Uncle John’s Log & Co.

“Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea. A man dies on shore; his body remains with this friends, but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness in the event, and a difficulty in realizing it, which give to it an air of awful mystery.”

—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
 

We navigate in a sea of souls…
    Grim reality has a way of sweeping aside all the self-absorbing trivialities that clog a journal like this, but rather than ask myself — “What’s the point of it all?” — why not scratch ahead with a continued search for meaning? Maybe for me. Maybe for you. Maybe, maybe not. If I stopped believing it worth a try, this would be my final post.
    Not long after the bulk of our community had shaken off the surprise of our shared crisis, most of us were shocked to learn that the life of a respected local leader had been tragically lost. If his name was added to the list of Kentucky’s weather-related deaths, it is unknown to me, but what is clear is that he was found in a vacant house where he’d been working with a generator. The coroner said the circumstances were consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning. It was a mild day. He wasn’t attempting to heat the building. People speculated that the wind blew the door shut while he was operating a sump pump. The precise circumstances remain a puzzle. I didn’t know anyone active in town affairs that didn’t consider him a friend. He covered the leadership bases—from business to social service. He made multiple trips to the Gulf Coast as a volunteer to help with the Katrina response. He was highly intelligent, compassionate, and knew how to do almost anything. The Chamber of Commerce named him “outstanding citizen” over fifteen years ago, but he never slowed down. He took to his grave an unmatched knowledge of the County’s industrial development history and infrastructure. He was the last of a breed of quiet men who had made a truly significant difference. The abrupt vacancy was painfully felt. I spent two hours in line to offer his family a few words that wouldn’t sound trite. I’m not sure that I succeeded.
    I didn’t attend the funeral the next day, but paid a visit with my friend Danny to the Abbey of Gethsemani. It was my first time there. It was raining and in many respects would have been considered a dismal day, but others were also making the same pilgrimage, and I found a sense of peace in the setting that defied personal understanding. God is everywhere, but keenly present in some places, and that suggests to me the appropriate use of the word “sacred.” We also stopped at the Saint Rose church in Springfield to meet Father Murray, and I had my first look at the extraordinary Bavarian-style windows. Father Murray is extraordinary, too. At age 87, he looked to me to be in his mid 70s. He told me, “Well, I’ve always gotten a lot of exercise.” He pointed out 70-year-old trees damaged in the ice storm that he helped plant when he was a novice. The seminary was moved east long ago and the associated buildings demolished, but the church remains, a splendid structure full of artistic treasures, including a 13-figure Last Supper and a 12-figure Pentecost, all wood carved in the Italian fashion. Danny wanted to show me the Convent near Loretto and to check on any damage to the outdoor Way of Sorrows. It was evident that huge limbs from the tall grove of surrounding trees had crashed all about, but the only casualty was The Crucifixion. We marveled that each figure of Our Lady had escaped harm, but that “Christ took the hit.”
    Several days before, Joan had an opportunity to meet Danny when he joined Joan, Dana, and me at the Hub for coffee after one of Hayley’s high-scoring victories. It was another meaningful, in-depth discussion about heavy subjects. Joan thought she might have intruded and skewed the conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Danny told be later he was pleased to meet her and said that my sister was a “strong soul.” He is correct, of course, but I’ve already known that for some time. Danny is quite a soul himself. The word I would use is “magnanimous.” Yesterday he brought over his pole saw and tied himself to my chimney so he could deal with the big branches that were still jack-knifed on our rooftop. One of his earliest memories is watching his father top trees as a lumberjack in the high Sierras. He seems to have the right tool for everything and knows how to use them safely. I can’t say how much I appreciate that in two hours of work together, his generous favor of skill has saved me hundreds of dollars in tree-service fees (or maybe more, from what I’ve heard around town about what people have been charged since the storm).
    So, with power now restored for Mombo and Clan Valley and the last of my storm-related headaches resolved, can I say that circumstances have returned to normal? “Not hardly,” as the expression goes. I think I’m battling the same virus that put Bruce back in the hospital yesterday with pneumonia. We’re sleeping on the floor because we made the blunder of giving away our old mattress before FedEx delivered the complete replacement set (and, wouldn’t you know it, they lost part of it). I have no complaints. Things are picking up in the studio, and I have a fun project to work on with KK & K. It’s time to put the Crash Bucket away and begin preparing for the March Exercise.

“A well man at sea has little sympathy with one who is sea-sick; he is too apt to be conscious of a comparison favorable to his own manhood.”

—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
 

Seven Deadly Zins
    Lee fixed an elaborate, delicious dinner last night, and my plate’s fare was more than I could finish. The Harrisons broke bread with us, too, and then left for a Norton Center performance. They’re still based at a motel, so that tells me Gose Pike remains off the grid. Access to David’s laptop provided an opportunity for us to glance at our growing accumulation of email. I could merely glance at Caitlan’s request that I design the invitation for her year-end wedding. And after that, the big news: Bruce called to let us know our power was back on—at last. We relaxed with Appaloosa for an encore viewing and then gratefully returned to a gradually warming house.
    When the ordeal is over, a strange kind of pride or sense of self-congratulation comes alarmingly easy. While others foundered, panicked, or were just plain clueless, if one was in a position to rely on prior judgments and preparations, there can be a satisfaction that is not entirely admirable, because it too easily creates a comforting detachment from those who are still suffering, from those who are still counting the days. Somewhere in the heart is a motivation to move beyond protecting immediate family to a more general community outreach, but the longed-for end to personal crisis brings too strong a desire for the return to ordinary living.
    And how smooth it can be to slip into that “new era of normalcy” without also seeing the experience as a call to greater preparedness. True, there seems to be an ongoing series of natural disasters distributed here and there, and this could be seen simply as “our turn” and to say, “All’s well that ends well.” But is it more astute to count blessings without losing a sense of guarded optimism, keeping one eye on the potential for more of the same or worse? Or perhaps that’s the unbroken “crashologist” within—my inner “doom-and-gloom-er” who needs to keep his powder dry and the gas tank on F.

“It is not the least of the advantages of allowing sailors occasionally a day of liberty, that it gives them a spring, and makes them feel cheerful and independent, and leads them insensibly to look on the bright side of everything for some time after.”

—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
 

HITCH—Can I finish my coffee first?  COLE—You surely may.
    Terie’s power was restored last night, so all of us ate dinner at her place in Junction City and watched the Ed Harris picture, Appaloosa. (Superb western!) Terie fixed me up with a replacement mobile phone before we left. Even though KU has declared our residence restored, there was no power when we got home, but things seemed a bit more tolerable, just for having been in a warm, functional space for a few hours. Dana and I shifted our sleeping arrangements to the downstairs room in front of the gas grate. I was restless most of the night, until early morning, although probably better off than I would have been on the frigid second level.
    Worked outside today on the “endless” expanse of fallen limbs—slow progress without a chain saw. I talked to Bill, our business neighbor, and, although he still had no power at his Parksville residence, he discovered he had electricity in his law office across the street. Dana got through to the light company again and informed them of our status. The CPAs next door are still without power, too, and, since we’re both connected to the same utility pole, all we can do is wait for someone to show up to fix it. Ruined limbs are visibly putting pressure on the line. Bill thinks that might have triggered something.
    Dana is anxious to get out of the house, so we’ve decided to use the locker rooms at Centre, find an open restaurant, and then spend the evening at Lee and David’s, not knowing what we’ll come back to. Bruce went to Terie and Marty’s, so we’re shutting off the gas and leaving for the evening—with our fingers crossed.

