Uncle John’s Log & Co.

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.

— 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

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

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

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

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

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

Overwhelmed by the awesome developments of the past day, I have to stop and decide where to begin my account.

Well, it turns out that the timing of Mombo’s surgery had to do mainly with her choice to move ahead promptly. After some initial uncertainty, the procedure was planned for the next morning. Because her valve leakage did not justify repair or replacement, it was possible to use the “beating heart” technique—open-heart surgery that does not require the problematic heart-lung machine. I think this stroke of good fortune made all the difference over the next 24 hours. Can you believe it? While her heart continued to beat, Dr. Martin performed two by-pass grafts plus a mammary-artery splice. Amazing! He used a new less-invasive method to harvest an adequate section of vein from her leg for the grafts. She received one transfusion to keep her h-crit from dropping below the 30s.

Dana and I stayed at the hospital until 10 pm, and we got to see her twice in the ICU. During the second time, I could tell she was responding to our stimuli, even though she was still under the anaesthetic. Today Joan reported that at 3:30 am this morning, the ICU nurse woke her up to tell her that they’d taken Mombo off the vent. Even though it wasn’t regular visiting hours, she got to see that Mombo was awake and talking a bit. By 5:30 she was sitting up in a chair, speaking to Joan again. She says Mombo could remember her, me, and Dana being there at 9:30 the night before. Rachel came to visit at 9:30 am. According to Joan: ”They wouldn’t let us go back for a little while and we didn’t know why. Well, it was because they were taking out all her tubes and getting her ready to go to a room on the floor! We couldn’t believe it. This truly is a miraculous recovery. In less than 24 hours after they took her into surgery, she was back in her room.”

As I write, Mombo’s vitals remain good, and we’re getting ready to head back to Lexington for a visit.

— Month of March workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-3; Run-4; Lift-6; Yoga-8

— My body isn’t the same one I had ten years ago when I could run a 6:41 mile, but attention to physical fitness is the key to all my other areas of fitness. Lots of people talk to me about their desire to exercise more or to find the time to start again, and I tell them it’s “just a habit like anything else.” Motivation has its place, but for most regular exercisers like me, it’s just something we’ve learned to do by habit. If you don’t exercise, you’ve just learned to do that by habit instead, like the habit of not reading much or not flossing teeth. Replace an unwanted habit with a constructive one—easier said than done. As trite as it may sound, it usually comes down to the familiar Yoda quotation, “Do or do not. There is no try.”

— Naturally, I’m thinking about the March Experiment today. I recognized some time ago that it’s not really about breakthroughs in professional achievement. but rather about the consciousness of continuous personal awareness. That may sound like a particularly selfish pursuit—and it is. On the other hand, I’ve come to believe that control of self-awareness is at the foundation of sensitivity to others. Compassion is rooted in mastery over one’s emotional priorities. Perhaps some individuals are just born with a natural magnanimity. Since I wasn’t, I must take pains to find the necessary inner balance. Therefore—the exercise in March. Yes, I’m now considering making the practice an annual refresher.

— Mombo sends word that Joan, Caitlan, Janet, and Jerome have arrived safely in England, and Brendan met them at the airport. I hope he fixes them up with a blogging station, so we can get the latest news from London. Wow. When I think that it’s been almost 33 years since I was there, my eyes roll back in my head. I can’t imagine what it would be like to visit again. Many things would look the same (the museums and tourist sites), but other places are surely gone forever (those hip shops on King’s Road in Chelsea, etc.). Have fun, guys, and fashion your own memories!

— It’s April, my favorite time of year. Thinking of my family on holiday and having dinner tonight with my household has filled me with gratitude for wonderful things, especially with so many in my hometown mourning the senseless loss of Chiara Levin, a victim of wanton irresponsibility while visiting Boston last week. I am thankful for all the good fortune in my Clan, for my health, for the opportunity to live a creative, meaningful life in a decent community, for an extraordinary partner in all things, and for the Almighty who sustains me. I am truly blessed…

V & S

March experiment—day eighteen— Well, I may not have broken the back of the “Joe Box” dilemma, but I think I managed to harass a disc or two toward that goal. Joan and Caitlan stopped by on their way to the farm and delivered more boxes to keep things interesting, plus a weird hand-built crank wheel of some sort. Marty helped me clear a better work space for my 3D project in the coal bin. It’s been a while since he’s been in there, and he realizes that now he needs to duck to move around, too. He helped me carry furniture into the refurbished kitchen upstairs. Dana’s been working diligently this weekend with all the finishing touches. Life is quite good, if one puts emphasis on the blessings. At times it seems like three steps forward and two back, but things are moving in the right direction.

