I was disappointed to discover that my copy of War and Peace is “edited for the modern reader.” Should have realized it much sooner, since it’s “only” 741 pages long. Nevertheless, I’m feasting on the translation with immense pleasure, while at the same time skimming General Armand de Caulaincourt’s memoir, With Napoleon in Russia. I don’t know why I dart around like this, just when I was beginning to take a new interest in the American Revolution. Perhaps this will bring me around again to our second war with Great Britain, or a fresh look at Tecumseh. 1812 was certainly a landmark year, and right at the heart of my favorite period in our national story. I shall never exhaust my curiosity with this era. But here’s the real question— How can I turn my attention away from the works of Tolstoy? He understood, as Shakespeare did, just about everything there was to know about anything.
De jure belli ac pacis
December 8th, 2009Team approach
November 7th, 2009I’ve come to the end of a outstanding week that began last Friday when I headed to Monterey for my fifth workshop with Wesley Bates. I didn’t pitch a tent this year, but had the familiar loft at Larkspur Press to myself each night. The opportunity to concentrate on wood engraving for three days in that extraordinary environment made sleeping on a wood floor seem like the ultimate in accommodations. I continue to learn more about the art form with every retreat, and I now face the breakthrough act of finally acquiring my own set of customized tools, so I can maintain a year-round practice to replace my once-a-year introductory learning curve. On Saturday night, Wes, Juanita, Leslie, and I drove over to Hanna’s “house concert” by Kraig Kenning, at the home Prajna Design created for her (builder Garry Murphy was there, and I chatted with him). I’m prepared to say that Kenning is the best steel guitar performer that I’ve heard live (and I once watched David Lindley tape a Soundstage concert with Jackson Browne in Chicago). An enjoyable nightcap with Wes extended deep into the night as both of us discovered that we have even more in common as creative professionals. It was nice this time around to balance social enjoyment with lots of one-on-one time with Wes.
The subject of my block was a pair of handsome mules that worked the Realm of Greystone when James brought in low-tech loggers after the ice storm of 1994. I managed to get some decent slides while they were in the Valley—undoubtedly the last high-level transparencies I may ever take. It wasn’t a bad note on which to end my slide-shooting era. I’ve always wanted to begin exploiting those images for my art, and so I selected a shot of two mules with the tobacco barn in the background (a suitable tribute to the recently fallen landmark). My goal was to chose a style that would enable me to complete the block and print it within the weekend constraint, and that meant consulting with Wes about how to use an approach that didn’t rely on time-intensive technique (the path I found myself on last year, resulting in a missed deadline). I may not ultimately like “Logger’s Team” as much as my 2008 print, but I learned much about the medium, with a big step closer to understanding the elegantly minimal line quality that Bates has truly mastered.
Last night I headed north again with Dana and Joan for Richard’s First Friday event in Old Frankfort. Wesley’s wife, Juanita Wilkins, performed and Richard read poems from his new volume about Abraham Lincoln (commissioned for the bicentennial observation). Everything about the evening was splendid, and there was a magical moment when the unknown “Harmonica Man” appeared from nowhere with his “harp belt” to jam with Juanita. I’ve been so fortunate to hear her a number of times now, and she never sounded better to me than last night; nor had she conversed with her audience so impressively or in such a personally revealing way. Absolutely wonderful…
Support and resistance
October 30th, 2009“The chief cause of stress is reality.”