“But all these little vexations and labors would have been nothing—they would have been passed by as the common evils of a sea life, which every sailor, who is a man, will go through without complaint—were it not for the uncertainty, or worse than uncertainty, which hung over the nature and length of our voyage.”

—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
 

We are out of champagne and I’m stuck my dear…
    Water pressure came back around breakfast time. I immediately began filling a bathtub, but forgot about it, and it almost overflowed (my tub is so old it has no safety drain). Still no power, though. More areas of the city have been restored, including Lee and David’s neighborhood, but the whole idea of our benefiting from a downtown priority was in error, because Main Street is back in action with traffic lights and storefront electricity. Obviously, we’re not part of that circuit. More likely, we must pay the price for all the tree damage on Lexington Avenue and the block of Broadway to the west. Fortunately, our new gas water heater is operating again, so at least we now have hot, running water, which makes taking a shower the most inviting development of the day.
    Two KU trucks were out front for a few minutes and linemen were examining the service connection next door, where the anchor is broken and the conduit is touching the roof of the car port. It looked like a promising sign, but a neighbor told me that the utility guys said what they’re currently working on would not affect this end of the block. I get the notion that nobody considers our area “low-hanging fruit.” I understand they want to restore the greatest number of customers as rapidly as possible, so if one happens to be on an oddball circuit, tough luck. As our house continues to lose its residual warmth, we cling to the idea that we’re on somebody’s checklist.
    In the event that it could still be days before we have electricity, I’m starting to urge more conservation of cooking propane, but, at the same time, push for a more open distribution of heat throughout the rest of the house to safeguard pipes. This results in a lower temperature for the main gathering room—not a popular condition to be advocating.

— Month of November workout totals: Swim-4; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-2; Lupus Drill-3

— Here it is, the tail end of December, without my making a full entry in well over a month. I suppose I haven’t had much to say, or maybe I’ve been bogged down in the same economic pessimism which seems to grip the country (and who needs to hear more of that?). Well, enough of procrastination. Let’s take an overdue look at some recent personal developments of a more positive nature:

— Bridget at Maker’s Mark® announced that The Mark of Great Art Website now lists the final disposition of our summer collection. Pursuit of Happiness is hanging at Cantaloupe (35 Charlotte Road, London) and The Mark of Stardom ended up at Toys (Calle Infanta Isabel, Madrid). I received good exposure in a feature about the London event, which was also used to raise money that provides visual art projects for people with mild-to-profound learning difficulties. You might agree that the article is not that well written, but who’s complaining? Those Brits don’t understand real English anyway, yuhknowhattahmean?

— I completed my newest wood engraving and returned to Larkspur for a day of printing on Gray’s antique Vandercook, a marvelous piece of equipment to which I’m blessed to be given access. No. 11 at the Paddock is derived from a digital I took at Keeneland during the recent Fall Meet. I also took the opportunity to finally create a numbered edition of Waiting for Joe, my first block under Wesley’s guidance. Needless to say, this low-res image is a poor representation of the actual engraving—

— Although my hope was to devise “The Original Joe’s Christmas Box” for our CAC’s holiday exhibition, I did manage to deliver Cosmic Cusp, a fusion of previous year-end compositions. I made the deadline in response to Dana’s suggestion, and the resulting piece is a stronger effect than the individual mixed-media components. That’s synergy for you!

— Sara Jane stopped by today to take her first look at my latest portrait commission, and it’s no exaggeration to report that she’s delighted with the result. Three Girlfriends is a departure for me. I haven’t worked with acrylics in ages, but I chose the medium for what I thought would be an appropriate interpretation of her original photograph. The picture of ladies posing dramatically on a beach suggested a series of translucent glazes to capture the luminosity of the morning surf, and lent itself to the back-lighting of the figures. I’m pleased that it worked out as well as it did, but I had the notion that if I patiently built up layers of thin color and milky washes on a smooth panel, I could avoid a brush-stroke technique (not my strong suit) and rely on years of experience handling liquid effects. I put in some necessary details with colored pencil, but the sealed acrylic surface made it more like “rubbing” tones and highlights, as opposed to typical drawing. In the final analysis, it proved to be a very interesting exploration.

— EKU’s Chitauqua Lecture Series Juried Art Exhibition (wow, that’s long) has once again favored one of my collage artworks. The upcoming “Freedom” show will include Fifteenth Cosmosaic, and I’m looking forward to the opening reception on January 23rd. As most people familiar with my work already understand, this series of spontaneous “mystical” compositions originated with graduation presents for my nieces and nephews. I’ve never been certain about how it might appeal to a public audience, but perhaps this is a good indicator.

— Three years ago I wrote about Paula, who lost a bout with cancer too early in life. During that time, the KBBC worked to find a way to put to good use the proceeds from the sale of the “Share the Road” specialty license plate. On December 11th, we finally had our public announcement of The Paula Nye Memorial Education Grants for bicyclist and pedestrian safety. The endorsement of our effort by the Transportation Cabinet and current administration was not a foregone inevitability, but when they realized: A) Thousands of plate buyers had made a voluntary contribution to help make Kentucky roadways friendlier to non-motorized travel; B) The Commission’s intent to independently administer the allocation of funds would cost the state nothing; and C) The grant program was a fitting tribute to an employee who had worked to diligently promote highway accommodations for bicyclists and pedestrians … How could they not support our concept? To their credit, the Lieutenant Governor and the Mayor of Lexington were at the Horse Park for our kick-off event. Strangely enough, David D, the public information professional who had shown enthusiasm for our project from the beginning and had orchestrated the media splash, died suddenly at work a couple weeks before the scheduled announcement, and that made the event even more tinged with emotion than anyone could have expected.

— I came back to the Blue Bank Farm this month with a muzzleloader and tried my best to close the season with some venison. Didn’t spy a single white-tail, but had to hear about Greystone’s Astrea dragging in a ruined ten-pointer that somebody failed to successfully track after the shot. Such was my luck as a hunter this time around. I haven’t enjoyed being in the woods this much for goodness knows how long, plus I had the rare opportunity to hike the knobs with brother Fron, as we marked boundary lines and plotted a mutual strategy for selective logging throughout our holdings. I have no good excuse for not connecting my soul with the land on a more regular basis. I allow myself to forget how much I will always love those acres. Folly!

