We held a breakthrough “Meeting For Mombo” last night at Greystone and somehow were able to work through a few sticky wickets while maintaining a loving, prayerful mode to our deliberations. This morning Dana had a good idea for the Blue Bank Hall walk-in tub remodel, which I sketched and distributed promptly. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. “Making a big deal out of it” has been a life-long specialty of mine, as a matter of fact, and I know most of the reasons for it, but I need to put that stumbling block behind me. It is March, is it not?
Archive for the ‘Psychology’ Category
Mar/X Eight
Friday, March 8th, 2013Parallel worlds
Tuesday, June 19th, 2012“One man live. Another man die. One woman laugh and the other one cry.”
—Danny Darst, Lady Luck
Back in the depths of our winter mourning, when I would see people talking and laughing with delight, it seemed out of character with the tone of existence, even though I knew at the same time that it was only natural for every imaginable emotion to be continuously bubbling through the current of humanity. But didn’t I live next to a funeral home? Didn’t I know that death was a constant—running abreast of every joy I experienced on any given day?
That same contrast of feeling is with me again, to some extent, because my best buddy’s sister was in a terrible car wreck. As I write this, she holds on to life despite massive brain trauma… and this is a family that lost their patriarch only eight months ago. I know what it’s like to be plunged into the icy waters of such a vigil, and yet here I am enjoying the heck out myself this summer, basking in the glow of the marvelous Johnson wedding and the best of the Great American Brass Band Festivals to date. Mombo is doing better than anyone could have expected a few short months ago, working her way toward a full mile on the treadmill, in the face of a prognosis what would have broken the spirit of many, and yet my Clan has come together to forge an even stronger bond, proving to me once again that the unfailing light of family love is the most powerful force I have yet to encounter in this life of 60 years. Here I am, enjoying the simple pleasures of each unfolding day. I make art, watch silly TV shows, play with my pup, trade stocks, grow tomatoes, read books, and ride my bicycle like I’m still a kid… and there he is, my soul mate since 1970, wounded to the core and wondering what God holds in store for the next hour, day, week… wondering how he will be forever shaped in some as yet undiscovered way. Two connected but parallel worlds.
As I heard Dana say to another recently, “There is something sad going on in every family.” The inverse must be true as well. I remember realizing that there must be happy things occurring in my family at the same time I was selecting my son’s gravesite, but one hesitates to share such things with relatives in the grip of anguish. In this age of social networks, I’m always struck by the odd juxtapositions of delight and grief, but, of course, life has never been otherwise. However, with age, it’s just a bit more difficult to mentally insulate one’s personal world, in contrast to the manner of my youth. And so I try to let my periodic melancholy be informed by the presence of exuberance, and to allow my occasional bliss to be peppered by the knowledge of sorrow.
It seems to me that all the emotions of life are fully present in our extended circle of experience, but are fleeting, elusive stuff at the private, individual level. I wonder if the impermanence of happiness is at the root of most addictions, many of which go beyond the typical vices and substances—patterns such as gossip, broadcast news watching, pack-ratting, procrastination, argumentation, anger, and all manner of risky and abusive behaviors (yes, that includes extreme exercise, too). In place of natural serenity, we get hooked on habit-triggered adrenaline and brain chemicals that have little to do with what we should know provides the only enduring satisfaction—service to life and oneness with creation. Sensual pleasure and physical comfort have their proper place, but as a focus of life soon become an empty shell or bottomless well.
It is said that change is the only permanent state. Perhaps, but where does change originate? My only answer is: The One Creative Source—the only truly permanent thing. As we come to accept the inevitable—that life in this dimension is characterized most of all by impermanence—then we eventually learn to understand the flow of suffering and sweetness, to look for meaning in the essentials, to appreciate real friends, to value the unity of family, and to age with dignity.
March-Ex VI: fell short on day twelve
Monday, March 12th, 2012“If I believe I cannot do something, it makes me incapable of doing it. When I believe I can, then I acquire the ability to do it, even if I did not have the ability in the beginning.”