~ Lily Tomlin
It’s hard to accept that nearly three weeks have flown by since Dana and I were traveling to North Carolina, bearing the brunt of a devastating tempest that left 35 homes “unlivable” in Casey County (based on information I learned through the Salvation Army). Since that stormy day I had two wonderful weekends with family at both Broadwing and Blue Bank Farms. Carol and Bob are as youthful as ever and at the pinnacle of insight. Shame on me for taking five years to make a return visit. I was delighted to see how they had displayed my drawing of the old barn, and Pete showed off my pen and ink sketch of the Vulcan stove from their early years above the French Broad. I couldn’t help but contemplate the decline in my sketchbook activity over the past year. During my two days at the Hall, I made an attempt to complete work on the rock flue, but ran into mortar problems again while battling Panyon’s tool thievery. My “Son of Dirk Man” character was a bit of a flop, compared to Jay’s Pappy, Mombo’s Rufus, and Clay’s Donkey Kong. Nevertheless, the day was noteworthy for the revival of our Clan Hayride—a “harvest jamboree,” as Joan called it—and also for her tip about Pandora.com. The Council voted to commission an illustrated map of Clan Valley. Wow, how do I come up with an estimate for that? (Lord, help me finish it quicker than my stone masonry!) Dana called me from town to break the news that our friend Irina had been discovered lifeless, the apparent victim of a heart attack. She was a year younger than me! It took four or five days for me to grasp the finality of losing her awesome talent. Early Sunday morning I decided to tote my Hawken-style 50-caliber down the Valley in search of venison. The ache of a gifted comrade’s passing was on my heart when treetops dipped to let the sun pour its precious gold into our beloved hollow. The goal of hunting for meat dissolved abruptly to a deep reverence for the beauty of our rural legacy and my gratitude for life. When I got up to move farther along the road, something caught the corner of my eye. Four good sized does were now moving purposefully across the hay field. Before I could swing my muzzleloader into play, all were into the wooded drainage. If I’d only lingered a minute more, I probably could have had my pick. The following days were tainted with sorrow, but the request to create Irina’s memorial keepsake helped me channel my emotion, although, sadly, the local printer once again seized the opportunity to complain about our predicable attention to detail. By week’s end, the fabulous distraction of sharing Rick H’s 50th birthday celebration was trumped by the news of Glenda’s bizarre mishap at the Haunted House, which resulted in her breaking four back bones. And this comes on top of her and Jay dealing with the aftermath of burst plumbing and extensive damage to their newly remodeled home. The Graybeard Prospector had the second of two successful networking sessions in Lancaster, and Sunday Silence at Simpson Knob was another welcome break, but the heightened oscillation of desirable and undesirable happenings is becoming too strange. All I want to do is immerse myself in the upcoming wood engraving workshop at Larkspur and try to take myself back to a point of quiet equilibrium. Well then, load the truck and go!
October 17th, 2009
†
Irina Ilina
a dear friend
an extraordinary artist
R
I
P
All Yorkies go to heaven
October 12th, 2009
Bruce lost his canine companion today when the merciful thing to do became his only option. Our brief account begins in 1999 when Walie had her only two pups, Whitley and Winslow. Little Whitley found years of exceptional living at the exalted Yorkshire Estate before his tragic and premature demise this summer. Over-sized Winslow went to Bruce, but disappeared at a social event and was never seen again. Fortuitously, a generous couple aware of Bruce’s loss offered him an older Yorkie that was a near double of Winslow in both appearance and disposition. His name was Boozer. Bruce changed his name to Hoosier, but it always sounded like Hoozer when I said it. He provided great comfort to his master during a period of traumatic pain and hurtful circumstances, squeezing every drop of life from his span of existence. So long, buddy.
Les Cheneaux report
September 26th, 2009
Morning on Moscoe Channel | Barefoot’s Resort | Les Cheneaux
• Marty and I are back from the first vacation the two of us have taken together. We coaxed unhappy Ned all the way to Tipp City on the Saturday before Labor Day and left for Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with Bill the following day. I’ve made many entries about Barefoot’s Resort in this log. I don’t intend to rerun the details, but you know how much I find to love about that setting. Add to that many satisfying experiences with my grandson from this most recent trip.
• My weather report is great— warm and sunny during the day, cool and refreshing at night. The clear sky displayed an awesome starscape, as the breeze laid down almost every night before a brilliant moonrise over the reflecting channel. I wish I could make a similarly positive report about the fishing. Caught enough yellow perch and northern pike to provide a nice taste, but no cooler was packed with frozen fish for the return home. Our only attempt at lake salmon was a strikeout. The era of bountiful Chinook is gone, everyone seems to agree. Nevertheless, Marty had his chance to pilot the Sylvan as I worked the familiar stern down-riggers with Foot, my generous friend.
• Glad to say that I got in my hoped-for endurance swimming. People told me the water was cold when we first arrived, but I soon learned that their perspective was completely different from mine. I didn’t need a wet suit for the first few days. Never having been in the water on a busy holiday, I did make Bill nervous on Monday when I paused twice on my channel crossing to accommodate boat traffic. He was having unpleasant visions of “collecting body parts.” I pledged to be more cautious for the rest of our stay. Sure, I want to keep fit, but I can’t help but think that part of why I like certain activities is that it puts me in touch with a younger, more naive self — especially that little guy who would put a rubber knife in his teeth after watching a Weissmuller flick and take off at full speed across the backyard (without shirt, shoes, or a care in the world).