— There is much room for gratitude and optimism in the coming cycle. Nevertheless, there are many significant challenges for all of us to face in 2009. I know a guy as old as me who has been retired from GM for eight years. He’s a nice man, but did he genuinely work hard enough during 20 years of employment to deserve a big income and benefits from the age of 48 until he dies? That could easily be twice the number of years he put in as a worker, or, if he takes care of himself, even more. Now, it’s one thing to dodge Taliban rockets in God-cursed terrain. In my book those brave Americans have earned a more-than-decent pension. But assembling ugly, inefficient cars that most thoughtful people would rather not drive? That’s “a horse of a different color.” Our nation would’ve surely crashed decades ago if all corporations had been managed as poorly as the Detroit auto companies. And they want to continue juicing the taxpayers to avoid restructuring under bankruptcy? Now, that’s what I call audacity.

V & S

Pearallel Universe
John Andrew Dixon
Mixed media collage
25 x 21 inches, 2007
Collection of Saint Joseph Health System

— Month of October workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-3; Run-1; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus Drills-1

To the heart of the matter
— I believe the latest recommendation for adequate exercise is 30 minutes a day, 4-5 days a week. Although my workouts are longer than that, the totals are falling short by a long shot. Can I get the daily habit back to preserve my health?

More library deprivation
— It’s been nearly a year since the library hauled itself off to the edge of town, and, although I knew it would be a bit of a hardship, I didn’t expect this level of low-grade suffering. Man, had I ever come to rely on that nearby environment for a periodic dose of mind-restoring tranquility—the kind that is unique to a truly fine reading room. I’m thoroughly impressed with the design for the new wing, but Karl told me recently that construction was three-to-four months behind schedule, so now I have no choice except to hang on until spring. I must have that extraordinary place available out my front door again or I shall go mad!

Sweet Owen County
— On Halloween I made my return to Larkspur for another printmaking retreat. It was a special time with creative people whose friendship I value more each year. An exhibition at the vineyards was mounted to honor Wesley’s work, and I was invited to include four of my wood engravings, since he’s had such a profound influence on my development in that medium. I sold one of my remaining proofs of Waiting for Joe, in addition to an unframed print of Penn’s Store, the latter to a collector interested in acquiring examples of my final edition numbers. Now all I have to do is print more limited editions of blocks that I’ve only proofed so far. I managed to complete a small block of a tiger, but was unable to finish during the workshop my larger, more complex engraving of a paddock scene I shot the previous week at Keeneland. It’s my first attempt at engraving a human figure, plus I had to include a horse and a stone wall, too, of course. What was I thinking? When I get it done, I’ll spend a day in Gray’s shop and print another block or two as well. Dana and Lee came up to the winery on Friday night and got to meet Wes and hear Juanita perform. Make no mistake about it—one can develop significant friendships at every stage of life.

Feeling a trifle exposed
— County employees demolished the little retail cottage next door to “put up a parking lot,” and it’s as if somebody yanked my gym shorts down. Whatever meager backyard ambiance we possessed is now lost. Instead, we have more noise, urban light pollution, and litter. I remember the year we held an open house and backyard gathering for Brendan’s graduation from Centre. If I’m not mistaken, that was the summer Carol and Bob came to the Brass Band Festival and spent time with us in the backyard. There are circumstances when a setting is at its peak and one rarely knows it at the time.

Custom built for a guy like me
— In a perfect world, Gene Wolfe might have contacted me to ask, “What type of a story idea would you like for me to develop that would please your singular peculiarities?” He didn’t have to. He wrote Pirate Freedom for his own reasons, and I became the grateful beneficiary without ever having to request “an absorbing tale of spiritual contemplation, time travel, and the golden age of piracy along the Spanish Main.” Unbelievable!

Dr. Quest’s pear-a-power ray
— I finally sold the mixed media piece I called Pearallel Universe. It was completed around the time of the original “March Experiment,” was part of my KOSMOS show, and made it out to New Mexico and back for the SLMM anniversary (but not without sustaining some damage to the frame, which the Albuquerque Museum people were kind enough to repair). It was purchased last week by Saint Joseph Health System to hang at its new ambulatory care center in Jessamine County. A hearty tip o’ the hat to LexArts!

My annual knob stalk
— My pals David and Greg are the sort of knowledgeable gun aficionados that know a bargain when they see one, so I was stunned when they gave me the gift of a 50-caliber muzzleloading rifle they just couldn’t pass up. When I recovered from the shock of their generosity, they taught me how to safely operate it—just in time for me to test it out during our recent Clan gathering, which happened to be the lawful period for using primitive weapons to hunt white-tails. I came as close to the moment of truth as I would that weekend when I cocked the hammer early Sunday morning, as three does crossed Robin Lick and made their way across a hay field, on the garden side of the Irrylynn gully. But something spooked the lead deer about 75 yards from my spot beside a round bale—my scent, the motion of my aim, or perhaps the pattern in my profile. She snorted an alert, danced a bit, and took off in the opposite direction, never presenting me an acceptable shot. As I say, that was the nearest I came to using my muzzleloader while I was in the Valley. Three weeks later I found myself back at Simpson Knob with my Marlin 1894S carbine, full of optimism for a freezer harvest, but I never observed a single deer in the woods, and neither of my two friends had the opportunity for a shot. This gives me a couple more options for success—this weekend at Blue Bank with the 44-Rem. magnum, and another December time slot with the Hawken-style that I’ve decided to name “Girty.” As much as I want to bring home some venison this year, there is nothing like having an excuse to be in the wild knob-lands at daybreak, whatever the outcome.

You’ll never walk alone
— Originally, our Hurray Day events were planned to coincide with the fifteenth anniversary of Dadbo’s passing, but we still wanted to have a family commemoration, even though the quarterly gathering was moved to the previous weekend. I was preoccupied with my tedious progress on the stone flue in the Hall, but I knew Joan was thinking about what to do, which is so typical of her desire to properly plan this kind of thing. We were listening to some old music and the tribute wasn’t on my mind when I suggested she experience Judy Garland’s stirring rendition of the inspirational song from Carousel. I’d never heard that version before, and Joan was out of the room when the CD track played. Had it been up to me, I don’t think I would’ve made the connection, but she realized it would be the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor service. I enjoyed spending some “palsy time” with my “big sis” for those two days, and it reminded me of how distinctive a life-long bond we share.

V & S

— Month of September workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-3; Run-2; Lift-0; Yoga-1; Pilates-2; Lupus Drills-0

— With my bicycle miles winding down, I’m adapting again to the Pilates routine, and the pool is beginning to feel like the best place to be for a satisfying workout. Tradesmen were replacing the lane blocks today, and the slender gal on duty was trying to tell me to avoid splashing their work area, but her voice was so soft I could barely hear her, even when she was standing close by. These students are technically lifeguards, but I wonder how often they look up from their assigned reading to see if a fiftysomething guy like me is on the bottom with a cardiac spazz-out. I’ve seen some fairly hefty dudes swimming laps in there, too, but I shouldn’t criticize, since I was a pool guard back in the day. One time I did have to pull a guy to the side who outweighed me, but it’s not like making a “save” in a pool is honest-to-goodness lifeguard work, compared to a lake or surf monitor. That would be like the difference between a first responder at a warehouse blaze and a homeowner putting out a grass fire with his garden hose.

