, but it looks as though the Lord makes no such deals. Grace, on the other hand, is another issue.

I will continue to pray the Hail Mary for Uncle Joe.

Today’s sight bites— The march of ditch clutter, to the lower left of my stride, a parade of Newport packs and green Mountain Dew bottles—c-l-i-c-k—Little Caesar’s cartons—c-l-i-c-k—blue Bud Light cans—c-l-i-c-k—Long John Silver’s boxes—c-l-i-c-k—red McDonalds French-fry pockets—c-l-i-c-k—Arby’s bags—c-l-i-c-k—dip containers, soda straws, and orange candy wrappers—c-l-i-c-k—with the helpless notion that I should at the very least interpret all this as an artistic statement, an homage to Kurt Schwitters called Scenic Kentucky Highway 52…

Tomorrow— Drawing a good friend in Africa, plus an important call to Virginia (the Mother of Presidents, not Mombo—the Mother of Me—although that’s not a bad idea)…

March experiment—day ten— Tackled the lopsided landscaping in front of the Town House porch (between thundershowers) for most of the day until it was time for our trip to Richmond. We had a pleasurable “first-date observation” at the Punjab, and then attended the St. Mark’s annual theatrical performance—my sister Joan’s last to organize there, before she moves on to new adventures.

Today’s sight bites— Pre-teen waiters with slabs of cake—c-l-i-c-k—greasepainted faces caught in a spotlight crossfire—c-l-i-c-k—button-breasted singing maidens—c-l-i-c-k—a wide-mouth “Master Colin”—c-l-i-c-k—and the joyful expression of a mentor surrounded by her proud students.

Tomorrow— Early morning ride to Mack’s cabin, as well as a few stubborn issues in the studio to solve…

It took longer than I expected, but my drawing for the Housing Authority was a pleasure to execute. The illustration technique I used was directly inspired by my favorite masters of pen and wash—Jack Unruh, Ken Dallison, Joe Ciardiello, and Alan E. Cober. Dallison is known for his automobiles and Ciardiello for his portraits, but all of them have worked with great breadth of subject matter. I’ve marveled at their skill for decades, but they have a similarity of approach that is close enough to my own capability that I can relate to how they visualize and have learned from their prolific examples. Unruh is exceptional—equally adept at rendering people, places, and the natural world—and I could die happy if I gain a fraction of his ability. Cober, who, of the four, actually did die (happy I hope, although much too young), holds a special place in my personal history. At the height of our indecision concerning what to do about the crumbling situation at Wright State, Dana and I had the opportunity to question him at a workshop. He counseled us to trust and follow our instincts, so the two of us got out together. He was a great adviser to hundreds of talents over the years, and I’m grateful to have been one of them.

This is one of those moments when I think that I didn’t begin to get a real education until after the age of 50, when I finally settled for me as a teacher.

Me said, “It’s not too late to learn how to think.” I answered, “Ok, Me. Let’s get started.”

Joan was kind enough to make some of Joe Wood’s books available, and there was one I accepted with particular seriousness—“The Conduct of Life,” a collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Perhaps true book-larnin’ doesn’t take place until one can center on an idea or theme after confronting it from multiple directions.

A good start, but there’s little chance a revelation will be internalized until put into actual practice.

Here is something I just read from the essay called “Power”—

When Michel Angelo was forced to paint the Sistine Chapel in fresco, of which art he knew nothing, he went down into the Pope’s gardens behind the Vatican, and with a shovel dug out ochres, red and yellow, mixed them with glue and water with his own hands, and having, after many trials, at last suited himself, climbed his ladders, and painted away, week after week, month after month, the sibyls and prophets. He surpassed his successors in rough vigor, as much as in purity of intellect and refinement. He was not crushed by his one picture left unfinished at last. Michel was wont to draw his figures first in skeleton, then to clothe them with flesh, and lastly to drape them. “Ah!” said a brave painter to me, thinking on these things, “if a man has failed, you will find he has dreamed instead of working. There is no way to success in our art, but to take off your coat, grind paint, and work like a digger on the railroad, all day and every day.”

When I was a preteen, Dadbo brought home a carload of aerospace magazines from work. Did I cut out all the cool pictures of rockets and supersonic aircraft? No… I cut out and saved the marketing symbols and corporate trademarks. I can’t explain it, but I always had an affinity for letters and graphics (the GE emblem on the refrigerator intrigued the heck out of me), but I had no clear comprehension of either the fine or applied arts, any sense of the distinction, or what an artist actually did for a living, other than maybe draw cartoons, paint signs, or think up a few crazy advertising ideas like Darren Stevens. My junior high art teacher had worked as a commercial artist before switching to art education. She didn’t actually instruct me in any specific graphic arts techniques, but I did gain one valuable thing from her—she made sure I understood that commercial art was a viable aspiration for a talented person. But there was something else between the lines, as though it was our secret, this notion that commercial art wasn’t exactly noble, that it wasn’t real art. Hmmm, so what was real art? Didn’t have a clue. Norman Rockwell? For petesake I didn’t even realize who Bob Clampett and Ralph Bakshi were poking fun at when they created a cartoon character called Go Man Van Gogh (the wild beatnik artist on “Beany“). I just knew that I was fascinated by comics and advertising art and loved to study lettering and draw words as pictures. I remember painting the word “ICE” with watercolors, adding the archetypical mounds of snow and ice-cycles around the letters. It was almost a right of passage. Weird, eh? I had four different art teachers in four years of high school. I hate to be unkind but each one of them was worthless. I had talent, so there was no reason to spend time with me. It was more important to babysit the goof-offs who took art as a “cake” elective. No wonder I sent off for the Famous Artists home test. I don’t think I even realized how desperate I’d become. What others might have viewed as crass merchandising was a Godsend for me. The individual attention I got from instructors in far-off Connecticut was something I’d never experienced before. And even though the course introduced me to both the fine and applied arts, there was something about commercial art that made me feel at home. When I saw the classes offered by UC I didn’t get the same electricity from reading about figure drawing, painting, or printmaking like I did from discovering that I could take design fundamentals, typographics, photography and film/animation. I was pumped! I wanted to go to college so bad I turned cocky and couldn’t wait to blow my hometown and head for the big city…

Olden…