Uncle John’s Log & Co.

— 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 certain I remembered the proper definition of “psychological transference,” so I checked the handy Wikipedia—

In The Psychology of the Transference, Carl Jung states that …. in love and in psychological growth, the key to success is the ability to endure the tension of the opposites without abandoning the process; and that, in essence, it is that tension that allows one to grow and to transform.

I’m not sure I got the concept exactly right, but I discovered another interesting kernel of thought.

Another week ends with little sense of breakthrough and too much sense of struggle. I had the strong feeling today that the experiment clarified the power of correct tactics, but is of limited value without the proper strategy. Perhaps the strategy will come out of applying the organizing principle, but I doubt it. There’s a missing key that’s greater than diligence, a missing key that must fuel the perseverance.

Tonight we were the guests of Jeannette and Ben, two more of our generous friends (the secret treasure in my life), along with Kathy and Bill, and Shirley and Larry. Of the four couples, we are the only one not enjoying an extraordinarily comfortable retirement rooted in a lifetime of dedicated work. These are people with whom I am totally at ease one-on-one, but the harder I tried to relax, the more uncomfortable and out of place I felt. My state of unease was silly and unnecessary, but I didn’t seem to be able to remove it, any more than I was in a position to take off my shirt.

On top of it all, I realize that it really had nothing to do with my environment or my companions. As long as my life is out of balance, I’ll feel stuck in a rut, and so I’ve got to keep striving to sort this out.

Again, Emerson’s words weigh on my mind:

I find the coincidence of the extremes of eastern and western speculation in the daring statement of Schelling, “there is in every man a certain feeling, that he has been what he is from all eternity, and by no means became such in time.” To say it less sublimely, — in the history of the individual is always an account of his condition, and he knows himself to be a party to his present estate.

— Dana and I had an impromptu dinner with Mombo last night and I took the opportunity to show her my example of “Legacy Art.” I’m starting to wonder if that’s the best terminology for it, but I haven’t come up with anything better. I like the non-specificity, and the wide range of niche markets it could cover. When Seth saw it, he thought the style might appeal to high-end extreme sports devotees. The first example does have an “Indy Jones” visual flavor to it, and that could be appealing to any number of different target audiences—pilots, speed-boaters, racers, sailors, deep-sea anglers, climbers, divers, skiers, eco-trekkers, equestrians—I don’t know, as long as they have some dough and are fascinated enough with the significance of their own exploits to document themselves with an uncommon work of art. I need to define my ideal, well-heeled “mark.” How does “Raiders of the Flossed Mark” sound? Ooh, that was bad. See yesterday’s entry…

— I haven’t mentioned it, but after the events of the weekend, I was stunned when my pal David decided to present me with two unbelievably nice gifts—a pair of early 20th-century British Enfield military firearms, an officer’s revolver and a bolt-action rifle. I still don’t know what to say to him. He must appreciate the portrait that much, so I really shouldn’t joke about it. On my part, it’s a genuine attempt to find an unmet need in the art world, and I’m not going to put the venture aside just because I didn’t set the room on fire with my initial foray into the marketplace. It gave me pleasure to complete my first in the series with my friend as the subject. Now, the next step is to execute the second under the supervision of my great white huntress. That sounds much more provocative than it’ll play out, I’m sure…

— Yes, I really shouldn’t joke about my effort to reposition myself as a commemorative illustrator. Beside the fact that it wouldn’t amount to funny, the objective tends to epitomize everything that’s held me fixated for over a month, which actually turned out to be a rather serious project of self-study and introspective behavior modification. If poking fun at the pursuit would help my evaluation, than I’m all for it, but I’m more inclined to start looking at the lessons learned and assign myself some new action items to preserve my momentum. One of the primary things that came to light was how much doubt and fear I’d allowed to penetrate into my outlook, workstyle, and personal ambitions… mild, perhaps, but insidious nevertheless. That just has to go, and there are still pockets to root out, but at least I’ve developed the sensitivity to identify and counteract such an undesirable emotional undercurrent. It’s been a major source of wasted energy, as was my habit of distracting myself. It’s amazing how many typical trains of thought and everyday diversions seem trivial to me now, or at least unfocused. I’ve known for awhile that the pattern was there, but it took a diligent effort to unwind the nature of the chain reactions and recognize the old ruts for what they are. Once again, I come back happily to Emerson:

“Profligacy consists not in spending years of time or chests of money,—but in spending them off the line of your career. The crime which bankrupts men and states, is, job-work — declining from your main design, to serve a turn here or there. Nothing is beneath you, if it is in the direction of your life: nothing is great or desirable, if it is off from that…”

V & S

March experiment—day twenty-four— I rescheduled my ten-miler when I arose to discover a steady shower of wet sleet at first light. Well, at least I didn’t have more than my hopes invested in the proposed venture, unlike other ambitious people. I may be bonkers, but I’m not a madman. Not yet, anyway. However, I do recall running in worse weather during the winter of oh-two. A local man stopped his car and yelled, “You’ve got to be crazy to run in this!” I shouted back, “You’ve got to be crazy to drive in this!”