— Mahatma Gandhi
Spent much of the day on self-promotion and never quite managed to get the grand exercise in gear. Glen Bishop replied, “I wish you wouldn’t have said that.”
Mere Habitation
March-Ex VI: faced anxiety on day nine
Friday, March 9th, 2012“I think I grew in different ways—just that it didn’t break me, I didn’t really just quit. There were moments when I was definitely close.”
—Taylor Kitsch
Dana told me, “Just remember, these are your friends, and they want you to do well.” With that helpful suggestion, I finalized my PowerPoint presentation and headed out to address the club that I’d quit nearly three years ago. It’s funny how nagging insecurities and self-doubt can get in the way of achieving a straightforward goal. I decided to do this. I knew I was fully knowledgeable and capable of pulling it off. And yet, somehow, the lead-up was all about overcoming the fear of failure. The ability to perform is in my bones, I guess, but speaking in public has never come easy for me. I thought to myself, whatever you’re dealing with, there is nobody more on pins and needles today than young Taylor Kitsch. So I picked up the microphone, smiled, said, “Thank you, Danville Rotary!” and shared my passion for bicycling. John Carter ordered, “Get on!”
A Cult of One
Not the only one
Thursday, June 2nd, 2011In this article, a blogger has come closer to describing one of my March exercises than I have been able to do. He explains that “batching requires more work than not batching. This is why, I now understand, most people are quick to abandon their good-natured attempts to enforce more focus in their day: once it becomes non-obvious how to continue, they toss the goal.” His account of a single day spent with total focus is a better illustration of self-imposed intensity than I ever could put down in this log. Of course, this kind of regimen is not the only exercise that constitutes the ritualized month of March, but it captures something that I never found a way to successfully describe. I should also point out that I find this to be a short-term aid to the reinforcement of more realistic ongoing practices. All hail the mighty ones who can sustain this level of concentration!
Geekhood or Else
Tuesday, March 8th, 2011
March Exercise —day eight— When your “cheese” has been moved, it often takes time before disbelief gives way to action, but unconscious denial is complex, and it peels off in layers like sunburned skin. I’ve been slower to adjust in some areas and quicker to respond in others. The core aspects of being a graphic communicator were disseminated into lay culture in such a gradient way that it was too easy for me to believe that people still valued the basic skill set. Which services a customer might now consistently look to the professional to achieve is increasingly more difficult for me to identify. For over 30 years we have scrupulously avoided working “from the hands down,” convincing ourselves that what clients really wanted were concepts. But now that nearly anyone can quickly execute one’s own ideas in an adequate fashion, I’m beginning to think that what most of them desired all along was someone fluent in an esoteric technical process beyond their ken. Question: What shall I do, now that producing graphics is no longer mysterious?
Today’s sight bite— The shapes, colors, and textures of downtown, —c-l-i-c-k— ready to shake off drab winter and preside over another season of human activity.
Tomorrow— Publication design continues to be the counterbrace of my life as a functioning designer . . .
The Do-over Day
Sunday, March 6th, 2011
March Exercise —day six— That feeling in the pit of the gut when one’s new car gets its first scratch on bumper, fender, or door— exactly what I sensed today after my well-meaning blunder rendered Dana’s refurbished Mac Pro unable to start up. Yes, it meant I couldn’t present to her a pristine configuration as the result of my several days of work. But that’s all. No need to get agitated… no need to react as I might have in the past. Finished is better than perfect. Apple anticipates such a thing with its “Archive and Install” option, so use it and don’t fret. I now can see how, in the past, something like this might have set in motion a spiral of self-criticism. And so I put my checklist in reverse, came to terms with a few hours of delay, and took Walie on a long, chilly walk around Bellevue Cemetery.
Today’s sight bite— Muted tones of stone the same colors as the variegated sky —c-l-i-c-k— constituting rows of aged grave markers in a sea of desaturated grass.
Tomorrow— The Monday discipline is applied again in earnest . . .