• I have made this retreat with Bill during most Septembers since 1993. Although Dana and I traveled to the destination with Marty years before, it was different to share the experience on the eve of his turning 18. It was a unique opportunity. Another exceptional part of our getaway was the first visit of my old high-school chum Greg B, who I haven’t seen since 1980. A highly successful pediatrician in Columbus, Ohio, Greg lost the mate of his life last year after her long battle with cancer. We had several profound conversations—true moments of soul contact—that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Nothing has ever put me in greater appreciation of my own partnership of love, nor helped me glimpse the sorrow of losing a spouse—not even my dear sister’s double devastation. It was a rare, man-to-man insight that I simply can’t put into words.
• A time apart with good friends, and with a lad who holds an exclusive place in my heart. A time suspended, close to the earth and the heavens. On the water, in the water, under the water. Gazing into the wood flames, with the sun’s heat still pulsing across my skin, and the countless points of fire shifting overhead. I shall remember. I shall return.
The virtues of nonvirtuality
September 5th, 2009It’s great to keep up with your friends on facebook, but we must not neglect true fellowship in close proximity. Therefore, I travel to Upper Michigan with grandson Marty to be with good pals ~ to swim, fish, draw, and have fun. On to Barefoot’s Resort!
Eating a novel Dadbo style . . .
September 2nd, 2009I took more than a mild interest after learning Wes was a dedicated reader of Cormac McCarthy, but didn’t act on it until Bruce brought home The Crossing from Half Priced Books. Lordy. Haven’t let this kind of undertow take me down since I read everything I could get my hands on by Paul Watkins. Hollywood’s fixation aside, the man can flat out write.
Your houses . . .
August 17th, 2009Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!
They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,
And soundly too. Your houses!—MERCUTIO, Romeo and Juliet: Act 3, Scene 1
If the president was the “real deal,” he would forcefully declare that it is dead wrong for members of Congress to characterize those opposed to his health care reforms as un-American, just as it was dead wrong to have claimed that anti-Bush protesters were unpatriotic in their objections to the war in Iraq. Thus, he would likely mitigate his declining popularity, but he seems more interested in his relationship with the House Left. Presumably, he won’t invite anyone to portray him as a critic of Democrat leaders. He must be worried about their prospects in next year’s mid-term elections, but, ironically, his allowing them to blunder forward unchecked is precisely what will lose seats for his party.
. . . and now this story can be told.
August 11th, 2009
“There is no substantial difference by which we can attribute a higher aesthetic value to one choice or the other. Our preference is a question of a personal, irrepressible urge.”
—Leo Lionni
D a n n y D
at a recording studio
somewhere in Lexington
After years of friendship built on untold hours of front porch discourse and coffee shop dialectic, Danny and I finally had the opportunity to work together on a creative project before his family’s chapter in Danville came to an end with the sale of their nearby house on West Broadway. However, it would be beneficial to back up and start my account at a more logical beginning:
The story begins at a typical sighting of our familiar Graybeard Prospector—a Chamber-sponsored networking event hosted by a newly organized bank. My pal David was in a conversation with the president of the bank when they looked my way and motioned me to join them. Within a few moments I was one of the first to learn about the imminent signing of a one-year endorsement contract with local football hero Jacob T, who had completed his NFL rookie year with the Colts after an accolade-studded career at UK. I gathered my wits as the short briefing came to a head. “We have to get a year’s worth of photographs and radio spots before he goes into training camp.”
A question flashed internally. “How would a true Ad Man reply?” With his stainless steel gaze fixed to observe my response, an imaginary Donald Draper was standing off to one side, a deftly balanced Lucky in hand. I heard myself say, “If I understand correctly, you need creative direction, and you need it fast.”
Before the impact registered, the project was in my lap and the countdown to Jacob’s departure had begun. The photo part almost felt easy. I had a solid list of pros in my head and the first one took the assignment when contacted. In a matter of days we were shooting Jacob at a personal appearance. On the other hand, it had been over a decade since Dana and I had produced any radio advertising. I felt rusty. Audio technology had moved to desktop digital since then, and there were other important factors, too. I knew the default setting would be to handle this at the hometown radio station, and my gut told me that I had to find a way to pull this into a slicker technical environment. I was confident our print advertising would look first-rate, but to stand apart on the radio would be a different kind of challenge.