Today’s sight bite— The scrubbed green of winter abutting pastel blue—c-l-i-c-k—as I run the hilltop hay fields of KSD’s property.

Tomorrow— Internal and external agenda items expand to fill the day…

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

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

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

March experiment—day seven— I came back from the gym this morning with a strong desire to make up for lost time, and the result was a day of progress beyond anything I could have hoped for. My pace was such that I could even feel the “rusty” spots in my collage technique, but those shouldn’t be too difficult to burnish over the next couple days, and then I’ll start working on my first “Joe Box” this weekend. I use that term because of its double reference to Joseph Cornell, the master of box assemblage, and Joe Wood, who personally acquired my raw materials. It pleases me to know that, for whatever reason, these objects appealed to Joe. And now, with Joan’s approval and due to her kindness, I’ll interpret them as three-dimensional art. Speaking of Joan, her entry about the Lady Rebels says it all. In tonight’s paper, Hayley is quoted as saying she’ll be “out for blood” next year. Admir’l Lice himself couldn’t have said it any better!

Today’s sight bite— At the highest spot in town, the morning sentinel glides from atop the tallest tree with one pump of his massive wingspan—c-l-i-c-k—and circles the human far below, who stands earthbound amid the downy evidence of a recent meal.

Tomorrow— “Cruise control” at my basement work station dedicated to collage…

With the “Compassion” exhibit over, Dana and I went to Joan’s Fourth Street duplex and joined her work crew (after I picked up my collage from EKU and we split a quick Chinese lunch). We tackled the kitchen wood-staining job and then I did various other tasks—took some steel wool to the leaded-glass window, primed some faux paneling in the foyer, put a second coat on the kick-plate, and touched up the mantle edging. We laughed when the disposal of a used paint roller triggered the unforgotten, ever-dissociated “Makko-Bird” declaration. The day flew by and I was totally beat by the time I realized I should quit. Undoubtedly my exhaustion was intensified by the fumes, plus the crash from a wickedly sweet bliss bar that Dana brought back from Starbucks. Joan treated us to a late Mexican dinner and we sang “Happy Birthday” to Mombo over the cell phone.

These must be the “good old days.”

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

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

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

Hey, enough of that— My valentine sweetie awaits!

I’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.

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!

My sis is meeting her chum Deb at Centre tonight for a MoLM performance. I taped the Lithgow made-for-TV version a while back, but never watched it. Joan says it’s worth viewing. Dana made a delicious chicken dinner for Joan and me before the show. We were planning to stay home and watched the SoTU on television, but Jeanne stopped by earlier with some Planet-made Rebel sweatshirts, and now I want to go watch Belle play ball. I’ll catch the C-SPAN re-air later.

I still regard the president as a genuine leader, but only one of three Americans is still following him, which isn’t a major problem, unless, of course, he turns out to be wrong. Anybody who talks as though his legacy is settled, or offers foregone outcomes about what he’s set in motion, is merely engaging in ideological speculation. The history of our era is far from having been written. None of us knows how this will turn out, and I can’t be convinced otherwise…

During my early six-miler yesterday morning, I couldn’t help but brag on my niece to the other runners. Boyle’s Friday-night win over Lincoln was a huge upset, and, even though the opposing team played poorly in many respects, it was an extraordinary thing how, at a point in the basketball game when her team could have resigned themselves to a loss, Hayley took a leadership role on the floor and sparked an improbable, heart-pounding rally. Joan and Mombo were there, too, and it was fun to share the experience. With the newspaper write-up on Thursday, it was a big week for our Number 3.

