Uncle John’s Log & Co.

My bicycling season got off to a late start this year, as poor weather and a dismal personal outlook conspired to bust me permanently down to the casual riders. It was necessary to shed twelve pounds between April and July to earn a respectable place among the B-group cyclists, and tonight I was energetic enough to take the lead at will. I must never give up, even though it doesn’t get any easier each year. The big Six-Oh is coming around the corner, and I intend to knock Old Man Time on his hind end.

In this article, a blogger has come closer to describing one of my March exercises than I have been able to do. He explains that “batching requires more work than not batching. This is why, I now understand, most people are quick to abandon their good-natured attempts to enforce more focus in their day: once it becomes non-obvious how to continue, they toss the goal.” His account of a single day spent with total focus is a better illustration of self-imposed intensity than I ever could put down in this log. Of course, this kind of regimen is not the only exercise that constitutes the ritualized month of March, but it captures something that I never found a way to successfully describe. I should also point out that I find this to be a short-term aid to the reinforcement of more realistic ongoing practices. All hail the mighty ones who can sustain this level of concentration!

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

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

Tomorrow— An important observance . . .

March Exercise —day seven— During the worst of our deep sadness, as I stepped back from a chasm of self-pity, I reached out to my brother, James. He listened, assessed, and loaned me a copy of a tiny book with an odd title: Who Moved My Cheese? The message is simple, but not simplistic, and its thought-provoking theme makes me think more about the true nature of change in our lives. It takes me back to a time when radical change was the norm, and I considered it my friend. One of my greatest blessings is knowing my brothers have my back, and no one has it more than my first best friend. I like what his daughter Rita said about him not that long ago: “The thing I admire most in anyone is my dad’s ability to weigh any situation and give the most level headed advice and explanations in an inspirational way—whether we are talking running, work, school, life, family, friendships—even love!”

Today’s sight bite— Pink-gold striations stacked on a slate-cold horizon —c-l-i-c-k— with Abe’s immortal address cast below as silver letterforms against a field of black.

Tomorrow— Find the cadence and crank harder . . .

Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:

“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”

As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”

Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.

Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:

“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”

At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.

We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):

An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.

Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.

Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.

Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.

Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”

It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”

“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”

I do not write regularly in my journal… I see no reason why I should. I see no reason why any one should have the slightest sense of duty in such a matter.
—Occupant of The Hall Bedroom

— Year of 2010 workout totals: Swim-35; Bike-40; Powerwalk-3; Run-0; Lift-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-0

— There is no good justification for having any of these annual numbers come in under 48. I managed to preserve some level of basic fitness this year, thanks only to continued pool access and my fondness for being on a bicycle, but I can’t kid myself—if I don’t reverse this slow decline in vigorous activity, I shall pay a price over time, and it will be a price I can’t afford. My hope for 2011: a new momentum of exercise that will result in a more balanced routine, with 7-10 pounds of weight loss by my birthday.

— The best exhibitions I’ve experienced this year? The ones that occur to me now are the Surrealism show at the Cincinnati Art Museum, the California Impressionists show at the Dayton Art Institute, and the Collage show at Northern Kentucky University. I shall not soon forget seeing my first original Schwitters collage or Cornell box. I am challenged to learn more about Louise Nevelson, Hannah Höch, Alfred Mitchell, William Wendt, Percy Gray, Matthew Rose, David Wallace, Cecil Touchon Janet Jones, Dennis Parlante, and Stephanie Dalton Cowan.

— One of these days I’ll start to fully comprehend what mobile technologies portend for my creative work style. Believe it or not, I still don’t know what to make of these changes in communications. They seem to be touching everything, even my annual experience at Barefoot’s Resort. Being able to have a MacBook Pro and access to a wireless broadband connection changes everything about staying on top of project priorities while out of the studio. Bullets showed me his Kindle and I liked it. I didn’t expect to. Everybody around me seems to have an iPhone. How can I stay abreast? How can I hope to remain a communication designer amid all these transformations?

— Dana’s blunder with the non-existent gas line sent me into a bit of a tailspin, until I realized that tearing apart my work space in the basement would probably result in a better situation after the dust settled. Lesson: disruptions can be opportunities. I need to embrace change more, as I used to do. Look at how Dana has taken on a new discipline with Bruce’s in-home dialysis. We all tend to make room for what we consider the most important things, and that includes procrastination.

