Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Hey, look, I probably get a buzz seeing famous people as much as the average guy, but I take absolutely no interest in celebrities just because they happen to qualify for the description. On the other hand, I really do like the stars I respect, especially if my admiration for them is rooted in the “silver age” of television, and I’d probably step on my Yorkie to shake the hand of Peter Graves.

When I learned that Johnny Crawford was coming back to Danville, I knew I had to meet him and experience his current style of entertainment. Like Kurt Russell and Ron Howard, he was a child star who kept himself on the rails, and he went forward to do an impressive range of cool things in his life as an artist, athlete, and entrepreneur. Most of all, he held true to his earliest passion—music.

If Dana didn’t fully appreciate how much I was looking forward to hearing Johnny’s vintage dance band, it was because I tried my best to avoid behaving like a groupie beforehand, but I think she understood when I dug out one of Dadbo’s old bow ties and taught myself how to tie it. It’s been quite awhile since the two of us had a nice picture taken, so I was tickled when Joan and Caitlan agreed to document our night out. Thanks, ladies!

The extra time for pictures cost us the opportunity to pick out a choice table at the Playhouse indoor theater, but I managed to discover an empty love seat near the stage. It was a fine spot to watch Crawford re-enact the period manners of a band leader from the 1920s and 1930s. We were treated to a superb group of musicians hired locally to become his vintage orchestra for the evening, including Miles Osland, Dave Henderson, and Rick Cook. Watching Crawford’s seat-of-the-pants coordination was a delight, and the entire effect was a testament to the sheer professionalism of everyone on stage. On top of that, the “CD Release Party” aspect seemed to put the star of the show in a heightened mood, and his vocals and repartee at the microphone were thoroughly entertaining. I think Dana would agree the only way it could have been more enjoyable is if I’d spent less time with the bow tie and a bit more with remembering how to do the fox trot. Maybe next time; I hope he’s invited back for an encore performance.

Years ago, when I fell in love with Danville’s brass band festival, I gained a new, profound regard for the quality of American band music from the mid nineteenth century to the era of The Great War. I also came to understand how much work it takes to resurrect all of the instrumentation to recreate a period sound. This summer, Johnny Crawford shared with our community the same preservationist spirit, and it makes me think he may be emerging as one of the country’s most important historians of our popular music, salvaging lost orchestrations and discarded arrangements of favorite dance tunes from that unique period between two World Wars. As David McCullough reminds us, Americans from a different period of our history were less similar to us than we like to believe. They lived differently, and they thought differently. It was the age of radio. Everyone aspired to be a musician, if they didn’t already sing or play an instrument. All popular music was music meant for dancing, and if people didn’t go out to dance, they probably were at a motion picture to watch others dance. There was a spirit in America that observers such as David Gelernter have told us is all but lost. Well, perhaps so, but not if Johnny Crawford has anything to say about it.

Don’t go ’round moping, hoping happiness will come.
That’s not the way; it doesn’t pay.
If you want happiness, help yourself to some.
Why don’t you try to take life the way I do:

Let the whole world sigh or cry,
I’ll be high in the sky,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I don’t care what’s down below.
Let it rain or let it snow.
I’ll be up on a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away.

I have learned life’s lesson: fighters who always win
Are those who can take it right on the chin—and grin.

So I shout to everyone:
“Find your place in the sun,
Up on top of a rainbow,
Sweeping the clouds away!”

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

Wow. Just finished reading Gene Wolfe’s short essay on J.R.R. Tolkien, and I just have to provide the link here. Amazing train of thought…

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

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

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

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

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

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

I prefer this one:

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

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

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

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

V & S

— 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

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?

* * *

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 de-scribes 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.

* * *

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.

When Cheryl Truman of the Lexington Herald-Leader published her ten all-time favorite books and invited readers to submit their lists, it got me contemplating my bookshelf. It makes for tough culling, like picking your favorite foods or motion pictures, but it was an interesting activity for me, and—surprise—she included my choices in the ARTS & LIFE section on June 24th. The lists were available at Kentucky.com.