— The deli on Fourth Street has taken a new turn and become the most interesting hangout in town. (I haven’t been within walking distance of a tap with Stella since living in Bruxelles as a callow youth.) Dana and I were down there having a chat with Geri about software upgrades, and I found myself talking like a proponent of “vintage systems.” Perhaps that’s because I’ve been making do with applications that suit my fluency, but are clearly a few notches off the cutting edge. Sometimes new means better, but not necessarily; it’s become a risky practice to make that assumption. Our friend Pat, an experienced user, and Victoria’s brother, a novice, are both living through a nightmare with their Vista operating system upgrades. People are talking about how Bob Staake illustrated a recent New Yorker cover using Photoshop version 3 on a Mac running OS7. Hey, we had our nearly 40-year-old Hobart refurbished this summer, and nobody will convince us that it isn’t far superior to anything built today. Old is the new New!

— My story about meeting Johnny Crawford was recently added to Ginia’s tribute site. She’s a very nice person. I like her quotation from Mark Twain: “A cat that sits on a hot stove, will not sit on a hot stove again. He will not sit on a cold one either.” Also found a connection at her MySpace page that Joan will get a kick out of: The all new DonGrady.com!

— I had fun creating a piece for the Library’s recent call for artwork. The opening reception for the resulting exhibit was tonight, and Nancy M won the best of show with her outstanding felt composition. Julius F was the juror, and he selected items for merit awards and honorable mention. He didn’t recognize my entry, but the collage, Cascade of Knowledge, was among those works library representatives chose for purchase and display in the new facility. This pleases me, because I produced it with the library setting in mind, hoping it would appeal to them.

— Bruce had a great letter to the editor in the paper the other day. Maybe his best so far.

— We never removed the old-fashioned TV antennas from our rooftop. I always liked the period look they gave to the dwelling, and besides, they were virtually inaccessible. Yesterday I climbed up there and installed an amplifier and new line for digital signals, without falling or electrocuting myself. By george it worked, just in time to watch the pie maker and the presidential debate.

— We always heard stories about how local county government had been interested in bidding for our downtown building on the 1988 auction day we won the Town House. That was nearly 20 years ago, and, for most of that time, we didn’t think much about it or suspect there was any continued interest. And then, with a flurry of new judicial centers being funded over the past few years, we began to hear rumors—too many to suit me—so I sought confirmation or denial from the Judge Executive. He admitted that the option to take our lot by condemnation to create the footprint for a court-system expansion had been discussed in his presence. Although he would not pledge to oppose the idea on my behalf, he declared that it was not his preferred course of action. I let him know how strongly I felt about my desire to keep our home and business location intact, here on historic West Broadway. Recently I shared the information at our annual neighborhood “Block Party.” With the current fiscal constraints on state government and the backlash against perceived extravagances in some of the judicial centers recently constructed, the mood may be slightly in our favor, but it’s difficult to shove the unpleasant possibility from the back of my mind, and the uncertainty works against the necessary enthusiasm to undertake improvement projects and the confidence to continue investing in our property.

V & S

Detail: Pursuit of Happiness, John Andrew Dixon, 2008

When traveling north to the U.P. after Labor Day, I cling to the notion that it’s still summer, with thoughts of sunny fishing expeditions and refreshing channel swims, but everyone else is beyond vacation, and all the kids are back in school. The illusion falls apart by the time we head south. Another summer ends, as do they all, and, as I look back on it, I realize that it held many good things, in addition to the silver linings that come with the not-so-good things.

Although, as I write this, the results for The Mark of Great Art contest haven’t been released yet, the outpouring of support and online votes make me feel like a winner already, no matter what the outcome. My collage artworks will go to London and Madrid, and there is no telling what will come of that. Any way I look at it, a breakthrough for my mixed-media style has been achieved, and I can add that to my first gallery sale of a wood engraving print, with the potential for new collector interest. Dana and I scored a new design client during this past summer, too. There’s much to be hopeful about—while the doom-and-gloom static of a self-correcting society buzzes in the background like a big, late-summer housefly during its numbered hours.

Prayers continue for Susan during her extended treatment period. Bruce is doing better. Mombo bounced back from a bout with medical side-effects. Uncle Si and Aunt Marian passed away at 91 and 92. America will never see their kind again. Lots of other things (happy and sad, exciting and troubling) percolate in my Clan and the concentric circles beyond it. What else is new? What else is family?

My summer was fully charged with the incomparable imagination of Gene Wolfe, thanks to Bruce. Having him here since he moved home from Indiana has presented more than a few challenges in a small dwelling that is also home to a business. That shouldn’t be a surprise, but the physical discomfort and inconvenience he’s put up with during those months surely would have been maddening to anyone without his astonishing resilience. Hang on, stout soul. Circumstances will break your way before long.

I almost talked myself out of joining my friends on their annual trip to the resort near Cedarville, and was still vacillating on the way to Ohio with Dana, as preposterous as that seems now. Bill gave Amy an engagement ring that night at her 50th birthday party. Dana and I had a nice meal in Tipp City the next day. She insisted I shake my funk and enjoy the following week of fishing. When I first arrived in the Les Cheneaux, my spirit felt oddly stale, and I knew I’d better make the most of the break, because it was clear I needed it. It’s always good to spend time with real friends, setting everyday cares aside. By the time departure was at hand, I was more attuned with our natural surroundings and my creative pump had been re-primed. We didn’t catch many fish, but the intangible benefits of charging inner batteries aren’t as obvious as an empty cooler. Autumn is here, and I’m ready for it.

Well, I got in an overdue pool workout today, hoping it would soothe the backache I’ve had since laboring over two big collage artworks last week. I’m in need of Jerome’s practiced hands, and, lacking them, I’m almost ready to consider the therapeutic course my friend Yu Saito prescribed for a painful back—Kentucky bourbon plus a night on a hard floor.

After three units of blood, doctors at UK are talking to Bruce about removing his spleen, which may be clotted and causing his periodic bleeding problem. Needless to say, he isn’t too pleased with the situation, the spleen being an organ one would not of one’s own volition ordinarily give up. Otherwise, he seems to be in much better spirits than I would be if I were in his position. Before our visit, Dana and I took some time for a delicious meal at Natasha’s downtown. We had a table next to pianist Ko Tagawa, and his “smooth sounds” colored a relaxing dinner that may be as close to a 26th anniversary observation as we are likely to have.

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

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

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

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

Things have been a bit interesting since my birthday. If this is what being on the other side of the speed limit is like, I’d better keep my wits about me. A couple examples…

It’s the water, it’s the corn, it’s the wood.
Dana and I traveled to Marion County on Saturday for my orientation to the Maker’s Mark project. Sixty Kentucky artists were selected to create works inspired by a visit to the historical distillery, and we couldn’t have had a more pleasant day to be guests at the rural complex. I enjoyed having the freedom to roam the facility for hours and learn more about how the hand-crafted product is made. Because my mixed media collage relies heavily on found material, I arrived with the hope of gaining access to lots of “ingredients.” No such luck. The operation is a model of “green” best practices, so the kind of detritus on which I’d set my heart simply doesn’t exist. It was one of the tidiest work environments I’ve ever seen, and everything unused is totally recycled, including all the byproducts of bourbon-making. Afterwards: downtown Bardstown for a delicious dinner at a sidewalk table to process the day’s sensory load.