— Very well . . . here I am at the close of another year. I can’t change a single thing about the past. In hindsight, the preceding weeks look like some type of malaise. Not that there haven’t been a few highlights, such as the Safariland Doe with my solo harvest at Blue Bank Farm, or the recent push to restore our conference room, but overall it has been a dismal quarter. Enough with the negative. I have the new-year opportunity to shake off the “humbug” and get it together. There’s always the historically strong motivator of Resolutions, to reboot my priorities and catalyze a new momentum that would carry me toward my 60th birthday in 16 months. Time to plot a systematic, gradient escalation to full engagement— physically and mentally —to balance professional, financial, and artistic activity. Reclaim it!

V & S

March Exercise V —day twenty-eight— The early group ride was rained out, so my morning moved at a slower pace than I was expecting. I began to get the sense that the regimen had lost its momentum. This impression soon gave way to a more accurate assessment. So many of the desired habits of thought and focus have been internalized to the point that I no longer sustain the perception of an imposed discipline. This is a good development. It was never about a progression of time, was it? I’m prepared to think that I’ve reached a successful conclusion to the exercise a few days ahead of schedule, but why not make the most of the month’s remainder?

Today’s sight bite— Black soil under an overcast sky —c-l-i-c-k— sprinkled with grass seed until the fork hoe has its say.

Previously on M-Ex— A bad habit can die a hard death. (3/28/06)

Tomorrow— More vision therapy . . .

March Exercise V —day three— This time around, the discipline is less about the rigor of the clock and more about concentration and dispatch. My “vision homework” has become a key daily ritual, but hasn’t locked onto a consistent time yet. I have an alarm hopelessly stuck in my cell phone that nobody can figure out how to cancel, so I think that 11:30 am will likely become the scheduled time. Departure for a lap swim was upon me before I realized the morning was spent, and on my walk to Centre I saw an omen of oncoming spring, high up in my favorite tree at McDowell Park. In the afternoon I learned about a new advertising assignment in the “Jacob Series” for our bank client. Later, at the gathering of cycling advocates, I failed again to conceal my frustration concerning local officials. I’ve lost the fire for all the bureaucratic orchestration that I once found so intriguing.

Today’s sight bite— A treetop speckled with crows against a cotton-ball sky —c-l-i-c-k— and their robust “haw-haw” as the creatures salute me with a propitious fly-by.

Previously on M-Ex— Coffee-shop consultation with a friend no longer so close at hand. (3/3/07)

Tomorrow— Library time in my chambre serein…

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

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

Tomorrow— Rain clouds and more dental work…

March exercise—day seventeen— From a walk at daybreak to my street-front work at dusk, today was as close to an ideal cycle as I am likely to achieve during this annual re-examination of conscious behavior. A disciplined, productive day of creative activity (organic pork branding), professional networking (gift shop consignments), and physical fitness (Dana’s first Pilates workout) fulfilled all the expectations of the M-X, including the need to internally defuse an unexpected, emotion-laden challenge that in the past might have thrown me out of balance for at least the remainder of the day.

Today’s sight bite— The dough men and assorted pastry makers dressed in rumpled white —c-l-i-c-k— visible from the Main Street window before dawn, arched intently over flour-dusted surfaces.

Tomorrow— A team-building mission to Frankfort…

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-1; Bike-7; Run-2; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-1

Just when I stopped believing in the impossible mission…
— Jim Phelps lives!

And so, finally, I became an artist when I grew up…
— The Brady portrait commission is done. There were many times during the course of the work when I questioned what I’d gotten myself into. I’ve always told myself I wouldn’t try to paint a likeness without a quality reference image. An accomplished portrait artist once advised me to avoid subjects who were deceased. On top of breaking those rules, I faced creating a full-color image from a black and white photo. “All’s well that ends well,” as they say, so eventually the creative torment and restless nights will be forgotten—until I get myself into the next pickle. Hey, I should look at it another way: If I can solve this puzzler and survive to reflect on it, the next project should prove to be easier. Sounds good in theory, but the important thing is that the recipient is thrilled with the result, and she called me again this morning to say so. Well, isn’t that what creating art is all about?

Major adventures in a time-machine collage…
— Dana gave this title to my wild dream after I described it to her this morning. Forgive me for describing it to you, too. After a crazy silent-movie chase through the restaurant zone with brother Fron, I found myself on a train with my Aunt Sis when she was young. It appeared to be some sort of troop train. As a soldier who looked like Gary Cooper told stories, I saw a uniformed, twenty-year-old Eddie (Dadbo) come into the passenger car dragging his canvas suitcase, with well-oiled, carefully combed hair and a grim expression. When I tried to “rewind” the sequence, I couldn’t control the timing, so the scene before me changed to a relaxed, fifty-something Dadbo packing for a business trip, but he wasn’t able to see me. I started to wake up, and, naturally, I couldn’t reverse the progression before the entire thing was lost.