Unfortunately, there always seems to be a sour note in these things, and somebody took it upon himself to cite the wrong translation of the I Ching. It may not seem like a big deal, but I’ve never heard of Brian Browne Walker, and I’m not at all convinced his name deserves to appear in this context. I made plain to Ms Truman that the Wilhelm-Baynes translation is my preference. I’ve never seen another to compare, and it’s a big deal to me, because there have been far too many mediocre, commercially oriented versions of this classic of Chinese thought. Thank Goodness we have English as our native tongue, so we don’t have to face sorting out the various translations of Shakespeare or Emerson. Think about it. That’s why correctly making the Wilhelm-Baynes distinction is a BIG deal. You might ask yourself, is Shakespeare worth reading, except in English? Well, sure—that would be like saying one must learn Greek to read The Odyssey. One doesn’t, of course, because there was a Robert Fitzgerald. That’s why getting the Wilhelm-Baynes thing right is a FREAKIN’ HUGE deal!

The Creative Habit
Twyla Tharp’s thoughtful guide to artistic traction is the most practical book on creativity that I’ve yet encountered. The acclaimed choreographer reaches beyond her own craft to provide powerful keys to any dedicated artist.

Harlan Hubbard: Life and Work
Wendell Berry’s biography of the legendary individualist reveals much about himself, and therefore it offers penetrating insights for two of Kentucky’s most extraordinary artistic pioneers. This “double treasure” has made it one of my favorite companions for contemplative moments.

Stand Before Your God
Although Paul Watkins is clearly one of the most gifted novelists of his generation, my favorite among his books is this memoir about coming of age in English boarding schools, a pearl of introspection in today’s miasma of literary narcissism.

Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber
I’ll admit that, for various reasons, I’ve wept at the end of other books, but relinquishing my connection to David Gelernter’s mind and heart was an intense, unprecedented experience.

Shogun
I understood more about Islam after reading Whirlwind than from any nonfiction book, but his skill as a storyteller is what continues to set James Clavell apart for me. His “Asian Saga” is the benchmark achievement by which any series of historical novels can be compared, and this massive narrative of 17th-century Japan is his masterpiece.

Huckleberry Finn
The legacy of controversy shrivels when laid against its core of creative genius. I remain astonished each time I realize that no American had ever written fiction so modern. But even if someone had, I think Mark Twain’s towering novel would still have the power to stagger my imagination.

Invisible Man
More than a riveting story and keen take on American society, I think Ralph Ellison’s masterwork is perhaps the most prophetic piece of fiction in the past sixty years.

The Conduct of Life
For any American, this collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson is a rich vein of intellectual ore that’s impossible to exhaust.

I Ching or Book of Changes
Who can deny 3,000 years of Chinese wisdom? It may well be the most profound distillation of human perception that exists. The Wilhelm-Baynes translation is my favorite, and its foreword by Carl Jung is the best essay about the Book of Changes I’ve ever read.

The Holy Bible
Beyond any doubt, it enshrines the greatest and most meaningful stories in world literature.

— Month of June workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-11; Run-0; Lift-0; Yoga-0

— Easy to see that cycling is providing my only form of exercise these days, and I need to figure out what it will take to jump start my typical cross-training. In any case, I find myself thinking all the time about when I’ll saddle up for my next ride. In this part of the country, the lack of rain is creating a serious condition, but it’s made for some superb cycling weather this season, and I’m digging it. Speaking of digging, Marty and I removed another big section of old driveway at the Town House today and hauled it off in rusty Ned. I’m worn out, because six of us local cyclists went to Frankfort yesterday for the second annual Share the Road Ride and Rally. We completed a 53-mile loop through Woodford County, and the roads going in and out of Midway are the most scenic I’ve ever enjoyed on a bicycle. Talk about the heart of the Bluegrass! Just being there gave me the second wind I needed to log my new maximum single-ride mileage for the year (I’m ready for a 60-miler now). We arrived back at the Old Capitol in time for the noon rally. As the only Bike Commissioner there in riding attire, someone suggested I stand in front of a TV camera and say something. It was incoherent enough that I hope they never use it. As many know, I’m more of a rambler than a sound-bite guy when it comes to talking about “all things bicycle.”