An Inner Calibration
Saturday, March 5th, 2011
March Exercise —day five— I’ve used this log before to mention the elusive Max Organ. My perennial effort to categorize priorities and fashion an improved outline of unfinished projects takes on a new importance during the month of March. Some of these line items carry over from life’s earlier creative phases, but eventually they must be reconciled with short- and intermediate-term goals or be lost in the evolving mix of allocations. I’ve come to realize that old, festering objectives need to be “lanced” for psychological healing— either to resurrect them to some meaningful level of attention, or to commit them to hearth’s flame. Some deserve a restored impetus of creativity. More often, they’re just clogging the catalytic pipeline for new ideas.
Today’s sight bite— Enclosed by walls of book-packed shelves, —c-l-i-c-k— the familiar warmth of wood, brass and cork provide a framework for internal clarification.
Tomorrow— Make the transition from Dana’s current work station to a more powerful system . . .
Elusive speculations
Monday, December 27th, 2010I need to do another entry about VT, now that my direct work with a therapist is over. I should have kept up a more regular account, since now it will be more difficult to reconstruct a coherent record of the experience. I was thinking about how, after a rough session, I had what seemed to be a moment of broad clarity. For me, these occurrences consist of distinct interconnections and apparent cause/effect relationships with respect to aspects of life not previously associated in my thinking. Sometimes these connections fade to the point where the entire insight can be called into question, and I’m left with a vague sense that my inner mental acuity is as unreliable as my memory. This time it was an electric thought that perhaps my vision dysfunction was directly related to a latent but powerful level of stress that has derived from my creativity having been held up to the continual scrutiny and subjective evaluation of others. “Well, of course,” one might say. How can one become a mature creative person, much less a professional resource, if one doesn’t learn to cope with either the legitimate opinions or capricious expectations of others? And so it becomes a matter of attitude or inner posture. If the inherent tension is not successfully mitigated at an unconscious level, it’s quite possible that there will be corrosive influences and negative consequences in the organism. I was left with a brief, troubling notion that “most of my creative life has been wasted,” because I hadn’t nourished a stance optimally detached from any sanction or disapproval from others. Has the failure to properly offset personal fulfillment with the satisfaction of others created a fundamental contradiction at the heart of what I do that induces and maintains deep internal stress? Am I the kind of individual with such a basic urge to follow my artistic impulse that a life of constraint based on the anticipation of external judgment has resulted in some form of rebellion by my body, mind, or spirit? And, if so, what in heaven’s name can be done about it now?
Inward seeding
Sunday, March 28th, 2010March Exercise V —day twenty-eight— The early group ride was rained out, so my morning moved at a slower pace than I was expecting. I began to get the sense that the regimen had lost its momentum. This impression soon gave way to a more accurate assessment. So many of the desired habits of thought and focus have been internalized to the point that I no longer sustain the perception of an imposed discipline. This is a good development. It was never about a progression of time, was it? I’m prepared to think that I’ve reached a successful conclusion to the exercise a few days ahead of schedule, but why not make the most of the month’s remainder?
Today’s sight bite— Black soil under an overcast sky —c-l-i-c-k— sprinkled with grass seed until the fork hoe has its say.
Previously on M-Ex— A bad habit can die a hard death. (3/28/06)
Tomorrow— More vision therapy . . .
Impecunious periphery
Friday, March 26th, 2010March Exercise V —day twenty-six— While spending hours alone in the studio, there’s probably nothing better than the framework of a March discipline to put things into perspective, because the backdrop of inexorable dependencies are certain to impinge upon the solitude of the day, and, eventually, they do. One can’t help but imagine another type of life, but that’s a pointless distraction. This is my ship, and, with the Creator’s guidance, I shall sail her as best I can.
Today’s sight bite— Globules of amber, blue-violet, and magenta —c-l-i-c-k— as late sunlight projects a pattern of Time Zippy against the rotunda’s white interior.