Back to normal (whatever that is)…
— Bruce is home again after his latest ordeal. By and by, he seems to be in less pain and is able to climb stairs without difficulty. Joan and Caitlan stopped to wish him well on their way back from Hawaii. Dana and I were heading out the door, to hear the Johnny Crawford Vintage Dance Band at Pioneer Playhouse. Because we were all hosed down and ready for a night out, they took some digitals of us on the front porch steps, and I hope we get the pictures soon, so I can make a better entry here about a satisfying, memorable performance.

(Happy Birthday, Uncle Sam!)

V & S

Well, Brendan has finally gone and done it. He’s found a way to combine most of his favorite talents—music, satirical writing, cartooning, comedic performance, creative collaboration, and your basic web magic. The end product of this fusion? An outrageous repository of droll hilarity known as The Children’s Hour of Knowledge. The site is co-produced with Stephen Heintz, and so far, it has two episodes. I haven’t heard anything quite like this since I listened to “I Think We’re All Bozos on This Bus” by The Firesign Theatre. (And that was 36 years ago—around the time I first started to make landmark journal entries just like this!). Go listen for yourself. Perhaps the best way to end this post is with an excerpt from my nephew’s biographical blurb: “In a perfect world, Brendan would be swiftly hunted down by those determined to keep it that way.”

Some things catch me off guard when they shouldn’t, like Brendan’s revelation that my visual style influenced his knack for strong image making. Well, there’s been plenty of artistic cross-pollination occurring within our extended family for quite some time, and his effect on the way I communicate with words has been equally significant—otherwise, nobody could stand reading anything at this site.

Brendan has his own way of describing the contemporary high-contrast style under discussion, but I’ve always called it “graphic illustration.” I’m no scholar, but it certainly has its historical pedigree in the printing arts (the anonymous masters of the 1400s, Dürer, Grien, up through the centuries: Rembrandt, Thomas Bewick, Rockwell Kent, Munch, the Expressionists, the Arts-and-Crafts printmakers, and the Bauhaus designers). Of course, the “look” has been radically influenced by photomechanical techniques (including cinema), and their appropriation by innovative artists and legendary illustrators (Warhol, Glaser, Otnes, Holland, Schwab). Few may give credit to the nameless pulp or movie-poster artists, but they also made their contribution to the style, as did the legendary comic artists, such as Harold Foster and Milton Caniff (genre exemplars of chiaroscuro, who probably had a more formative influence over generations of creative youngsters than the art history books).

I see it all as a moving stream of visual development in Western art, periodically spiced with Asian influences, but always a binary interpretation of how highlight and shadow define form. It’s how a visual decision maker has always tried to give the most simplified illusion of volumetric reality, by the handling of light sources, minimizing modeling, and harshly controlling the equilibrium of figure-ground relationships on a two-dimensional plane, culminating today in the ubiquitous tool of Adobe Photoshop (just as a reminder, I reserve the right, without warning, to squirt India ink in the face of anyone who uses Photoshop as a verb).

Wow, that’s an awfully wordy bit of rambling, and it could really use some editorial refinement. Naah. I’ll just click the “Publish” button instead…

“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

— 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

“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

When Dana and I marked our silver anniversary last month, it was recognized that a separate milestone we’d failed to observe had passed us by a couple months earlier—thirty years since we’d first met. About half a year after my abrupt departure from Chicago, kind Fate placed us in the same small basement office in Wright State University’s publications department. Life as a freelancer in Dayton hadn’t worked out very well, so it was with a measure of keen anticipation that I sat down one afternoon with the classified section, a Cassano’s thin-crust pizza, and a pitcher of lousy beer. I don’t remember applying for any other full-time job during that summer of ’77. To be guardedly candid, if it were not for my journal and the extant artifacts of my creative meanderings, I would recall even less about those months at J’s INN.