— After a busy second quarter (with my solo exhibition, but on many levels), I’ve been looking forward to a “time out” over the next week or so. I need to be unavailable enough to get some things done that have been on the back-burner for way too long, such as finishing the reorganization of the conference room and popping the bonnet on my Mac G4 for a vital overhaul. This kind of a thing always sounds like a good idea until the target date is here. In my experience, clients are much better at taking a break than permitting us to do the same. We’ve wanted for some time to become “indispensable” again, so it will behoove us to stay accessible, but there are things I just have to do to prepare for when we are truly swamped again, and it’s only a matter of time. The Liberty/Casey account is picking up steam, the floodgate could open at any time with the new automotive client, and things are going well with the organic farm. The owners met with Whole Foods last week and picked up more orders for their organic meats, which triggers a need for new packaging graphics. The pendulum is swinging back for Dixon Design, and I must prepare our physical and virtual environment to cope with a heavier flow of business.

— Decades before the blogging culture became a fact of life, E. B. White wrote an introduction to a volume of his selected essays. For anyone who justifies writing words in a public log, his thoughts about the essayist are valuable reading. Most of us who carry on like this have no idea what we’re doing. White, by contrast, had no illusions about the nature of the format he mastered, and nearly all of us who excessively talk about ourselves in thousands of blogs (millions?) would benefit by taking his words to heart and by applying them to our peculiar practice.

The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest… Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays… The essayist arises in the morning and, if he has work to do, selects his garb from an unusually extensive wardrobe: he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person, according to his mood or his subject matter—philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast… leave the essayist to ramble about, content with living a free life and enjoying the satisfactions of a somewhat undisciplined existence. (Dr. Johnson called the essay “an irregular, undigested piece”; this happy practitioner has no wish to quarrel with the good doctor’s characterization.) There is one thing the essayist cannot do, though—he cannot indulge himself in deceit or in concealment, for he will be found out in no time… the essayist’s escape from discipline is only a partial escape: the essay, although a relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines, raises its own problems, and these disciplines and problems soon become apparent and (we all hope) act as deterrent to anyone wielding a pen merely because he entertains random thoughts or is in a happy or wandering mood.

— Jennifer B has a squirrel in her knickers about an insignificant reunion of entertainers. Well, there’s only one significant reunion that could get me excited, because I’m old enough to remember the Original Spice Girl…

V & S

I’m no expert on numerology, but I’ve been studying the ancient discipline for nearly 30 years, and I’ve dedicated myself to helping Janet and Jerome make some decisions about naming the “bay-bo grils” who will be soon be under their loving guardianship. As Juno Jordan says, “All names are good names,” so it’s not a matter of making an error. At some level, all names are part of the divine order and help tell a living story of each unique soul. In the case of “Baby Molina,” the best way to look at it is the potential for harmony and enhanced opportunity—harmony of a conferred family name with the name given at birth, harmony with the character of her new parents, and the opportunity to reinforce God-given talents and her heart’s desire with a name that will be true to her real self.

This is not a trivial exercise. The new name can be a means or vehicle for greater usefulness, but will be of no active value without the true self “behind it,” and without a meaningful connection to the special role that is already ordained. In her landmark book, JJ tells of people who take a new name, who are not happy, and who feel an underlying uncertainty because they are aware at the soul level that it doesn’t reflect their true being. This insight is valuable to the objective of naming an adopted child, and could explain in part why some adopted individuals confront undue challenges in life. Maybe it has something to do with carrying a name that’s not in harmony with who they actually are. Another way to look at the endeavor is to avoid setting her up for unnecessary discomfort as she finds her path in life as an adopted child from a distant ethnic heritage growing up in Kentucky. From what I already perceive in her birth chart, she has many fine attributes and inner gifts that will serve her well in this regard. The proper “arranged name” can contribute even more to her opportunities for satisfaction and fulfillment.

Precious one, there is great love in store for you when you encounter your new mother and father, plus an entire Clan that stands behind them in support. And a new sister, too! What a year of profound blessings!

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

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

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

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

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

Everything felt rotten today. Terie went to the ER with severe spinal pain, and Bruce almost ended up there, too. I was stressed out anyway, because I’ve been trying to get the Band Festival poster to the printer for the past three days. There were last-minute revisions to the sponsor list, plus I’ve had pressing commercial deadlines rubbing my nerves raw. A local reporter keeps calling about doing a feature on my painting, Spellbound By Brass. In a momentary lapse of discipline I say, “If I don’t get this poster right, there will be nothing to toot my horn about.”