Touch of a Woman / Voice of a Mother
Sarah shared her traditional holiday message at the cabin yesterday morning, “after silence,” although it was far from a quiet meditation. Wind gusts dominated the 30-minute ritual. After she began, the ancient tree just outside the north window cracked under the punishment and came down, striking the power line, but missing the startled humans only a few yards away. Her talk was entitled “A Woman’s Touch.” Mother Nature had decided to reach out and touch our gathering spot—without mishap to us, fortunately. After spending the rest of the day completing my poster design for this year’s Brass Band Festival, I reached out to my own mother and conveyed my fond greetings on her annual day. As usual, I was the last of her children to call. I think she might’ve had a nicer observance, were it not for all the ongoing doctor and dentist complications. The endless appointments, procedures, and prescriptions seem to be dragging down her quality of life. Her inclination is to chuck it all and do without, but, obviously, that’s not something she considers a realistic option, so, just like our Mombo, she keeps plugging and hangs on for the next period of well-being. (She deserves it. That’s my prayer and I’m sticking to it.)

— Month of April workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-6; Run-3; Lift-4; Yoga-0; Pilates-7; Lupus Drills-4

— Most of us own something that we can use to save money and have fun at the same time. When we do, we feel more in touch with the sights, sounds, and smells of our natural environment. It helps us relieve stress, manage weight, and add years to our life. It easily bridges the age gap within our families. It enables us to more directly perceive our urban context. Sound too good to be true? Not at all. You know what I’m talking about. It’s your bicycle. May is here—National Bike Month. Don’t forget to wear your helmet.

— Speaking of bikes, the League of American Bicyclists has named Portland, Oregon a Bicycle Friendly Community at the Platinum level. Portland is the first large city in the United States to gain the designation and joins Davis, California as the only other platinum community in the nation. Combine that news with the side effects of a cross-country solo car trip, and perhaps Brendan will reconsider his conversion to motorist.

— When the idea first came up about attending the “Get Motivated!” business seminar on my birthday, consent was based on the opportunity to personally experience a Colin Powell address. Indeed, the Secretary/General was amazing, but the entire day was far more worthwhile than I was expecting. I found myself equally enthralled with both substance and technique from a heavyweight line-up of highly successful leaders. Here are tidbits selected from my sheaf of scribbles:

 
     “Listen to your dreams, not your doubts.” —Robert Schuller
     “Understand your foundation of passion.” —Krish Dhanam
     “Don’t just learn something new, exploit it.” —Phil Town
     “Focus on an outcome as if it’s already happened.” —Peter Lowe
     “Every yes is hidden behind at least one no.” —Tom Hopkins
     “Transformations begin at home.” —Colin Powell

— Back to thinking about dual-wheelers . . . After two years of presiding over meetings, I’ve stepped down as chair of B.I.K.E. and passed the baton to my friend Steve. It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ll continue to work for greater “bicycle friendliness” here and throughout Kentucky. My hope is that all who have supported my initiative will offer the same level of encouragement to Steve.

V & S

— Month of March workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-3; Run-4; Lift-3; Yoga-0; Pilates-5; Lupus-3

— Another constructive “March Experiment” is under my belt, but it may be no longer accurate to call it an experiment. In its current form, the regimen has become more of an annual exercise. Perhaps next time around I shall discover and impose a breakthrough to make it truly experimental again.

— Brendan stopped by today on his way west (Way, Way West), and it felt good to personally wish him Godspeed. He loaned me his copy of Watchmen, and we also talked a bit about The Book of the New Sun. I asked him if he’d packed plenty of listening material. He said he would be playing his CD of a popular presidential candidate reciting “99 Bottles.” (Yeah, that last thing was a lame April Fool’s joke. I got Dana with a much better one this morning.)

— With the price of gold hovering near a generational high, the Graybeard Prospector turned over a new leaf last month, using every trick he could think of to see if he might stake some new claims. In the process, he connected with some new friends and old, including one from the Cincinnati days. His former pal Ray is working on a book with photographs of drive-through expresso shacks, which apparently are a feature of the American Northwest. Based on this information, it looks like Nephew B has hit the trail for the caffeine mother lode. We’ll see if he can stay clean and somber.

Five years ago — 4/1/03
— When will the turning point in the war come, and will we even recognize it when it does? Today the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs made an animated defense of Rumsfeld, Franks, and the war plan, in response to aggressive media criticism. It’s amazing to me how the press is behaving at a time of war… Today Dana and I had lunch at the Carnegie Club, listening to a superb presentation by Vince about the music of Duke Ellington, but a lot of it was autobiographical. He talked more than I expected about his youth and evolution as a musician, as well as his attitude toward teaching—clearly the real passion for him.

Ten years ago — 4/2/98
— The new Mac is sitting on a chair in the conference room, unpacked but unplugged. The workload is just now easing up enough to consider tearing into our current configuration… It’s time for me to set it up. I should be more excited, but I usually feel this way—a bit nervous—when I have to disrupt an existing system. The excitement will come later.

V & S

My log is currently suspended for the annual March Experiment.

— Month of February workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus-1

— If I accomplish nothing else over the next 30 days, I must find “the means.” I won’t try to define exactly what that means (hey, is that a pun?), but most of you know what I’m talking about. It can look like ferocity, but mere ferocity is no match for the kind of unrelenting competitive intensity that Uncle Don held out as mark of the victorious spirit. Well, maybe I did just define it. All I know right now is that I need to regain the source of it, and the man who coined the term is in the hospital and probably dying. He is my Godfather, and from him I inherit the challenge of “the means.” James and I were talking about him this morning when we accompanied Joan to inspect Joe’s Riverland. It was a wonderful outing that combined the gentle Lamb of March and memories of our lost Clansmen with an enduring camaraderie that is too rarely enjoyed (and I don’t mean scarce, but rare). I’m so glad we did it.

— Speaking of Joan: she uncovered this NPR feature that makes me think we might have been among the last of the “Oldenday Players.” This closing thought sums up the sad, ironic state of current affairs:

…in the rush to give children every advantage—to protect them, to stimulate them, to enrich them—our culture has unwittingly compromised one of the activities that helped children most. All that wasted time was not such a waste after all.

— Wow, did I ever miss the mark at the end of January when I failed to predict that the majority of Democrats were finally ready to kick their Clinton habit! Rather than Senator Obama’s campaign suffering from too many losses in too many states, it appears that the exact reverse has taken place, and now Hillary faces the need to complete an urgent end-zone bomb to stay in contention. Too bad that more conservative Republicans didn’t rally to Romney sooner and offer to the nation the kind of clear ideological choice that a Barack-vs-Mitt face-off would provide.

— Dadbo once gave us an item of firm advice: never work through a general contractor. He learned that lesson the hard way when he and Mombo built our house on the Shoop Road lot. The truth of his warning was born out last week by my experience with one of our clients who’s completing a new dental office. Due to the construction manager’s faulty information and his cover-my-butt attitude, what could have been a perfectly handsome interior wall treatment will fall short of what we worked to achieve on our client’s behalf. It makes me wonder how many other compromises they were forced to swallow in order to get the doors open on time. But maybe I’m missing the whole point—they did what they needed to do to achieve a massive relocation, with a net gain of significant improvement. What’s wrong with me? Done is better than perfect!