Ah, yes… J’s INN. Even the sound of it on my mental tongue conjures a mix of both exhilarating and disturbing sentiments. Thirty years later, J’s INN is less a set of recollections than it is a reservoir of emotions and sensory vignettes. Jeffrey’s scheme to rent the sprawling compound near the airport in late 1976 was just the catalyst I needed to make my escape from that metro-leviathan which bear-hugs the southwest corner of Lake Michigan. I returned to Ohio. Chicago was, and still is, “my big city,” but I knew I couldn’t live there with any level of mental peace. It was just too big. I had this nagging idea that I really needed to reside some place where I could see a cow now and then. J’s INN would be the place. J’s INN would be the perfect environment where I could shake off the city, reconnect with my brothers, and map out a new life as an independent creative professional, and, to a remarkable degree, I somehow managed to do just that. I enjoyed a privileged status. One memory that survives is the time other tenants complained to the INNmaster that he was too lenient with me with respect to our division of duties, and he firmly replied, “What makes you think fairness has anything to do with it?” Although life at J’s INN was conducive to many things, it was far from perfect, and it became too large a phenomenon to fully control, despite Fron’s valiant effort as the legendary INNmaster. J’s INN had its own appetites and its own aura of defiance that could never be tamed. Eventually, one could only betray and abandon it to its own devices. When it finally spent itself and met its match in the bulldozer, it surely left a crack in the hearts of my Clansmen, but it’s difficult to accept that its legacy, as hopelessly scrambled as it is, has not proved to be a good one in the final analysis. To think otherwise is to deny the galvanizing purpose it played in Brotherhood, and to deny its role in drawing me to my lifelong “partner in all things.” So be it, J’s INN— May your forgotten crimes be expiated. May your limestone bones and fallen timbers decay in peace at last.

I’ve shrugged off the disappointment of not having my design chosen for the new library logo, and continue to be excited about the expansion taking place across Broadway. When I assess the daily progress from the vantage of our upstairs bathroom window, my memory skips back to the 1960s. We used to ride our bikes a mile or so toward town to watch the construction of a large electric-power substation on Tipp-Cowlesville Road. It’s not surprising that the rhythmic coordination of massive earth-moving equipment was fascinating to a youthful male. However, at the time, it was just another element of relentless change that I was observing firsthand, most notably the steady development of Dixonwood, our family property on Shoop Road. Clearly, much was churning in America during those years, but I didn’t sense the powerful shifts taking place in the larger culture as much as I had the perception of personally hurtling through rapid change in my own physical and emotional existence. It’s wild enough to be an adolescent, but to experience it as a “new kid” in a more sophisticated community, just as all the norms of social interaction were being questioned or summarily discarded… Before long, nothing seemed to be immune from total scrutiny, and the pace of upheaval that was accelerating month by month was rippling over my life like the waves of an incoming tide. Indeed, it was a “radical” period during which to come of age. Similar to those who had The Great Depression or The War eclipse their years as a teen, the cultural meltdown of the 60s was a fact of life, and you were just there in the midst of it, living it a day at a time, unaware of how it could have been any different. I haven’t come close to sorting through it all, and, perhaps, I never can nor shall.

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…

The sense of marking time characterizes my days, although I know that personal progress is taking place. There is no standing still.

The same old angst surfaces when we purge records and remnants of past projects. What is the underlying nature of this difficulty in destroying the evidence of how I spent a portion of my life? It is not, as Dana misinterprets, an issue of trust. I trust her with vast areas of my well-being, and have for decades. Perhaps it has much more to do with what Maurice Manning touches on in his poem, A Possible Blessing:

. . . the man who understands diminishment
will lay down in his coffin from time to time
and practice disappearing, like a bug
riding a twig on a stream: a speck of un-
belonging, immersed in careless undulation.
You lose your obligation to remember,
which frees you to the quickened world of matter.

—from A Companion for Owls, 2004

— I just had my first meeting with Maurice the Poet about my wood engraving, and it’s such a privilege to be collaborating with someone of his intense perceptions and literary abilities. Not surprisingly, I’m battling those silly old currents of inadequacy. In a moment of weakness, I told Gray I hadn’t expected to be invited in at this level for my first Larkspur commission. He let out his characteristic laugh and said, “John, there’s only one level around here!”

— Brendan must be very busy getting ready to come back to the States, but he took time to send me a cool link about Haruo Suekichi, the Japanese timepiece artist. If, like me, you’re fascinated by the creative process, the interview is full of insights. You can form your own judgments about his watches. Brendan knew I would agree with him that they’re awesome. These are watches a mad villain from The Wild Wild West would wear with sinister pride while defiantly counting off the final seconds of Jim and Artie’s lives.