Damn… tripped up again by an illusion of chaos and the sense of disorder. Ralph Waldo reminds me that, ”There is no chance, and no anarchy, in the universe. All is system and gradation.” I must believe it’s true, even on days like today. I must have full faith in a divine order—the reality and foundation that underlies this “kingdom of illusions.” I must never think I’m too busy not to keep this reality before me, hour by hour. “Whatever games are played with us,” Emerson writes, “we must play no games with ourselves, but deal in our privacy with the last honesty and truth… and taste the real quality of existence, as in our employments, which only differ in the manipulations, but express the same laws; or in our thoughts, which wear no silks, and taste no ice-creams.” Why is it so difficult for me to “see God face to face every hour, and know the savor of Nature” when in the jaws of masticating days such as these—not on a day when it’s easy, but on a day when it matters?

This line of thinking takes me back to my birthday, flying from Dallas to Detroit, unable to pull my eyes away from the images far below my window’s point of view. I was expecting to review my notes from three days of high-intensity exposure to powerful speakers, significant motivators all, but I couldn’t ignore the sights under the speeding craft, the living plains and wooded river bottoms as we crossed the heart of my beloved motherland. I could see the hand of Nature in the centuries-old patterns of meandering watercourses and how the farmers had endeavored to exploit the riches of her fertile, changing designs—everywhere, the evidence of God’s magnificent Kosmos, and it caused my soul to sing. It triggered previous experiences of knowing what is real, in contrast to what I’ve conditioned myself over my life to think is real. I wanted to have that profound knowledge stay with me always, but I recognized it would pass, so I tried to hold on to one point of reality that might “stick” with me—that I am loved, that I can love in return, and that I can be in that reality no matter what is going on around me, no matter what conditions or circumstances challenge my thoughts or emotions. I wondered if I could hold on to that idea, and not fail to safeguard it, as Tolstoy’s Olenin had failed when he returned from nature to the Cossack village. And so I prayed, as I watched America sliding by, knowing there would be times like now, when my resilience to illusion would be shallow in the face of daily influences.

Back during the 70s when I worked in acrylics, I once made a painting called “Blur-Head.” It could be a symbol of my life in 2007. I try to compartmentalize, but everything is just shmooshed together, as each day tumbles into the next, filled with unmet requests and rapid-fire deadlines. I can’t complain. It’s a product of my own intent to be busy again.

Ian was in Danville for a spell, and we met him in the gallery at the Community Arts Center. The lad looks slim and trim, and I was glad to see him. He liked my show. He walked home with us and had a chance to say hello to Bruce before heading down to the farm. I may not get to see him again before he departs for a big island in the ocean. Be safe. Aloha.

I won’t say how long it’s been since I was on a bike that wasn’t meant to sit on a floor, but I finally joined friends for a Thursday night ride out past the Rick Dees estate. It was an incredible evening, although I gabbed so much I don’t think I fully appreciated being out there. That’s ok. It’s a start. I feel like I have to build my conditioning from scratch. How did that happen?

During the time I’ve been actively blogging—since January of 2005—it’s never been this much of a struggle to make a regular entry. Something about the little calendar in the other format helped prompt me, but it’s more than that. Blogging is effortless when you know what you think or feel. This spring I haven’t allowed the mind-time or heart-time to catch up with myself. Hopefully that will change as I adapt to this new rhythm of daily activity. Forgive me if my notes here become a bit “blurred.” If that’s the way my life is right now, perhaps I’ll have more to show for it than a journal. There’s a logic and purpose to what’s happening lately. My profile is being elevated on multiple fronts, all at the same time. I need to resist the tendency to seek validation by writing things in a log. On the other hand, life without introspection is an alien existence.

“Fate is a name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought—for causes which are unpenetrated.” —Emerson

A new and satisfactory pattern will emerge.