— On Saturday, March 8th, the Community Arts Center will hold its annual benefit and live art auction. According to the Center’s promotional material, the artwork is from some of the area’s top artists, and I can’t disagree with that, even if the list includes your humble correspondent. The online photo gallery offers sneak previews of artwork that will be on the block, and they did a good job of putting together that feature for the Website. The mixed-media collage I donated, Then Sings My Soul, was created nearly a year ago for KOSMOS: Discovery and Disclosure.

— Go back another year to the first March-X and that’s when I helped organize some local cyclists that would form the B.I.K.E. | Boyle County group. On March 11th, the local organization devoted to cleaning up and preserving Clark’s Run (C.R.E.E.C.) will host a community forum that will focus on trails and greenways. B.I.K.E. has not only promoted the idea of safer, more bicycle-friendly streets and roads in Boyle County, but has always hoped to collaborate with community partners as a catalyst for planning a network of shared-use byways and connecting trails. Yesterday I finished a draft of our comprehensive recommendations to kick-start the development of a community master plan that envisions much more than the construction of a few off-street recreational trails. The process will take leadership, commitment, and years of effort. Available funding will go to the localities which combine a strategic vision with constituent support. It’s a challenging goal, but many places have already done it. Some of you know that from your travels and vacations. Those communities improved the quality of life for their populations and, at the same time, attracted visitors, new residents, and employers. Can we do it here? Stay tuned. Bye, everybody!

For the despondent, every day brings trouble;
for the happy heart, life is a continual feast.
          —Proverbs 15:15 (New Living Translation)

V & S

The new Salvation Army leaders, Chuck and Karin, are in town, so I met Chuck at the Advocate-Messenger for an introduction to the executive editor, a good friend of the local Corps. After that we met up with Karin, and the three of us had sandwiches at the deli on Fourth Street. I really like this young couple, recently arrived from Pittsburgh (not unlike most people with the Army, they’ve lived many places). Given the bizarre circumstances which caused the departure of our previous Captains, they had only 24 hours to decide whether or not to move to Danville last month. Unbelievable.

Earlier, while at the newspaper, we’d talked about a welcome interview that was supposed to take place today—before the deadly storms struck in the middle of the night. This morning they took off with the mobile canteen, headed for one of the disaster sites. What a way of life! I’ve met many caring people in my journey so far, but these extraordinary people who call themselves Salvationists are the most selfless servants I’ve encountered.

Blessed are the pure in heart;
for they shall see God.
                  —Matthew 5:8
 

Bells reassigned for safety reasons

Man accused of harassing Salvation Army workers

The lamentable revelations in yesterday’s Advocate-Messenger allow me to end a period of confidentiality and share a burden of knowledge with all who valued the presence of these Captains in our five-county community.

We knew it would happen eventually, but none of us expected the abrupt reassignment of our local Salvation Army officers at year’s end.

Our good-byes were said after today’s worship service, and I tried to contain my personal sadness at the departure of a young man who I’ve grown to admire greatly, and who became a true friend over the past four years. Zach was the first person who believed I could do some of the things I’ve done, as I helped provide leadership to the Advisory Board. I shall always remember his maturity, compassion, dedication, and strong faith.

“And when they had brought their boats to land, they forsook all, and followed him.”
      —Luke 5:11

“Art is to take from life something real, then to build it anew with your imagination.”
       —Taha Muhammad Ali

— I made good on the recent advice from Irina to paint fast and complete a work within one day—I spent most of Christmas Eve executing a heron in watercolors for Nic, my Godson. It turned out rather nicely, so I’m encouraged about continuing with a series of single-day images for display at Wilma’s new gallery. Nic likes it, using the term, “shagpoke,” which he learned from Dadbo. Since I was unfamiliar with that name, I dug into its background and came up with this: It’s a variation of shitepoke, which made reference to a bird’s habit of defecating when disturbed, but is generally applied to the green heron (Butorides virescens), the black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) or the American bittern (Botaurus lentiginosus), none of which is the bird I painted, the great blue heron (Ardea herodias), that familiar creature which, for me, is always a symbol of good fortune. Interestingly, nicknames for the great blue include “long john” and “poor joe.” Perhaps Dadbo called any heron he saw a shagpoke, or hadn’t thought it necessary to make distinctions with a young lad developing his fondness for the world of animals. I can’t help but think of my father’s early days fishing the Stillwater, and wonder if great blues populated that part of Ohio in the 1930s. One more curious observation is that double ‘nyc’ in the scientific name for the night heron.

— I finally got to meet Jerry R at Kelley Ridge, and was happy to see him again when we gathered for Clan Stew. Does this make him an official ”sweetie?” I enjoy hearing him share his historical knowledge. This is the kind of man that has the capacity to unlock Mary’s natural desire to study history. Dana and I have resolved to take the lad on a visit to Boonesborough in 2008.

— Although there are numerous commercial tasks facing me in the studio right now, I can’t help but spend a good portion of my energy this time of year looking ahead to the coming cycle and getting organized. Rather than get caught up in an assessment of past months, I tend to flush all my thoughts and feelings about what’s behind in favor of anticipation for what lies before me. Januaries are full of hope and fresh confidence, with my mind turning to “Max Organ.” Now, don’t let visions of spam-email lewdness dance in your head, because I’m talking about my age-old effort to sort and categorize my morgue of visual materials and other personal papers, along with structuring my work space, and, in general, just dealing with all my accumulated stuff—Maximum Organization. It’s an ideal that can’t actually be reached (if you intend to accomplish anything else), but always remains a worthy goal. It makes me think about the mathematical concept of the asymptote. Max Organ shall always remain the valiant endeavor that draws one closer and closer to the unattainable standard. Nevertheless, “finished is better than perfect.”

— There should be a strong contingent of Clan at the game tonight, rooting for #3. Tomorrow is Belle’s 17th birthday, and I think she’s due for a good performance on her home court. Like a knucklehead, I got so worked up about watching her play last night that I drove us out to the high school before it became obvious I had the date wrong.

V & S

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 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

— Month of November workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-5; Lift-4; Yoga-1; Pilates-7

— The eleventh month rushed by too swiftly, and tumbling in its wake is my disposition of alarm at the churning pace. Nothing to do but accept that it’s gone and take stock of my affairs. On Friday I pinch-hit for David as a Rotary greeter. Saying grace is one task of the greeter, and perhaps I was a bit too creative with my public invocation. That I’m less self-conscious about such things is a sign of something meaningful, but I’m not in a mood to muse beyond that vague notion. After David got back from Georgetown, the four of us convened for a round of Mhing. Dana played as splendidly as I did poorly (couldn’t seem to get out of my nervous system Frank’s Shanghai from the holiday). Even so, it was an enjoyable evening because Mhing is such a great game.