The last thing I wanted was to generate “more of the same” junk so typical of local radio. If at all possible, I hoped to accomplish two things: a) create scripts that would promote the bank with words that rang true for Jacob’s personality, and b) grab the listener’s attention with music at the same level of production quality that motivated them to listen to the radio in the first place. Anything less might simply be brushed off as “some bank paying Jacob to read stuff on the air.” It made sense for me to consult someone who knew more than I did about this sort of thing. I needed to talk it over with Danny.
When I delicately raised these issues with him at the Hub one evening over a tall “haf-caf,” his response astonished me. Literally poking me in the shoulder, he mentally grabbed hold of my ideas and offered to write some music with lyrics that would help carry the campaign I envisioned. He gave me so much good advice that retaining barely a third of it enabled me to get a green light from the bank to book a recording studio and capture Danny’s work. He seemed delighted to do this favor for me, given the fact that he’d watched Jacob grow up and had a high regard for his family. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Danny said all he wanted was to have the bank guys buy him a dinner, and I wasn’t sure whether he was joking about that part of it. I knew he was dead serious about the rest.
It took some digging, but I tracked down a sound pro named Kevin J that I’d met through Eric C in the 90s. He was the best in Lexington at the time, and, more importantly, he was worthy of my total trust. Our session together with Danny came off with flying colors and I walked out the door with everything I’d hoped for. It was exactly what I needed for the type of spots I wanted to produce. Kevin and I mixed a disc of various musical tracks at :60, :30, and :15 lengths. Now all I had to do was close the deal by winning the bank’s approval to combine Danny’s distinctive sound with Jacob’s natural voice.
Ideally suited to Jacob’s character and reputation, there was something powerfully authentic about Danny’s original words and music. Dana and I made a supreme effort to pitch those tracks to the CEO, but he fundamentally could not envision the effectiveness of my concept— to contrast a relaxed, down-home style against the typically phony-sounding chatter on the radio.
When I told Kevin that the head of the bank had thrown out Danny’s music as an element of the radio advertising, he didn’t seem surprised. Although understanding and supporting the approach I’d proposed, the experienced audio engineer and producer observed, “John, I have known people who tried to combine art with advertising, but it is rarely possible to convince the buyer. Clients have a tendency to play it too safe, do what every other similar business is doing, and then wonder why it doesn’t work better.”
Having failed to sell my idea of making the music be an equal partner in the message, the success of the production would now depend entirely on Jacob’s vocal sincerity. I pushed for the same Lexington studio we’d used to record Danny, arguing that to merely bring Jacob to the local radio station where he’d interned as a student would work against our effort to enhance his self-image as a professional. Having him rise to the challenge of his first major voice-over gig was the only hope of capturing the genuine personality on which we could hang the campaign, and I also needed Kevin’s technical expertise to produce high-quality, finished spots.
The “homework” I’d done to ensure that Dana’s scripting would naturally sync with Jacob’s values paid off with a smooth, comfortable recording session. He praised her scripts. His gifted ability to focus on task, along with his easy-going confidence, sense of humor, and considerable breath control, left us all rather impressed. After getting the go-ahead to use some appropriate background music I discovered on the Web, Dana, Kevin, and I brought the project in on budget with seven :30 spots, two :15 spots, and the ingredients for yet-to-be-written, Jacob-introduced spots that could rely on adjunct voice talent.
Much to our surprise and disappointment, a recommended introductory newspaper ad with Jacob’s image was drastically reduced without our knowledge. It looked terrible when published and put us into the position of explaining why it was not only illegible but also quite ignorable. This took place after Jacob’s sports agent endorsed our work when he saw the preliminary design. Playing catch-up, I adjusted the photo density to compensate for the poor reproduction, and we encouraged the bank to enlarge the ad for two follow-up insertions. The third time around it was printed well enough to look respectable, even though it was still significantly smaller than what we’d suggested was required to create a sufficient level of impact for an effective campaign kick-off.