— After my presentation last night before the Boyle County Planning and Zoning Commission, I believe there’s significantly better than a 50-50 chance that the authority will adopt stronger language in its Comprehensive Plan Update to acknowledge the future needs of bicyclists and pedestrians. If nothing else, the level of public awareness had been raised another big notch, and our group, B.I.K.E. | Boyle County, received a “thumbs up” from the Advocate-Messenger editorial page today.

— Anyone who knows me, knows my affection for cycling, and appreciates how much time I swipe from other activities to advocate for a more bike-accommodating Kentucky… Well, you have to read this article about a recent tragic loss in Louisville. That’s all I can write about it.

— Discovery’s Contador is now wearing the yellow jersey, leading a dispirited corps of the world’s top cyclists. It may take years for the Tour to recover from the scandalous developments of the past week. The Spaniard says he’s clean, but that’s what they all say, whether they are or not. Tomorrow’s time trial will determine the winner, but Evans and Leipheimer both are now in a position to challenge. Unfortunately, whoever wins will stand at the pinnacle of a tarnished sport. It’s nearly impossible to remain an exuberant fan of pro cycling. On the other hand, ask yourself this: What other professional sport would be willing to undergo such zero-tolerance scrutiny, and, if it were, could emerge any less ruined in the eyes of the spectator public?

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

— 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

I found the mental break I needed by sitting down to write words for our circle of friends who gather at Mack’s cabin for Shared Silence. As you probably know, these talks are known locally as “After Silence.” It’s been four and half years since I did one of these talks. I intend to give due credit to best buddy Mike for many of the facts, observations, and speculations that I’m including. They’re borrowed primarily from an article he wrote last year for Dynamic Chiropractic. Bruce went to the ER this morning with severe pain and is spending the night in a private room. Originally he was going with us to the farm for tomorrow’s holiday with Clan, but now he may not be released soon enough. Hospitals exist in another world of time, and it’s a lot like the weather—no sense in worrying about something over which one has absolutely no control.

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

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

A wise man would comply.

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

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

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

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

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

V & S

March experiment—day thirty— One foot in front of the other brings the finish line a step closer.

Today’s sight bite— Scraps of printed text, a dried leaf, an encyclopedia engraving, stickers for a video label, a tea-bag tag, numbers torn from an old calendar—c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k, c-l-i-c-k—a flurry of color and images as a collage takes shape.

Tomorrow— Last day; kick it out…

After a restless Saturday-night sleep for all, we hit the ground with all cylinders firing yesterday, and—by some miracle—our team managed to organize, pack, and load all Bruce’s things, as well as clean the kitchen and bathroon, making it back to Danville around 1 am this morning. Today we transferred everything to the storage compartment and delivered the truck to Nicholasville within ten minutes of the 48-hour expiration. We did it! Bruce is safe and sound in Kentucky, and everybody kept a cool head throughout the ordeal. We “celebrated” with a major all-you-can-eat family buffet munch-down.

March experiment—day twenty-two— If I’d taken time earlier to characterize my day, I would’ve declared that my experiment had broken down, but now I’m not sure, and that’s why I go a bit mad at this point in the exercise. Has the imposed mental structure fallen apart, or has it been absorbed into my state of being? Has the regimen lost “front of mind” status only because I’ve encouraged it to become a foundational habit of situational awareness and time management? Great Scot! Can I not distinguish between failure and success? This must be why I tend to go a bit mad at this point in the exercise, or did I say that already?

Today’s sight bite— The fleshy, white thighs of my new client, as he sits on our couch—c-l-i-c-k—explaining auto-security remotes with typical enthusiasm, but his shorts are alarmingly—short!

Tomorrow— Hit the scheduled milestone and keep plugging, in preparation for the round-trip to Indianapolis…

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

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

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

March experiment—day five— After a Sunday break, I struggle to dominate the desired level of focus at the heart of the exercise. Rest is important, but I shouldn’t have to learn all of last year’s lessons over again. I’m not happy about my productivity today, but I’d best not stress about it. Perhaps there’s something important to learn about maintaining the essential inner momentum, even when the outer goings-on don’t match the prescribed agenda—for example, this morning’s distractions with a plumber down the hall, and my unforeseen but necessary email replies. Tonight’s Mozart at Newlin Hall is not on my checklist either, but if I’m receptive, it may prove more inspiring than a full box of collage scrap.

Today’s sight bite— Ancient trees in McDowell Park—c-l-i-c-k—engraved by sunrise against a blue sky.

Tomorrow— Making up for a bit of lost time…

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

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

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

— A Mombonian Correction!

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

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

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

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

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

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

God bless him!