Today is about dealing efficiently with a multiple of tasks recently sidelined by a critical deadline, which naturally tends to subordinate other priorities. It’s about breaking a habit—temporarily letting go of my discipline or indulging an escape after a major presentation, instead of shifting the same level of focus to a new area of active creativity. Maintaining a momentum of accomplishment is a more desirable reward, if a reward is necessary. I’m tired of having to regain my inertia over and over again. I’d rather keep a more even pace of achievement. I’ve learned this from exercise, but the idea has taken on a new power for me, the more I pay attention to the advice of artists who know how to routinely get things done.

Last night before bed I spent time with Kazu’s description of how he creates his “Copper” strip. This morning I’m “mining” an interview with Arundhati Roy. Some of her thoughts fascinate me because I’m trying to find a way through the challenge of shifting my fine art from a gift-oriented activity to a more self-centric ambition, in order to professionalize it within a desired array of income modules. For reasons unclear, I’ve been getting more out of listening closely to writers and filmmakers (and a dancer!) than I get out of listening to designers or visual artists.

“You know, I always believed that even among the best writers, there are selfish writers and there are generous ones. Selfish writers leave you with the memory of their book. Generous writers leave you with the memory of the world they evoked. To evoke a world, to communicate it to someone, is like writing a letter to someone that you love. It’s a very thin line. For me, books are gifts. When I read a book, I accept it as a gift from an author. When I wrote this book, I presented it as a gift. The reader will do with it what they want.”

Roy’s keen insight applies to all the fine arts—in my case, the applied arts. If I’m to be honest with myself, it’s my identity as an illustrator that I seek to define, rather than as a true fine artist, at least in the near term. Earning commissions for the type of imagery I intend to create involves meaningful service to a customer, and so I must juggle my own artistic agenda while capturing a high level of personal significance for my client—balancing the selfish with the generous—providing pleasure in the sense of legacy, a useful satisfaction. Emerson often draws his distinction between the fine and the “useful” arts, but makes clear that both can lead to wealth.

Why is it that I’ve been more comfortable with dedicated effort toward seizing health and less so with wealth? Is it just cultural conditioning or is it part of my DNA? I wanted health, so I built it into my body. It took time, but I did it. I have goals that require a solid microeconomic platform. Forget wealth. I would hope that I could just free myself from the low-grade financial stress that erodes well-being. But Emerson doesn’t dance euphemistically around the issue. He uses the word.

“Wealth is in application of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot.”

Indeed. Let’s get back to the drill.

Today’s sight bite— Afternoon sunlight cuts across a wall the color of thick mucous, as my paint-saturated roller subtracts the distasteful hue—c-l-i-c-k—with white, glorious white, overtaking the wall, swath by swath.

Tomorrow— Running toward the dawn, to share the silence with friends…

March experiment—day thirteen— Today’s dramatic change in weather makes me realize I got just what I wished for. Hmmm—perhaps, while I’m on a roll…

A few interesting things happened today. I was happy to get back from the gym in time to catch Junger’s interview on C-SPAN, and it made for some good breakfast viewing. Although I’ve broken my habit of watching early morning television, this was a worthwhile aberration. I share with him a special concern for the Afghan people that goes back to the 80s, when friends and I met with Mujahideen representatives during their stay in Dayton. I can’t like a journalist as much as I like Junger unless I trust that person’s instincts, and for some reason I completely trust this guy to get exactly the right take on whatever he observes. So now I’ll have to go find a copy of “Vanity Fair.” This afternoon I had a crucial discussion with Wilma at the Community Arts Center about raising my profile as an artist, and her advice may prove invaluable. The most stimulating thing is how much it coincides with some of the suggestions and encouragement I’ve gotten from David. A daunting transition, to be sure, but one that I must initiate in the near term. Stay tuned.

Today’s sight bite— Flags snapping on the Salvation Army pole against a field of midday blue—c-l-i-c-k—the kind of pure, deep shade that invigorates my soul.

Tomorrow— Conference call with KBBC Commissioners, trip to the courthouse to pick up my “Share the Road” license plate, and an evening of Russian music…

In Memoirs of a Geisha, the main character reflects on the advice of her mother, who taught that water, with time, can cut through the hardest rock, and, when blocked, will always find another way.