Previously on M-Ex— Uncle Joe’s final ordeal is at hand. (3/26/06)
Tomorrow— A spring weekend begins!
Someplace else
Tuesday, March 9th, 2010March Exercise V —day nine— Even when nothing goes according to plan, good things can happen as a result. After vision therapy, I had to meet Dana in Nicholasville so that Marty’s car could be available for the appointment Joan scheduled at the Toyota dealer. My first notion was that I just wanted to get back to the studio and not lose my morning, but it was already obvious that Plan A wasn’t coming down, so I shifted gears accordingly. As it turned out, I spent some time at a Starbucks and captured some good ideas. Because Bruce still had his engine torn down, we had to drive him to dialysis and get the to-go food he wanted, before we could grab our own lunch. I wrote a draft for a radio spot while Dana was inside the McDonalds. I don’t know why I have to keep proving to myself that I can work anywhere, especially when I often find the ability to take a fresh look at things when I’m “someplace else.” It’s simply a matter of accepting that I’m always in the right place, that every environment can offer something to the creative process, or, if it honestly can’t, then at least the inner momentum can be preserved. When I finally did get back to my home base it was afternoon, but I was there in time to take two important calls. Gwen phoned to let me know that it was likely that the Kentucky Artisan Center would be displaying my wood engravings. And then I talked to a prospect about upgrading the online presence for a Lexington business. This looks like a job for Website Makeover™ Man!
Today’s sight bite— A geometric pattern of holes on the slowly revolving disk —c-l-i-c-k— challenging my eye-hand coordination.
Previously on M-Ex— Ideas and aspirations are always bubbling up in March. (3/9/09)
Tomorrow— A new project begins…
Renaissance man
Friday, March 5th, 2010March Exercise V —day five— It began as a typical M-Ex day, feeling deprived of sleep, but eager to harness an elusive stream of motivation. The Shadow Trader was on his game, and by late morning I’d made some key portfolio adjustments before heading to the pool for a workout. In the afternoon, the ever-present tug-of-war between concentration and interruption presented itself when Bruce needed my help with his car repairs, just as I was hitting my stride with the bank campaign. For me the emotional challenge of capturing an idea is nothing compared to dealing with the threat of losing momentum in the midst of a successful creative process. I don’t work on cars. I’ve never worked on cars. I hate to work on cars. But there you have it—what the exercise is all about—because this is what every artistic individual has faced since that first cave-wall painter was furiously dragged by his hair to the mastodon-skinning site. Just think of all the distractions my Grandfather Seitz experienced as a father of eleven children (seven boys!) while he was involved in painting murals, organizing choirs, directing plays, or practicing the organ. I think of this now, after listening to Mombo give credit to her parents when we all gathered as a Clan to honor her as a truly exceptional mother. She measures herself against them in the same way we hold our own wisdom and maturity up to her example. How many more March rituals shall I require to meet that high standard?
Today’s sight bite— My mother in front of her birthday candles —c-l-i-c-k— as diminutive as her sisters before her.
Previously on M-Ex— Rest, focus, distraction, flexibility—some things don’t change. (3/5/07)
Tomorrow— Rest and regroup…
Negative splits
Monday, March 1st, 2010March Exercise V —day one— After a fantastic weekend packed with friendship, today began with a mood of glum dissatisfaction because the initial cadence of my regimen left something to be desired. By afternoon my attitude had shifted, and I found myself in a mode more characteristic of my best 5k-run experiences: start out with a comfortable pace and successfully pick up speed. In the running world it’s called negative splits. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
Today’s sight bite— Concentric rings of vivid vessels suspended overhead —c-l-i-c-k— with each globe of pure color reflecting the terrazzo compass at my feet.