Early childhood accumulation is the most authentic form of collecting—that first little box or drawer with trinkets to stimulate the bud of imagination. Certain special shards of quartz from your “rock store” just couldn’t be carelessly tossed back into the driveway gravel, could they? When it came to postcards or match-packs, adults would facilitate, but most likely it wasn’t their idea at the outset. Not all children collect, but for many of us, the desire was innate. What was it about that hoard of popsicle sticks or milk-jug caps that gave us a tingle of satisfaction? It was only a small step of forward progress to coins, stamps, baseball cards, books, antique tools, vintage toys, etcetera. Or was it the opposite of progress? Some types of collections made you feel “big,” but now I am, and everywhere in the world of grownups are admonishments to clean up the mess, downsize, and banish your clutter. I caught a few minutes of Dr. Phil the other day, apparently a whole program about the dysfunctional pack-rat, in which the message was unequivocal—needing to keep all that junk is the latest fear-based personality disorder.

Well, maybe it is, but I was happy to recently discover the other side of the spectrum with In Flagrante Collecto, Professor Marilynn Gelfman Karp’s fascinating, richly illustrated treatise on our essential impulse to acquire—the rare, the strange, the unsung, and the incidental. How, as a life-long collector, she’s found the ability to survey the topic with such intelligent objectivity is quite remarkable to me. She defines six shared traits among all collectors:

1) Unquestionable Dominion • the total mastery of your self-defined territory.

2) Hands-On Gratification • the satisfying communion with your booty.

3) Empowerment by Delimitation • the boundaries and criteria of allowable desire.

4) Hunting and Gathering • the fulfillment of discernment plus the exhilaration of the quest.

5) Possession • the self-affirming ownership of historical era by osmosis.

6) Husbanding and Transference of Characteristics • the salient attributes of the collection which accrue to the collector.

Her bottom-line assessment is that “loving the unloved is the purest state of collecting from which all collectors’ motives may be deduced. An object of material culture is any object that a person deems worthy of collecting.”

I suppose most of us who face piles of stuff fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum between connoisseur and cripple. So the question remains—what do I do with all of it? Much has no intrinsic value and begs to be pitched (if it isn’t actually begging, then my patient mate surely is). To me, it’s an archival record of what has appealed to heart, head, and hand throughout my life. Ah, precisely… there’s the source of its abiding interest to me. It represents the creative opportunity to organize, process, synthesize, repurpose, and present to others a “culminating artifact” that maybe, just maybe, will achieve some level of extrinsic value greater than its inherent nature as a sum of overlooked ingredient elements.

Will that make it art? It’s worth a try…

Olden…

Issues having to do with an outrageous astronaut meltdown, in addition to George Will’s recent article about Chicago, are stimulating my libertarian streak today. Is it possible that NASA officials are using scarce resources for a public relations effort to portray Captain Lisa Nowak as a sympathetic figure, in order to safeguard its own institutional image? If a Mayor Daley can begin turning over government assets to the free market, maybe it’s time we privatize the whole bloody space program and finally get on with it.

Consider this— If LBJ had farmed it all out to Walt Disney back when I was in junior high, do you think we’d still be fiddling around with obsolete launch vehicles and half-built orbital tin cans almost 40 years after we landed on the moon?

While at the library, I was mildly fascinated by a magazine interview with the creator of Deadwood—a television show I’ve never seen—about its connection to Red Harvest—by an author I’ve never read—so I decided to borrow the book itself and finally sample Dashiell Hammett for myself—to discover what all the fuss has been about.

As usual, I’m scratching along in my own analytical way, looking for “keys.” For me, that often involves attempts at integrating various “reality maps” I’ve encountered that make sense as individual systems. Numerology would be one example, but seems limited when I approach it in isolation. Feng Shui has appeal, but I haven’t totally bought into the premise. For a long time, Bruce has made references to Chinese medicine, but my investigation into Chinese thought has been confined to a study of the Book of Changes or I Ching.

Today I read a short magazine article by Mark Blessington. We must think along the same lines, because he’s made an impressive start at applying the principles of Chinese medicine to the relationships between money and people. There’s often a fine distinction between genuine insight and wacky diversion, I must admit, but I would say that Blessington’s ideas about achieving a balance in money elements deserves the benefit of the doubt.

And so we press on with our attempts to synthesize the unbridgeable gaps of knowledge and to learn the unknowable truths, like why you can’t find a missing object until you tell somebody else that you lost it. We’ll continue to look for the profound answers that elude us all, to understand why time always speeds up every Thursday night during NBC’s telecast of “The Office,” and to solve the many riddles of a mysterious universe.