Why is it that everywhere I shift my attention, I’m reminded of the power of persistent, repetitive action? Is the universe using the method itself to make sure the concept gradually penetrates my stubborn personality?

When I look over the past dozen years or so, the most noticeable change I can recognize in myself is the transformation to high physical activity from a sedentary mode. It wasn’t initially inspired by a dream. Rather, it grew out of an apprehensive realization that I undoubtedly carried the same predisposition to heart disease that had claimed my father’s life. Out of weakness came strength—increment by increment, workout by workout, mile by mile.

So, there I have it. Out of my weakness to believe that I could achieve without grinding, habitual effort my dream—a dynamic life on the land, making art from a studio in the Knobs—can come a new practice and ritual which is the only course that will ever take me there. Yes, there will be obstacles and inner resistance. At times, the water will need to find an alternative path, but there is no alternative to the necessity of the “drill.” No other way than through the power of focused routine, and a life of productive habit.

Once again, I must read the words of Emerson and let them sink in—

In chemistry, the galvanic stream, slow, but continuous, is equal in power to the electric spark, and is, in our arts, a better agent. So in human action, against the spasm of energy, we offset the continuity of drill. We spread the same amount of force over much time, instead of condensing it into a moment.

Once more.

And again…

Twyla Tharp makes clear throughout her invaluable book that creative consistency can only be achieved when the artist pushes beyond talent and desire to infuse work with an ethic of ritual. Not even skill, imagination, research, or planning will compensate for the lack of a daily habit of constructive focus. Emerson calls it “drill.”

Both of them describe a level of disciplined concentration with which I have personal experience, but only for relatively brief spells in my life. I’ve always felt relieved to settle back into a more multi-dimensional frame of mind. I never understood how the focused state could be harnessed as a positive habit pattern because I wasn’t convinced there was any reason to do so. My self-image as a hard worker coexisted with a misplaced desire to indulge my aversion to structured, regimented, predictable behavior. I built an entire lifestyle around it, but, to be frank, I haven’t built much else.

I was talking to my brother James last night and when he asked what was going on with me, I replied without thinking, “You should read my blog.”

I knew it was lame as soon as I said it. His not unkind reply was that he just didn’t have the time. I wasn’t surprised, but I still carried a vague sense of disbelief for the rest of the night until I finished Emerson’s “Power” before bed.

The one prudence in life is concentration; the one evil is dissipation: and it makes no difference whether our dissipations are coarse or fine; property and its cares, friends, and a social habit, or politics, or music, or feasting. Everything is good which takes away one plaything and delusion more, and drives us home to add one stroke of faithful work.

The thinker likens the severe limiting of miscellaneous activity to an orchard-man’s pruning which “forces the sap of the tree into one or two vigorous limbs, instead of suffering it to spindle into a sheaf of twigs.”

It’s not too late for me to take the step from knowing to doing. Typically for me, it’ll be easier said than done. Twyla would stomp her foot and shout, “Begin!”

Now that I’ve convinced everyone to stop reading this blog, I’d better quit. Or perhaps I should revisit my own misgivings from my very first entry over a year ago.

This is one of those moments when I think that I didn’t begin to get a real education until after the age of 50, when I finally settled for me as a teacher.

Me said, “It’s not too late to learn how to think.” I answered, “Ok, Me. Let’s get started.”

Joan was kind enough to make some of Joe Wood’s books available, and there was one I accepted with particular seriousness—“The Conduct of Life,” a collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Perhaps true book-larnin’ doesn’t take place until one can center on an idea or theme after confronting it from multiple directions.

A good start, but there’s little chance a revelation will be internalized until put into actual practice.

Here is something I just read from the essay called “Power”—

When Michel Angelo was forced to paint the Sistine Chapel in fresco, of which art he knew nothing, he went down into the Pope’s gardens behind the Vatican, and with a shovel dug out ochres, red and yellow, mixed them with glue and water with his own hands, and having, after many trials, at last suited himself, climbed his ladders, and painted away, week after week, month after month, the sibyls and prophets. He surpassed his successors in rough vigor, as much as in purity of intellect and refinement. He was not crushed by his one picture left unfinished at last. Michel was wont to draw his figures first in skeleton, then to clothe them with flesh, and lastly to drape them. “Ah!” said a brave painter to me, thinking on these things, “if a man has failed, you will find he has dreamed instead of working. There is no way to success in our art, but to take off your coat, grind paint, and work like a digger on the railroad, all day and every day.”