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

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

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

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

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

You can seek your life to find

Answers that satisfy your mind,

But Jesus spared your life by giving his,

And, Brother— That’s all there is.

Because I was out there moving before daybreak in that stinging rain, I guess it means I’ve managed to re-infect myself with the running bug. So far so good, when it comes to one 2007 resolution. On mornings like this I have to work at mentally distracting myself, so I was thinking about someone who recently talked about their dreams of flying. At the time I wasn’t sure I could recall one of my own. Last night I had a real doozy of a flying dream. There was nothing about the actually flying that seemed unusual. Since it was foggy in my dream, I was concentrating mainly on avoiding smokestacks, tower antennae, and power lines. There’s only one reason I can think of as to why I might have dreamed that—learning about the announcement of a proposed high-tension transmission line that will cross Garrard County. The map published in the newspaper this week appears to locate it uncomfortably close to Kelley Ridge. David confirmed my suspicion when I showed it to him. I’d assume Joan had heard about it, but found out she hadn’t when Marty and I stopped to have dinner. It was nice, very delicious, and a joy to spend time with her at her cozy home (the house that Joe built, but Joan burnished). The lad and I took the opportunity to visit on our way back from EKU. I had to deliver an artwork accepted to the “Compassion” show at the Giles Gallery.

Mombo and Joan decided to travel with us, and we were in no hurry to make our way towards home. Yesterday was Uncle Bob’s 70th birthday, and I think that gave me the idea of our going to Yellow Springs and popping in on his son, Dan (not the type of thing you could do on a holiday with just anyone.) It turned out to be a wonderful experience, with an outdoor meal hot off the grill, and a rare opportunity to examine an extraordinary private art collection, including an astonishing series of wood engravings by Dearth. It was fun to talk to Elizabeth about her studies at U.C., and to wish Olivia well before she departs on her adventure to Spain. My magnanimous cousin gave me some pawpaw fruit as we were getting ready to leave, and he reminded me that nothing is more important than family. On the way south, we discussed the possibility of Darb’s relocation to the Blue Bank Farm, which, if approached with thoughtful planning and a bit of imagination, could be a win-win situation for her and the entire Clan.

Bruce spent most of the day resting. He wanted to leave for Indianapolis after tonight’s concert. Quite some time ago, as a 40th birthday present for her son, Dana got tickets for a rare Bruce Cockburn performance at the Kentucky Theatre. Lee and David decided to go, too, and the five of us drove to Lexington for dinner at Natasha’s before the show. We had a great meal and great seats. Bruce was clearly pleased with his gift. Early this morning on her way to work, Joan dropped off hers—an excellent copy of “Walden” that belonged to Joe Wood. At lunch, Bruce and I had a good talk about writing as a subtractive process, and the necessity of brutal self-editing (not unlike the practice of “design refinement” drilled into me as a university student). I’m finally beginning to fully appreciate Bruce’s artistic spirit. My anticipation for his creative output is a familiar craving with which I’ve learned to live. I respond to artists in one of three ways—indifference, inspiration, or demoralization. Although Bruce Cockburn’s sensibilities tend to fall a bit farther to the left than mine, he doesn’t fit the description of a stereotypical liberal musician. Experiencing his creative energy inspires me to my own art, and maybe that’s one more thing my son and I have come to share.

In Lexington this morning, a commuter jet crashed while trying to take off from the wrong runway, killing 49 of the 50 souls on board. I bicycled out to Shared Silence, and left for Kelley Ridge when I got home, to help Joan get her armoire to the upper floor. I didn’t find out about the accident until she told me. Jeffrey had to leave, but I stayed and had lunch with her, Caitlan, Josh, Pat, and Verla. Caitlan and I talked about her internship, and I also found out that Josh will be working full time as a screen printer for the 10th Planet. Joan sent me home with gifts, including Berry’s book on Harlan Hubbard and two of Joe’s old wooden boxes that will enable me to create assemblage under the influence of Joseph Cornell. She also loaned me a James McMullen book which totally throws open my thinking with respect to a concept for the Brass Band Festival poster. I worked outside when I got home, swept the driveway, and finished stacking my salvaged bricks. I got an email informing me that the son of a cycling pal (Martin V of Burgin) had died in a rock-climbing fall. I helped Dana finish her food preparations for Bruce’s visit, just as he arrived. It seemed so amazing to have him here after his first solo Interstate drive in a very long time. It was only a year ago that he was still in the thick of a battle against potentially deadly infections, so this marks another important milestone in his slow recovery. Jeannette and Ben stopped by to see him and have a bite to eat. Terie, Marty, Joan, and Caitlan paid him a visit, too. It’s been a happy evening, in a house not usually so full of life, but I’m acutely aware of the overwhelming sense of tragedy that so many other Central Kentucky families must be feeling tonight.