— If you like Howard Pyle, N.C. Wyeth, and the “Golden Age of American Illustration,” Paul Giambarba has put together a smashing collection of biographical notes, artistic comments, and rarely seen images. I just love this handsome stuff, and tip my hat to anyone who would spend the personal time to compile such an extensive reference site.

— I grabbed a few moments of “mind time” in Harrodsburg while Dana got a haircut, thinking LJS would be a relatively quiet place at that time of day, but the music was a bit more electric-70s than I was expecting. I still haven’t given up on achieving a new level of organization, and it’s that time of year anyway. Business development remains priority one. Nevertheless, I find myself pulled continuously in a different direction with so many art deadlines and volunteer responsibilities demanding my attention. I have another milestone facing me within a week as part of my contractual obligation to the Band Festival as 2007 featured artist. And I must make steady progress on preparations for a one-man show in May at the Community Arts Center. If I don’t find a way to more successfully block out my time, there are some intense experiences that I won’t be able to avoid this year. One good new client would take much of the heat off our situation, and that has to be my focus, one way or another.

— We had a full house at the B.I.K.E. meeting tonight, including our newly sworn-in mayor. It was an important kick-off for the year, a discussion of our first major proposal to the city for infrastructure enhancements and repairs. If I didn’t have so many experienced community leaders at the table, I think I’d probably spin my wheels a lot, but they have a way of making sure I keep getting the traction we need (I don’t know if that pun was intentional or not).

— Dana and I continue to chip away at our three hours of P.J. O’Rourke on tape. He says he dislikes memoirs, and so I can only assume he’s never read the extraordinary Paul Watkins book, Stand Before Your God. He really doesn’t like bloggers either. According to him it’s like “what I did last summer” for adults, and he seems to detest the whole phenomenon. As far as this blog goes, it appears we have an every-other-day pattern of entries developing and that suits me fine. It’s half the level of blogging I was doing a year ago, arguably a more reasonable pace for my current situation. If you desire more than that, dear reader, all I can say it this: you must have way too much time on your hands.

V & S

Good Grief. I just read Keillor’s first syndicated column of the year. For somebody who got famous being humorous and touching at the same time, it’s painful to cringe through something with that much self-righteous venom. He’s far too good a writer to inflict that on a reader, but it was my choice to partake. It’s like deciding to sit in front of Meryl Streep and have her look directly at you and weep.

Looking for an antidote, I sat down to watch a few minutes of P.J. O’Rourke on “In Depth,” who was talking about how much writers dislike the act of writing. He said something very close to this: “No writer who I respect says they love the writing part. I suppose the only people who love writing are bloggers. Blogs are free—and worth it.”

Yow. One of those days. I’d better go accomplish something.

There you have it, Ian. You just got your money’s worth.

“A designer knows he has achieved perfection not when there is nothing left to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”

— Antoine de Saint-Exupery

With a strict focus on our most urgent priorities, I must temporarily devote myself to creating a stronger and more stable business posture.

Click the “Archives” and browse a few of my past entries— January 2005 to September 2006.

From time to time I’ll continue to record my thoughts in a private book, just as I have done since 1971, because I concur with Harlan Hubbard in that I have always kept a journal for “myself changed and at a later time,” and, to use his words again, I would hope that I can someday resume this log as “a kind of memorial to the passing days.”

Until then, please do a few things for me…

• Don’t neglect your creative self.

• Read any Paul Watkins book you can find.

• Ride a bicycle, just for fun.

• Visit Anacrusis, Monday through Friday.

• Treat your body as your best investment.

• Put in a good word for Dixon Design.

“The education of the will is the object of our existence.”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

— Frank the Fisherman

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

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

Kathleen invited me to collaborate on a collage that will become the featured artwork on gift cards for out-of-town artists participating in the “Connections” show. We produced it today and that turned out to be a delightful, informative experience. On top of it, she loaned me one of her favorite books, “Joseph Cornell: Shadowplay Eterniday.”