— Month of January workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-2; Run-2; Lift-8; Yoga-13

— Most who know me are aware that I ran—this is where I always have to stop and clarify or say something like “traversed under my own power,” since “ran” is not appropriately descriptive nor entirely accurate—50 miles on my 50th birthday. Later that same year I finished the Chicago Marathon under five hours. That’s my experience with long-distance running. At times I wonder why I didn’t keep it up, but usually I just wonder why I still feel any need at all to stay in running, biking, and swimming condition to be within striking distance of performing a triathlon. Well, it’s important to cross-train, I tell myself, and besides, staying in triathlon shape is not extreme, it’s just what I consider the baseline of physical fitness. I used to think of extreme as my friend who completed over 80 marathon runs, including one in all 50 states and all 7 continents (yes, I know, Antarctica). Or maybe extreme could be defined as competing in “Ironman” triathlons—a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride, and then a 26-mile marathon on top of it, all in one day. And then I heard about the Hardrock Hundred, a 100-mile race that takes place in the mountains of Colorado. Is that extreme or what? Actually there are those who don’t think that’s enough of a challenge, and push the idea of extreme out to the borderlands of madness—the World Championship Quintuple Iron Triathlon. Believe it or not, that’s a distance equivalent to five Ironmans. There’a guy from Louisville who did it. He finished seventh, with a time that set a new U.S. record. A 12-mile swim, 560-mile bike, and 131-mile run. After four days, nine hours, and 40 minutes, he hobbled across the finish line, his body well into the process of cannibalizing his own muscle tissue. Do you think that’s extreme? Now try this—next November there’s a race in Mexico that requires ten Ironmans in ten days, and the Iron Kentuckian is thinking about an attempt. When I heard that I thought about the Athenian warrior Phidippides, who ran what’s considered to be the first marathon in the year 490 BC. He expired. We’ll keep you posted.

— The previous blurb brings to mind a recent article in Money Magazine that one of our clients brought to our attention. Jason Zweig explains in “The Thrill is Wrong” that the new science of “neuroeconomics” is helping investors understand that brain metabolism may cause us to make bad money decisions in much the same way we make bad decisions about food, drink, drugs and sex. Maybe they should add exercise to that list.

— After delivering my finished exhibition print to the Carnegie Center, Dana and I had a nice carnitas dinner in Lexington and then settled down to watch a late screening of Memoirs of a Geisha. I knew I’d enjoy it—actually, much more than Marshall’s “Chicago,” even though it’s garnered less acclaim—as I knew I’d enjoy “The Last Samurai,” because I can easily overlook the flaws in a picture like this. When the production design for a Japan-based story is this awesome, I can never leave the theater disappointed. I must make a note to check out any movie with set decoration by Gretchen Rau. It bothered me that they cast the two female leads with Chinese and Malaysian stars, but I think I was bothered more by the idea of it, going into the theatre, than during the feature. Ziyi Zhang deserved an Oscar nomination. It’s a powerful story, probably a better book, and almost worth the outrageous ticket price. Ken Watanabe is excellent once again, and I always get a kick out of seeing Mako pop up with his trademark scowl, even for less than a minute of screen time.

V & S

I first encountered Paul Watkins as a memoirist, and then set out to investigate his novels, reading both a later and earlier one. But, because I’d discovered his prose as nonfiction—spoken in his own, highly personal voice—I just had to find a copy of his first autobiographical work, “Stand Before Your God,” an account of his coming of age at English boarding schools. Thank goodness for the Kentucky system of interlibrary loans!

“Stand” is a bit tough to settle into, due to its uncomfortable opening. As a boy, Paul was literally tricked into leaving home at the age of seven to get an education in the centuries-old manner of the English upper crust. Unfortunately, he was an American, and was made to feel the misfit from the first startling moments. Out of this inescapable loneliness his creativity is born, and by page 100, I’d grown so fond of the lad that I was already bemoaning the end of the book.

A few years ago, after finishing “Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber” by David Gelernter, I understood that it’s possible for one to develop such a deep affection for the mind of a writer that the life-span of an exceptional book triggers all the emotions associated with birth, maturation, separation, and, inevitably, the finality of mourning.

I think many dedicated readers would understand what I’m trying to describe. Although I’m a bit uneasy with this phenomenon, I’m not ashamed to admit that on rare occasions, I can actually fall in love with an artist’s creative personality. Maybe it’s even more than that—a non-physical soul union of some type that alters you for the better.

When it comes down to it, most art is basically stupid… but not when it reaches heights worthy of the word. To be able to produce a single significant, enduring work of art is a tremendous achievement, but to consistently connect with others at such an essential level—as Watkins is able to do—almost defies comprehension.