Uncle John’s Log & Co.

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.

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

— I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate way to tell Ian that I’m proud of his new workout discipline and to offer my encouragement, but I haven’t thought of anything cool or clever to say to him yet. Well, in the meantime, maybe this will do.

— One of the byproducts of March is an almost hypersensitivity to the ingredient stimuli that influence my state of being for each particular day—whether or not I’ve exercised, what I’m currently reading, whether I’m on the uphill or downhill side of a deadline, how much restful sleep I had, what kind of a movie I might have watched the night before, whether I began the day with a Rosary, what style of artwork I’m in the middle of, whether or not my Macintosh is acting up, etc. Being more aware of how these things affect my mood and powers of concentration is good, right? I used to just let each day find its own pitch without much thought to this kind of assessment, but now I know I can counter-balance various influences with music, poetry, prayer, stretching, dietary adjustments, or just a quick floor romp with a Yorkie. Nevertheless, there are still certain kinds of creative tension that have a tendency to throw me off my game, but I’m “getting there.”

— My talk seemed to go well enough yesterday morning that Milton wants to schedule it again as a “rerun.” I don’t think that’s ever happened before, but it might have something to do with only two other people showing up.

— Easter was a long day, but it felt like it flew by much too fast. When I waited to pick up Bruce from the hospital, I sat in the car for a spell, listening to my tape of Heston reading from the New Testament. Bruce was ready to go, but they failed to order the wheelchair transport to the exit. Such a silly regulation. I can stand to be around hospitals, but I don’t like them. As it turned out, Bruce didn’t feel well enough for the ride down to the farm, so he stayed home. We stopped in Junction on the way, to get Terie and Marty, and the four of us spent the holiday afternoon with Clan. I drank too much coffee and ate too much food. Had a very nice discussion with Peat about her job as newspaper editor next year. She’s laying the groundwork this spring, which is smart, and will spend some time in Europe this summer—quite a few Clan Kiddoes are following in my footsteps with travel abroad during student years. I found out that Seth has committed to Bellarmine. Looks like Sam Morgan will go there, too, and he’ll run track. We saw pictures of “Baby Molina,” and I got the data to do numerology charts for her and Torrance. Later in the day, I watched Marty conduct battles on the PC with ROME: Total War, and we played on the PS2 together, too. Our best boxing bout was Sugar Ray R against Sugar Ray L. Marty has moved to primarily sports video games because they require more controller skill, plus he’s getting more interested in the world of sport overall, which is having a bit of a spill-over effect for me. I actually cared who won the green jacket.

V & S

Ah, the Salmon Lords have smiled. Bill and I made our final trip over to the dolomite port last night and caught three fish for the freezer— 10lb-4oz / 12lb-8oz / 13lb-14oz. We’d decided to divide up the two sides of the boat between us, two lines per side, but after Bill had two straight catches on the starboard downrigger, he granted the next fish to me, regardless of location. It hit on the very same pole and was the biggest of the three! And so there we have it—another evening for the fishing log, and the kind of event that will keep us loving this sport and coming back for more. The fresh memory of it seems a bit unreal as we head south today through Michigan, and I try to jot a few notes for the record, with an image before me similar to that old Jackson Browne album cover, clouds like marshmallow baguettes lined up as an invasion fleet in a milky-blue sky, and golden-green trees stippled with burnt orange marching by, with an ochre crust of fading ferns beneath the old-growth cedars, punctuated by unreformed “dickhead” drivers cutting around us at high speed, as if it’s the only way to move with traffic, all the time LaSalle’s soft black head resting comfortably between us, holding her contented dog-thoughts of home…

For the second time in the past month or so, the doorbell has called us to our front entrance to discover a neighbor holding Walie. Somehow, when an exterior door has been opened, she manages to squirt outside without being noticed. We can’t really scold her, because both times she sat on the porch of the building next door that houses a busy CPA office, rather than travel a long distance or cross the street. She can’t ring the bell herself, so she does the next best thing.