Previously on M-Ex— With a few finishing touches, “Spellbound By Brass” is complete. (3/1/07)
Tomorrow— Seventh vision therapy session…
A Visual Journey — chapter the fourth
Saturday, February 6th, 2010When I undertook optometric vision therapy at age forty-eight, I could see the misalign-and-suppress mechanism at work in my own visual system. With therapy procedures, I learned to bring the images from both eyes into consciousness and could therefore discover where my two eyes were aiming. Throughout life, an unconscious action had moved the image from one eye out of alignment, making it easier for me to discount the image from the nonfixating eye.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze
Yesterday I had my third session with Mary Ellen, the therapist selected to work with me on a program of weekly eye exercises. The disciplines are both challenging and tiring. Let me explain that. They are difficult because they necessitate a kind of exertion unlike physical or mental effort. Nevertheless, it does involve muscle and brain activity, which is tiring, but the kind of fatigue that results is unlike anything I’ve known—a dull pressure in the middle of my head. I don’t feel exhausted, but noticeably depleted in a way I can’t put my finger on. So far, any progress I’ve noticed has made me even more aware of the dysfunction. In other words, the double vision is more obvious at times because I’m training myself not to suppress the vision in one eye to accommodate the misalignment. Does that make sense? It’s frustrating and stressful to have my vision more chaotic, but I understand the need to strengthen my singular vision in each eye before I develop an improvement in its ability to “team.” This will require more fusion exercises that rely on 3D glasses. I also have to do daily patching for individual-eye isolation work. It’s probably best that I avoid “overthinking” all of it and concentrate on applying myself to the assignments. I don’t know what I’d feel if I didn’t have confidence in the benefits of the process.
Saturday, August 1st, 2009
A new moon . . .
There are times when it seems as though I’ve inadvertently booked crossing on a brig named Pathos. Perhaps it was the only available passage from then to when. If so, I endeavor to accept my berth, on this rolling sea of unknown breadth.
Strange matters
Saturday, June 27th, 2009
Three Girlfriends
John Andrew Dixon
Tinted acrylic glazes and colored pencil on wood panel, 2008
Collection of Sara Jane Montgomery
This business of creating things can be an odd affair. There are times when I employ a high degree of focused passion that shoves everything to the periphery. Putting things into perspective when finished, I recognize faults or miscalculations in my approach to the work, especially when the client indicates “back to the drawing board.” Nevertheless, I often must be fully in that place of positive intensity to do justice to the task, even to the point of believing that it will be the most sensational thing ever done. And then there are other times when I struggle through a process fraught with doubts about the idea or quality of the execution, finding scant grist for satisfaction. Strangely enough, the client can be joyous at the outcome, while I continue to perceive flaws. It takes weeks or months to arrive at a new state of observation, only to discover that I very much like the result.
So it is with Three Girlfriends. A package of pleasure arrives after a long delay, and I ask myself, “How did that get lost in delivery?”
Wildcards and constants
Friday, June 19th, 2009
Unconditional Surrender
John Andrew Dixon
Mixed media collage, 2009
Collection of Nancy and Charles Martindale
In a fashion more defined than recent memory serves, life unfolds with a stark blend of pleasing familiarity and jarring novelty. I take refuge in the naturally comfortable—collage, reading, friendship, bicycling, my cherished clan—while confronting strange and daunting challenges that offer few points of easy reference. The latter include new projects that require me to produce radio advertising, materials for patent registration, and a client-managed Website that relies on code I haven’t learned to speak. It’s helpful to remind myself that everything I’ve ever done—and a bit of it rather well—began with the unfamiliar. At times it was stimulating or even exhilarating, and at other times it was intimidating or actually frightening. I realize now that the difference was rooted in nothing but my own attitude toward the unknown.
Sufficient warning
Friday, March 20th, 2009March exercise—day twenty— Today’s Rotary program on disaster preparedness reinforced my awareness that replenishing the “crash bucket” should not be postponed. What is the matter with me, that I would sit on such an obvious imperative? One must always be doing rather than avoiding. The point of the exercise is not the rigorous framework, which is a means to an end. The goal, I remind myself, is mindful accomplishment through the active cultivation of constructive habit. Procrastination is nonproductive and tied to fear. William Faulkner said that “fear, like so many evil things, comes mainly out of idleness.”