— David, Greg, and I gathered at Simpson Knob the weekend prior to Thanksgiving, hoping for a significant whitetail harvest, but all we came up with among us was a little button buck that I took on Saturday morning. At first I thought his ear flicking at 50-60 yards was simply more wild turkeys at play, but then I could see his head, and eventually figured out that he was preparing to bed down for the day. I watched him for a while and knew his location on the ground would not afford a proper shot (actually, I thought it was a doe at that point in my observation). Before much long, I grew a bit impatient and decided to climb down from my stand to approach through the woods on foot like a true hunter. After carefully trimming off 10-15 yards from the total distance, keeping a tree between our positions, I crept around the oak and saw him stand up in alert. My Marlin .44-magnum lever-action carbine (the only Dadbo-owned rifle for which I held any interest) cracked in reaction to the animal’s movement, and he leaped away. “Missed,” flashed through my mind, with the thought lingering, especially after I reached the spot he’d just been, and just then I heard Greg call out my name. “Don’t think I hit him,” was my response. “Well, there’s a deer over here,” he replied in a matter-of-fact voice. Within an hour, I had given a chant to the Great Spirit and skinned my game with the new knife Greg had presented to me the night before. Later in the week, David reported that Greg claimed a button buck of his own at his brother’s farm a couple days before Thanksgiving.

— It doesn’t look like I’ll finish the biography of Thomas Bewick before it’s due back at the library, but I’m not sure I want to read about his demise anyway—I’ve grown much too fond of the fellow. For anyone who doesn’t recognize the name, I’m certain that his work will appear familiar. He single-handedly restored wood engraving to universal esteem in his lifetime and sparked the advancement of printing technology for the next century. He was perhaps the greatest graphic artist of his era—certainly in Britain—and, although he had flaws (as most men), he seems to have been a remarkably fine person worthy of emulation in numerous respects. Reading about his rise to artistic immortality reinforces two vital lessons that continue to clobber me across the skull like a ball bat: each individual who makes a constructive mark on culture inevitably deals with all the same nonsense, hassles, heartbreaks, and vicissitudes of fortune that everyone encounters, and through it all, continues to work his or her ass off.

V & S

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Broadway Report
— The Library closed its doors on West Broadway for the next 13 months or so, and I don’t think it’s entirely sunk in for me yet. It’s almost as though somebody boarded up a room of your house and said you couldn’t use it for a year. Meanwhile, the noise and dust levels are increasing, as construction on the new addition accelerates. One bright spot—I got permission to scrounge ten wheelbarrow loads of limestone powder left over from the work of the big bedrock drills (necessary for the innovative geothermal system they’re installing). I’m not certain how it will come into play when I move forward on our brick and stone driveway, but a scrounge is a scrounge.

Graybeard Alert
— My sharp disappointment at having our Website proposal rejected by the Great American Brass Band Festival was assuaged by an unexpected packaging assignment from Burkmann. On top of that, the Graybeard Prospector had a productive outing yesterday after the Medicine Woman concocted another one of her marketing potions. Glad to inform all that things are percolating again in the studio, and I’m almost prepared to say we’re busy.

Mokrabo Safari
— This past weekend, I helped make good on Dana’s long-held vision for a “safari dinner” at the Blue Bank Farm. The weather was a bit chilly and windy, but what could anyone expect on the first Sunday in November? The evening sky was perfect, and the Milky Way was visible before the diminishing light of day was gone. I can’t imagine it was any more spectacular in Africa that night. With us were Joan, Janet, Jerome, Lee, and David. Good food, good wine, good music, good campfire, good friends. Sure, it turned out to be a lot of work, but a memorable time was had by all. Greg Brown gave us a scare when he disappeared, but showed up the next morning, thank goodness.

Art Update
— Participated in my third wood engraving workshop at Larkspur Press, and, to avoid the tiring shuttle, I pitched a tent between the shop and Sawdridge Creek, which gave me four days of immersion that yielded two finished blocks. It’s hard to describe, but I broke through to a new comfort level with Wesley, his indomitable wife Juanita, and all the regulars who return year after year, including Richard, well-known force in the literary scene. Juanita soloed Saturday night at the Elk Creek Vineyards, and then came back to the area the following week to perform at Richard’s traditional “First Friday” gathering in the cafe next to his Frankfort bookstore, which I was able to attend because I’d spent the afternoon at the Transportation Cabinet with my fellow bicycle commissioners. Wes and Juanita had gone up to Cincinnati for another workshop sponsored there by Jack, the former international banana-shipping executive who’s expert at so many things (including printmaking) that I can’t keep track. The evening of music and poetry was exceptional. Juanita, Kate, and I sat at a table reserved by Laura Lee, one of the most versatile designer-artists in Kentucky, who just finished illustrating a book for children. Richard acknowledged us as part of the Larkspur wood-engraving gang. Gosh, to be around this circle of talents is one of the most stimulating resources in my life, and I owe it to Gray and his rare hospitality.

V & S

Bruce had his re-constructive abdominal surgery at U.K. yesterday, and it was a long Friday for all of us. I slept in a deep, dream-filled state, waking up to a bizarre, nightmarish memory (Dadbo being lost in a sinkhole at the farm), in addition to a separate—but quite lucid—idea about writing the definitive history of the anti-fluoridation movement, wrapped in a biography of our erstwhile friend and client, John Yiamouyiannis, the central figure in a decades-long struggle against the corruption of entrenched political power. Yes, it was a rather strange morning, but that’s not uncommon when I sleep like the trunk of a fallen oak on Widow’s Knob.

Bruce came through his latest ordeal with flags flying, although he’s experiencing a bit of severe pain that complicates matters, to say the least. Most of what was left of his long-idle large intestine was stapled to the ileum, and the bothersome contingency from 2005 is history. This should solve the problem of his chronic dehydration. There’s a portion of descending colon that could neither be utilized nor removed, so that segment remains, taking advantage of a previous drain-hole in his side to complete the overall plumbing design. Surgeon Chang seemed pleased with the outcome, considering the very real possibility that he might face no option except shrugging his shoulders and sewing up Bruce’s belly, had the scenario proved too dangerous or daunting. There was no way to tell how “do-able” the procedure might be until the team was inside. Everything was accomplished in less than three hours.

So, now he faces 5–10 days in the hospital. His summer fitness program should give him a distinct advantage in bouncing back. I’m praying he can win the coin toss, as far as the 50-50 chance for developing an infection following this kind of surgery. Once again, he stays on top of the odds, and successfully knocks off another obstacle in his marathon recovery from pancreatitis. The outlook for a potential kidney transplant has just improved significantly. Hang in there, my son…

~ The Saga of Bruce Joel

Low temperatures have arrived too fast. This has been one of my most enjoyable seasons of cycling, and I’m a bit sad to see it close. Beyond safety in numbers, the best part is the group friendship—like most recreational pastimes…

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

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

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

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

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

V & S

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

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

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

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

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

Oldenday…

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

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

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

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

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

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

V & S

— My cycling chum Bill S commissioned a hand-made card for his mother’s one-hundredth birthday. He’s a great guy who shares a lot in common with me. His daughter is a terrific designer that works for Lenox. Her new Urban Picnic design is being handled by Macy’s. When she was getting her education she asked me to give her an internship, but the workload couldn’t support it. I regret the missed opportunity to have experienced her talent firsthand.