Two times. Too close for comfort.

 

•   Another portion of America is singled out by Mother Nature for a round of devastation and paralyzing emotional trauma.

•   I observe in a mirror the image of my departed brother-in-law, sneering back at me as a pirate captain, his frame bristling with weapons.

•   The pet cat of a friend is stomped to death by an angry husband, plunging her life into a miserable chain-reaction of self-rescuing actions.

•   My Governor declares his daring intent to cast a wide safety net of pardons to spike the ambitions of the unsavory political boss currently abusing the office of Attorney General.

•   Jeffrey and Lea’s dachshund “Odie” is slaughtered by a coyote in the woods behind their home at The Blue Bank Farm.

•   Paula, the state employee who coordinates the work of the KBBC and assists those of us who sit on the panel, took indefinite sick leave with the news that she has pancreatic cancer spreading to her liver.

•   My friend and favorite neighbor Danny is preparing to move his family to Kansas.

•   Bruce’s condition yo-yos from lucid progress to feverish setback, almost on a daily basis.

•   We learn that Marty will be leaving Kentucky to live with his mother and her boyfriend in South Carolina.

Walie wanted to play with toys all day. APS replaced our crashed hard drive with an even bigger one. I had a 150-yard PR time in the pool during my midday workout. The American economy continues to grow. I solved the cascading style sheets problem in the preliminary Website for Kentucky Trust Company. Dana had an informative talk with a local man who recovered from a case of pancreatitis worse than what Bruce has. Seth helped me put the finishing touches on “Pirate Revenge,” the final segment of my goofy “Houseboat Trilogy” (originated as a teen not much older than he). Discovery landed safely and the astronauts held a press conference. Josh had another night’s sleep at the Blue Bank Farm.

As I continue to crank away at solving another batch of Website perplexities, Lee and David sent a picture from our recent cabin time. I was able to pause and revisit a relaxing moment with my pup.

— It’s a perplexing day when the media decides to focus on the naming of a new pope instead of the monumental story of the year: that Lance Armstrong will retire!

— Joan tells me it’s difficult for her to read this log on her computer because each entry is a single, horribly long horizontal line of text that scrolls endlessly. Must be a problem with her browser settings, and I hope it can be fixed. Don’t stop reading, Sis! I can’t afford to lose 50% of my fan base!

— I have no idea how it ended up in the library of the University of Indiana Medical School, or why it’s on display, but Marty and I couldn’t deny ourselves a close look at the death mask of John Dillinger. It’s got to be one of the creepiest damn things I’ve ever seen, not because of the casting itself, but how it was so amateurishly hand colored. And while we’re on the subject of creepy, you’ll find a whole archive of death masks at Thanatos.net.

— I remember Joe scolding me the time I made a condescending remark about Pookie, explaining that he just needed to find his identity as a dog, and, if we gave him a chance, he would. I never thought about Pookie the same way after that, and now it gives me a bit of pleasure (within the sorrow) to know that he got the second chance that Joe could see and I couldn’t.

— Bruce is breathing on his own and striving to gain the upper hand against his numerous infections. I try to accept how often they put him through yet another test, but that’s just the nature of modern pharmacological care. They try to match the drug to the bug. Dana is by his side at the hospital while I hold the fort at the studio. According to her latest report, he’s able to maintain a good, steady rate of respiration and cough productively, much better that when the ventilator was removed before. They’ve taken away the special bed that rotated and vibrated his chest. The PT seemed pleased that he’d gained strength since the previous therapy. The nephrologist cancelled the scheduled dialysis. Nobody has made an official statement that he won’t require it again, but the kidney numbers are normal. My son is a freakin’ warrior! God bless him up one side and down the other!