Today’s sight bite— A pile of tombstone shards like broken chalk —c-l-i-c-k— sunken into the ground, perhaps a century beyond the last time one cared whose eternal rest was signified.
Tomorrow— A journey to Yorkshire Estate…
Ripe thoughts
Saturday, March 14th, 2009March exercise—day fourteen— It’s a rule of thumb that it will rain whenever I need to deliver physical artwork, but I managed satisfactorily to get a new set of engravings over to the Art Center and also had my first chat with the incoming executive director. So, if you need it to rain in your town, just arrange a display of my artwork and that should take care of it. Not you, Brendan; I’m quite sure you get enough precipitation out there, although it would be cool to have some of my art make it to the west coast. I get ideas like that, but there’s often not a lot to back them up. Maybe I missed my chance when I was churning out some interesting collages while Ian was in L.A. Many ideas are fresh and I get right to them. Others hang around so long they become annoying, until I realize it’s me at whom I’m perturbed, for allowing them to rot, or, worse than that, I get sick and tired of chattering about them in my head without any action. Ideas like that are usually disavowed, or I just get fed up and finally proceed with one, invariably pushing away another newer, more stimulating notion that just stands there listening to the other one grumble, “Move aside, buster, I’ve got seniority.”
Today’s sight bite— A black and white print in a plastic holder on the wall, somehow seeming tiny and drab —c-l-i-c-k— but that’s my engraving featured next to the gift shop’s doorway.
Tomorrow— Avoid the lure of Sunday languor and prepare for an ambitious workweek…
Cold front
Wednesday, March 11th, 2009March exercise—day eleven— The air had a noticeable bite as I walked to campus, so I welcomed it, knowing I usually feel tired at the beginning of “act two.” In the absence of enthusiasm, rituals must drive the momentum, enhanced by proven boosters—stimulative variety, forced incremental achievement, constrained creativity, doses of nature, and, of course, music.
Today’s sight bite— My Speedo tinted pool goggles —c-l-i-c-k— hanging from the same locker-room hook where I accidentally left them two weeks ago.
Tomorrow— A networking opportunity, plus another shot at the $900 door prize…
Crash Bucket Chronicles — Day Six
Sunday, February 1st, 2009“A well man at sea has little sympathy with one who is sea-sick; he is too apt to be conscious of a comparison favorable to his own manhood.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
Seven Deadly Zins
Lee fixed an elaborate, delicious dinner last night, and my plate’s fare was more than I could finish. The Harrisons broke bread with us, too, and then left for a Norton Center performance. They’re still based at a motel, so that tells me Gose Pike remains off the grid. Access to David’s laptop provided an opportunity for us to glance at our growing accumulation of email. I could merely glance at Caitlan’s request that I design the invitation for her year-end wedding. And after that, the big news: Bruce called to let us know our power was back on—at last. We relaxed with Appaloosa for an encore viewing and then gratefully returned to a gradually warming house.
When the ordeal is over, a strange kind of pride or sense of self-congratulation comes alarmingly easy. While others foundered, panicked, or were just plain clueless, if one was in a position to rely on prior judgments and preparations, there can be a satisfaction that is not entirely admirable, because it too easily creates a comforting detachment from those who are still suffering, from those who are still counting the days. Somewhere in the heart is a motivation to move beyond protecting immediate family to a more general community outreach, but the longed-for end to personal crisis brings too strong a desire for the return to ordinary living.
And how smooth it can be to slip into that “new era of normalcy” without also seeing the experience as a call to greater preparedness. True, there seems to be an ongoing series of natural disasters distributed here and there, and this could be seen simply as “our turn” and to say, “All’s well that ends well.” But is it more astute to count blessings without losing a sense of guarded optimism, keeping one eye on the potential for more of the same or worse? Or perhaps that’s the unbroken “crashologist” within—my inner “doom-and-gloom-er” who needs to keep his powder dry and the gas tank on F.