Drove to Hot Springs yesterday via 25-E, which, during the daytime, is a much more pleasant route than the Interstate. It gave us an opportunity to locate the LMU campus and learn that it’s quite close to the Cumberland Gap tunnel. Much of the way I read to Dana from “Simple Loving,” a book that used to belong to Joan and Joe. By the time we arrived at Broadwing Farm, we were thinking sufficiently “outside the cube” to make our short breakout worth it, even if nothing comes of our appointment tomorrow. Bob and Carol had a delicious supper prepared and we talked until sleepiness held sway. Typically, we spent today in deep conversation, fueled by natural foods, fresh air, a majestic view, a run to the nearby coffee hangout, and a dip in the spring-fed pond. Carol turned us on to Sarah Susanka, Bob convinced me to start watching the series “Band of Brothers,” and Pete gave me some hemlock slabs from the sawmill for my woodcut experiments. The regional infestation has worsened to the point that he’s been forced to harvest a lot of hemlock from the forest, but the timber is being put to good use in building a horse stable and a third rental dwelling. This one will be called Cedar, and will surely add to the success of Poplar and Pine at Broadwing Natural Bath Cabins.

Began the day with an early 31-miler with nine of my best cycling chums—out to a remote area of Mercer County between Harrodsburg and Perryville, and then back to Danville in a hard pace line on U.S.150. Mark M mentioned a trip to the Appalachian Trail north of Hot Springs. It got me thinking how we could blend that with some out-of-state prospecting and a long-overdue visit to Broadwing Farm. Then I devoted most of my Sunday to further progress on three mixed media collage pieces that I need to have finished by Tuesday. I knew it might be nice to visit Joan during her final shift at the book seller, but I just don’t have an extra penny to spend. I’d like to start “Huck Finn” soon, but I can just borrow it across the street at the Boyle County Library.

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.

All I wanted to do was locate a copy of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,” and Joan has to go and bring me under the spell of Harlan Hubbard. I walked right into it, without philosophical defenses nor emotional armor. Like a dang fool!

Well, at least I’m leaving tomorrow for a humble dwelling at Barefoot’s Resort, where I can make an effort to sort out my longing for paintbrush and engraving tool, clean and eat fish caught with my own pole, and put on my wet suit again, returning to the long meditative swims in open water that I’ve daydreamed about for nearly a year… to contemplate what life will now be like with Harlan under my skin and Joe Wood’s gaze in my imagination, keenly observing how I deal with it.

While at Kelly Ridge, Joan let us pick out some of Joe Wood’s old fishing poles for our trip to Michigan. She also handed me a book by Harlan Hubbard titled “Payne Hollow.” I pointed out to her the handwritten note on the front jacket flap that said, “Not for loan.”

“Too bad,” she replied. “He should’ve stuck around to enforce it.”

I immediately began to read the small work, as Dana drove us north for a few Lexington errands. I’d never heard of this memoir—the heartfelt story of an artist-craftsman and his quest for an isolated, unconventional life close to the earth, but I quickly understood why it might have been one of Joe’s most treasured books. Hubbard describes his conviction that a longing to live an even more primitive, solitary existence is less important than the compromises necessary for the richer satisfaction of a married life.

The author did not win me over from the start, but rather by slow degrees. I’m struck with the parallel of my own experience with Joe himself. Perhaps he came to the same conclusions about a life alone. Perhaps this is my sister’s way of helping me better appreciate the natural course of their own love story.