Marty and I agreed—it was a “satisfying” day. It began for me with the “Repair Affair,” Boyle County’s annual day of exterior house chores on behalf of those who can’t physically do them. Danville Rotary Club took primary responsibility for it this year and that’s how I got involved. We couldn’t have pulled it off without all the volunteers from Centre College (those students are something else). It was a good deed sort of thing for me and a welcome change of scenery. My friend Scott was there and said he was planning to attend the 30th birthday cookout for the Governor’s son at the Mansion in Frankfort. I told him to give Ernie and Ben my warm regards. I don’t get to hobnob much with Fletcher any more, now that he’s hit the political big time.

After lunch I picked up Marty and we went to the Blue Bank Farm to work in the orchard, which also happens to be our family cemetery. I’m late with the pruning this year, but we got through it all and had time for a hike up Horse Lick hollow for Marty’s first adventure to the Pine Forest, which we both speculate was near the sawmill settlement that used to be located back there. We saw a spot that looked as though a small twister had touched down and leveled a few pines, all in precisely the same direction. Also had a chance to confirm that the back edge of the hollow had been unintelligently logged. What a waste! We came back to the valley by way of Blue Bank’s ridge and the Buddha Trail, probably the most peaceful spot in Casey County.

It was good to see members of my Clan after a month of turmoil. I spent a few moments at Joe’s grave with my sister and learned the sad news that her pet Pookie had just died. Throughout the day, Bruce was never far from my thoughts. Dana called from Indianapolis and my heart went out to her.

— Now that the corner has been turned, and Bruce’s life has been preserved, he faces a difficult future, short- and long-term. A tough row to hoe, as they say. Today it appears as though the doc has given up on salvaging his transplanted kidney—too little function, too much chronic deterioration. This means more dialysis, a process which Bruce grew to loath, and will surely dread to accept back into his life on any regular basis. It may be several more hours before his awareness clears enough for him to evaluate his choices (or lack thereof). He’s being moved from intensive care to progressive care, and taken off anti-rejection drugs, narcotics, steroids, and sedatives, plus he’ll be down to a single tube—oxygen. One of the reasons they doped him is because he became combative and ripped out the nasal/gastric tube at least twice (as I might have, too, had I been in his situation). Or maybe I have that backwards (side effects of medication causing aggressive behavior and colorful use of language). In any case, the outlook is encouraging, but I’ll keep up my prayers. It’s likely that there will be more bumps in the road…

— If I came up with an idea for a new method of capital punishment—slow death by starvation—would it be declared cruel and unusual? If authorities came into your home and discovered all the pets were dead, would they say, “…within his rights—slow death by starvation.”? Sorry, just thinking rhetorically here. (Did I do the punctuation correctly on that?) “…I can’t imagine why, the world has time enough to cry.”

— As an avid watcher of Brian Lamb’s “Booknotes,” I was disappointed when he wrapped the 800-show series on C-SPAN. Listening to writers talk about writing makes me want to write. Listening to politicians talk about politics doesn’t make me want to run for office. Listening to artists talk about art definitely makes me want to make art. Now the only other good interview show with the classic all-black set is Charlie Rose. I think Rose is at his best when he’s talking to artists. Not that he doesn’t demonstrate the same level of skill when interviewing journalists and politicians, but I guess he tends to insert more opinions that sometimes irritate me. His recent conversation with Daniel Day-Lewis and his astonishingly brilliant and beautiful wife, Rebecca Miller (daughter of the late Arthur Miller), was just about as good as television ever gets. How in the world does he get these creative people to relax and describe the inexpressible aspects of their talent and craft? His style is totally different than Lamb’s, but they both make it look so easy. Not the performance (if that’s what you can call it), but the technique of coaxing the guest to say things that are genuinely interesting. I made the mistake of watching a perfunctory interview with Clint Eastwood, leading up to the Oscars, and the interviewer managed to avoid steering him to a single topic that was remotely enlightening… quite a feat, actually.

In the Scandinavian tradition, a house-elf guards the home when the human residents are away. In America we call them Yorkies.