— One of my primary community-service mentors, Carl M, who originally proposed me for Rotary membership, recently asked if I played golf, as we left our weekly luncheon at the Danville Country Club. I told him that when I had the available time, I much preferred to be on a bicycle. It was clear from our conversation that he didn’t think much of the sport, but remarked that I thought it was a “great game,” and, from time to time, I did enjoy watching the best players on TV. Well, I reinforced that viewpoint for myself over the holiday when I glued down with the head-to-head play of Mickelson and Woods. Anyone who can witness that level of psychological combat without total fascination should steer clear of golf in any shape or form.

— I’m not sure when I became hooked on short stories. Maybe had something to do with Brendan getting me addicted to very concise ones. I shall never read all the great American novels, but I do hope to eventually read all the best short stories ever written by Americans. If you have some favorites, let me know. I can’t get over the variety: Wharton — James — Hemingway — Thurber — Faulkner. And I’m discovering others new to me: Walter Van Tilburg Clark — Katherine Anne Porter. I’ve been aware of The Ox-Bow Incident and Noon Wine (Peckinpah’s lost rendition with Jason Robards is remembered by some who saw it as the finest television ever broadcast), but didn’t recognize those names. Yes, I know… I’m a late arrival at the grand old house of our national literature.

— I have to admit that, after 13 years of conditioning, all I want to do after Labor Day is draw, fish, swim, relax, and enjoy myself. Seeing the picture of the Adkins Family makes me realize how much my nervous system craves some sort of vacation. I decided not to make the trip to Upper Michigan this year. Being with Dana on our silver anniversary is more important. If we can pull ourselves away from the studio, we’re due for our own getaway. What can one say about a quarter century of marriage? I can write a bit, but not well enough to tackle such an assignment. It’s been more than that, too. A working partnership on all levels. An uncommon occurrence in human relationships. Beyond my capacity to summarize.

V & S

— Month of August workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-9; Run-0; Lift-2; Yoga-0

— When I first participated in the Pound & Pedal 20-miler, it started in downtown Danville and ended at Turtle in the Night Farm, the Morgan family homestead in Forkland. With a climb up Catholic Knob, plus its 30-to-40-mph descent, the course was tough and exciting. As we gathered this morning for the annual challenge, which now has a long-established course that extends into Mercer County and back, nobody remembered exactly how long a history the event has, but Ernst thought today might be the 20th anniversary. The current course is not as dramatic, but it’s still rigorous and far from flat. The best athletes took part in the traditional run-bike team competition, so I managed to win the bicycle-only division with a time of 1:05:41. Once again it fell short of the elusive 20-mph average, but only 19 seconds slower than my 2001 finish. Hey, I can live with three seconds a year. Dick B told me I was “aging gracefully.”

— If I could make a living doing what I did yesterday… Well, I don’t know how to complete that sentence. After spending the morning with graver tools, I pulled a crude proof to see if my block was nearly done. It was the best print I could produce at home, but it told me it was time to head to Larkspur. We made the trip to Monterey and I spent the rest of the day alternating proofs on the Vandercook with more clean-up and finishing touches. I wasn’t sure if Dana was getting bored, but it turned out to be an opportunity for her to spend some time with Gray and get a better sense of his rare individuality. I left the block in his capable hands with a sense of satisfaction, looking forward to his broadside composition of the Manning poem with my illustration.

— I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, but the Arts Across Kentucky article about me was published with a disappointing number of errors and poor visual decisions, but that seems to be somewhat typical of the magazine. Nevertheless, it’s good publicity and is apparently seen by many high-level people. They still haven’t updated the Website to reflect the current issue that contains my profile. It’s up to me to leverage this constructively, otherwise it may offer little on its own to enhance my situation.

V & S

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

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

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

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

V & S

Tales of the Graybeard Prospector XXII
— The grizzled one prospected for both types of precious ore on the same day. He staked the first claim early in Marion County, searching for evidence of silver in the applied arts. By the end of the day, he was panning for gold at a gallery opening, with at least one promising nugget to his credit with a personal invitation to visit the big city from one of Lexington’s most prominent fine-arts administrators.

“How is it with stains?”
— I stopped by the Motor Mall to match a truck color for Pike Valley Farm. I was walking across the lot with a salesman when I made the mistake of stepping into his blind spot and I was nearly hit by a stream of saliva. He apologized by saying he’d been a catcher in college. The only reply I could think of was, “Well, I suppose that baseball is the last bastion of spitters.”

By hook or by crook, we will.
— Constructive thought is about making connections. Acquisition of information provides little, unless it helps me draw associations, which I have a natural tendency to do, even without sound data. It seems as though bits and pieces of knowledge, plus a variety of external influences, are continually converging in my daily awareness, and I can look at this as random static, coincidence, synchronicity, or divine guidance, but, fundamentally, it’s just the way I think, and I’m used to it. Perhaps that’s why, as a creative person, I find the process of collage so interesting and often develop visual ideas with a montage approach. Perhaps it’s also why I find it difficult sometimes to concentrate. Achieving any type of perceptual breakthrough invariably requires me to severely limit interruptions and drain a pernicious swamp of festering “to-do’s” and internal distractions. I haven’t had a decent creative rhythm lately, but something will shake out soon—I can feel it coming.

All jigged out? For shame!
— It was a full weekend. Marty and I got an early start on Saturday and hauled one load of blacktop to the fill on our way to Richmond. We helped clean out the garage at Fourth Street House and brought back a load of bricks that almost broke Ned’s butt. I nearly broke my own trying to help get that stone bench from the back yard into the bed of Mighty Manfred. Dropped Marty off after we unloaded the bricks at the Town House and headed to Blue Bank. Nothing going on, but I was glad I hung out, because Joan turned me on to Mhing, a conversion of Mah Jong to playing cards. Dadbo became enamored with it when he visited the Thomas cabin, and now I’m hooked, too! Sunday morning brought a nice 34-miler. Dan’s front cable broke, which continued the run of bad luck from Wednesday night, when a young guy went down on the bridge before Sand Knob (near Carpenter’s Creek) and broke his elbow. Most of Sunday afternoon was devoted to our Clan Council meeting, and we took another portrait afterwards (this time I did it right—35mm film in the shade). We moved the stone bench to a temporary spot in the cemetery. Michelle and Godson Nic announced their wedding date in summer 2008, but no “jumpin’ jig” erupted. Jay killed a pair of copperheads with a shovel. Jerusha gave me five “Pirate” Hot Wheels. I committed to completing the rock flue next month, so Marty and I need to reserve a couple days to finish the job together. All-in-all, it was a good Clan weekend. Mombo is gradually doing better, Terie’s new job is going well, J & J are counting down the days until “Bay-bo Hour,” and the Loft-mates have both quit smoking! I’m probably forgetting other news, but it’s time to call it quits.

V & S

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?

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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 describes 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.

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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.