Wow… and I still have the second half of the book ahead of me.

Lately it seems as though the more I try to get physically organized, the greater the resulting mess.

I’m sure she wouldn’t be pleased to learn this, but all I have to do to feel considerably less overwhelmed with my own clutter is to witness firsthand what my “Big Sis” is dealing with at her two unfinished properties…

The “Etch A Sketch” came easier to me than it did to most, but I never dreamed of doing work like this guy. Joan sent me the link to his site.

I suppose I’ve always had fairly decent eye-hand coordination. My sax fingering wasn’t that good, though; it had to do with rarely practicing, in addition to being able to blow on a reed, which I always detested at some fundamental level. Actually, I could have been a great bulldozer driver, or operated one of those tall cranes they use to build a skyscraper. Maybe I could even fly one of those Predator UAVs… Video games? You better believe I could do that, but I’ve never really allowed myself more than a dabble with Marty now and then. For me, doing more than that would be about as wise as trying rock cocaine.

I spoke to Chris P on the phone today and confirmed our reservation for the hilltop mobile home at Barefoot’s Resort this month. It’s ours from the 15th to the following Saturday morning. He said they’re having the best fishing season in over ten years. Lots of yellow perch and northern pike. Marty needs to pick out one of Joe Wood’s fishing poles for the trip. Joan was kind enough to offer him one a while back.

It’s clear that the cormorant control measures are finally kicking in, and the news is exciting. To restore the natural fishing pattern of the Les Cheneaux is the ultimate goal. As much as I love fishing for king salmon in the U.P., one has to recognize that the Michigan resource managers stocked those waters with salmon in response to the dwindling number of indigenous species. It’s only too obvious now that the introduction of non-native water fowl caused a devastating ecological imbalance that’s only now being successfully mitigated.

Dana and I spent some time this afternoon having coffee with Beth, a good friend of my sister. She just finished writing a book and was celebrating with a big piece of chocolate cake when we arrived. I don’t know Beth that well, but sometimes you don’t need to know a person that well to realize she or he is observant, thoughtful, compassionate, and imaginative. It was nice to have such a respectful listener—someone sincerely interested in what we’ve learned from life’s experiences.

It’s refreshing to have a good conversation with a creative individual who can open herself to huge ideas and still be totally grounded in reality at the same time.

I hope I get to talk to her again.

My sis sent me word that it’s the birthday of Emerson (He’d be 203 today, in case you were wondering.), and also this characteristic quotation:

“Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries, when they wrote those books.”

Some people don’t care for quotations, but I like one now and then. Emerson used them often, but you can bet they weren’t hand-me-downs. Reading an Emerson quote is for me like watching a good trailer. You have to see the movie.

That’s why, once Joe Wood got me started on RWE, I won’t ever stop digging behind those quotations.

Joan made a special trip to Danville this morning to meet the application deadline for an employment opportunity here. I’m glad she did it. Nothing may come of it, but, in my mind, she’s uniquely qualified to excel at this newly created position, and it would be a job she could enjoy—something she deserves. Actually, I just like the idea of her working only half a block away. That would be cool.

Last night before bed I read Ian’s post about his mother, and it would’ve buckled my knees if I hadn’t been sitting down. And then I had this dream where I was swimming in a pond and there was this powerful suction hole at the bottom that carried water a good ways off, and I got up the courage to swim into it and it sucked me through a tunnel and spat me out down a hill. Then someone else decided to try it (I won’t use a name), and they didn’t come out the other side. I had the horrible realization that the person had become stuck and was probably struggling and holding his breath, so I had to decide immediately whether to go in, too, with the hope of possibly dislodging him and forcing us through, but having the clear awareness that we would likely both be stuck and drown—or whether to do nothing—and I had to decide NOW. It was so frightening that I woke up and I haven’t forgotten about it yet. Sorry, I promise I won’t make a practice of recording my dreams here. Maybe all this is because I was talking to Mombo about that bad dream I had back in January.

My big sis has recently returned to her daily journal.

It makes me happy…