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

Our Indianapolis arrival was behind schedule, but Dana, Marty, and I had a nice Mexican supper with Bruce. Said our goodbyes and headed north this morning, travelling through Ft. Wayne, which was much better driving than I-75. After a big delay in Lansing, getting groceries and trying to find the best route to Grayling, we finally arrived at Barefoot’s Resort before dark and settled into Walt’s old mobile home—not a stylish abode, but comfortable, bright, and more than roomy enough for the three of us. Finished “Payne Hollow” during the drive up. Harlan inspires me to my own individualism, and it’s my hope to find significant time for contacting my creative self over the next few days, with conceptual development for artwork and self-promotion that would be hard to sustain in an environment less conducive than this. That’s my idea of a good break from the typical routine.

Not too many things make me angry, but I must say that I hate to misplace things, and looking for a missing item is a fast track to the loss of harmony as well. I truly hate the entire dynamic, and it goes to the heart of my quirks about organization and a personal relationship with “stuff.”

Before long, we’ll complete our final preparations and leave for Michigan. If we can survive the packing.

It must not matter if you’re famous or anonymous, nor whether you have the means to buy almost anything once you arrive at a destination, there’s still something about packing for a trip that generates tension and the potential for conflict. When you add to that the frustration of locating misplaced items, the combination can be rather combustible.

Charlton Heston thought enough about this volatile phenomenon to include some observations in his excellent collection of journal entries called “The Actor’s Life.” He wrote about various pre-departure blow-ups. Later, he records that he and Lydia finally came to a workable resolution—henceforth, he would play no part at all in packing.

He never mentions it again.

On this point alone, Chuck is more man than I shall ever be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been sorta push-push lately, so I think I’ll pause in Sabbath Mode until I restore both physical and cognitive abilities, and then it’s back to the grind.

“Why should I hasten to solve every riddle which life offers me? I am well assured that the Questioner, who brings me so many problems, will bring the answers also in due time. Very rich, very potent, very cheerful Giver that he is, he shall have it all his own way, for me.”

— Emerson

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

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

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

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

• This was one of those oddball days with wall-to-wall meetings and a string of outings into the community. Naturally, I tried to make the most of continuous contact with a wide variety of people, doing my best to avoid missing any opportunity to soft-sell our valuable capability.

Blow by quiet blow, I must pursue this steady defiance, in opposition to any prevailing trend of discontinuity in my commercial affairs. Resignation—to predispositions of temperament, or inevitabilities, or thought habits, or genes, or patterns of behavior, or personal psychology, or so-called karma, or perceptions of Fate—is not an option, as long as I have the power to invite change. Nothing is fixed in a world full of grace, in a world where I am receptive to the One Source of constructive change. As one would expect, the essayist provides even more keys:

But Fate has its lord; limitation its limits; is different seen from above and from below; from within and from without. For, though Fate is immense, so is power, which is the other fact in the dual world, immense. If Fate follows and limits power, power attends and antagonizes Fate. We must respect Fate as natural history, but there is more than natural history. For who and what is this criticism that pries into the matter? Man is not order of nature…But the lightning which explodes and fashions planets, maker of planets and suns, is in him…if you please to plant yourself on the side of Fate, and say, Fate is all; then we say, a part of Fate is the freedom of man. Forever wells up the impulse of choosing and acting in the soul. Intellect annuls Fate. So far as a man thinks, he is free…it is wholesome to man to look not at Fate, but the other way: the practical view is the other. His sound relation to these facts is to use and command, not to cringe to them…They who talk much of destiny, their birth-star, &c., are in a lower dangerous plane, and invite the evils they fear.

“Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

No…

And the Old Fisherman was not the only one who misunderstood.

The Ghost of Lice was wrong…

Follow not the path of destiny, but accept the freedom to understand and transcend it.

Act to empower oneself with a force of creative conduct.

… graybeard prospector …

Finished preparations for both of my events. The KBBC meets at Shaker Village from noon to noon, starting tomorrow, and then I have TSA dinner Thursday evening in Danville. Submitted two ideas for a souvenir pin to organizers of the GABBC, too.

So, I guess my existence has been taken over temporarily by my out-of-control volunteer projects.

There was a time in my life when I would’ve been a nervous wreck, but I was more tense today about Dana’s trip to Louisville to deal once again with getting a replacement for our defective monitor. Or perhaps I had a bit too much bean brew, or maybe it’s possible I’m transferring some of my apprehension about back-to-back, high-profile public exposures to our ongoing battle for satisfaction from ViewSonic and their miserable excuse for a local contractor.

I wasn’t certa