Football season is getting under way and we anticipate a bigger splash to draw the market’s attention to our new client bank. So far, people “in the know” have made positive remarks to me, but I await the first clear indication that we’re putting something out there that is doing the job. Over 70 banks have already failed in the USA since January 1st. Clearly, this isn’t the most advantageous time to open a financial institution, but I like to think of our situation this way: Here’s an enterprising group that wasn’t forced to think outside the box because it was never inside the box. Time will tell if the innovations they’ve brought to Danville will meet with consumer satisfaction. Hey, if they hired me, they’re obviously not stuck in the status quo. Let’s hope some good things start to happen!
So there’s my tale about how an exciting chance to compose a stand-out piece of promotion can turn into another missed opportunity. Nevertheless, we have an entire year to pull this campaign up a few notches, and our client has already expressed an interest in using the song Danny wrote for us to anchor some kind of Web video or podcast. To be honest, the main reason I put together this detailed account is so I can remember it myself as part of an unusually interesting summer. With everything going on, including the latest round of major abdominal surgery for Bruce, this e-log is undoubtedly the best memory chip I have going for me.
Mad Men Madness
August 6th, 2009
Yes, we are hooked on Mad Men! I fail to see how anyone would not consider this the best drama on TV. If you are a creative professional, it is even more extraordinary. If you worked at an ad agency, it is so “on the mark” it is spooky. How can anyone write this well? How can anyone write this well and have it actually, successfully, brilliantly produced for television?
More! We must have more!
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.
Palsies, players, and the peloton
July 28th, 2009I caught a ride to Ohio with Joan and Mombo on Friday afternoon, and we managed to arrive at the church in Tipp City while almost everyone was still there. The three of us had dinner with K&KK in downtown Tipp. When Dana found out that Bruce would not be released immediately from Jewish Hospital, she left Louisville and made the trip separately to join me at Amy and Bill’s later that night. The morning funeral was appropriate for “a theatrical family,” complete with bagpipes and a horse-drawn hearse. We walked the half mile or so to the Catholic cemetery and rediscovered the profound sense of community that is lost when mourners retreat to their individual automobiles. The family reception at the parish hall featured a salad-lover’s bonanza. I enjoyed talking to Rita, David, Clev, and Angela before we returned to say good-bye to “The Barefeet.” After I snapped the bride+groom+2dogs in their new great room, we made our way down to Taylorsville Dam and the 2009 Seitz Reunion. Always good to see each member of my mother’s family, whoever shows up. Some of us gathered at Marion’s Pizza afterwards. Joan and I got a kick out of the peculiar, black and white, celebrity photos from the 60s and 70s, many of which are now beginning to fade. She observed, “What John Kenley did with his Players was what the Colonel had hoped to do in Danville.” True, but Henson’s summer troupe survived his passing and lives on after 60 years. Back at the motel, Joan treated us to our own adjoining room and I had the rare opportunity to watch the final two stages of the Tour de France before we left the next day. Although Armstrong accepted his role as “domestique” to teammate and eventual winner Alberto Contador after the Alpine 15th stage, admitting that “I gave it everything I had, and I wasn’t the best,” it was exciting to watch him ensure his place on the podium while settling “unfinished business” on Mont Ventoux. I tried to get Mombo and Joan involved, but they were just too sleepy to follow the drama. Dana had more interest in the Sunday finish, with the stunning aerial views of Paris and the Champs-Elysees. Lance will be back to challenge his rivals next year, leading a new team sponsored by Radio Shack. Whether an “old fart” can unseat the young Spaniard at the age of 38 will surely be the focus of the 2010 Tour. After checkout, we headed directly to Louisville to get Bruce. I’d felt odd on Saturday that I hadn’t worn my Seitz T-shirt, but it was a good thing I’d put it in my bag, because it was the only clean shirt I could offer Bruce for his release and our trip home. We all got to the Town House safe and sound, and Bruce was feeling normal enough by Monday to be voicing grievances about minor issues in and around the kitchen. I can tell how much he’d like to have his independence back. I said, “When you begin to feel like a husband in your mother’s home, it’s time to carry out the exit strategy.” His laughter sounded good.
Communiqué from a one-man expeditionary force
July 22nd, 2009Bruce is in limbo as he awaits a transfer. His latest message:
“I’M DOING FINE, just hanging out at St. Joe’s in Lexington waiting to invade Jewish Hospital in Louisville for some tests. It’s the Crusades all over again, and it’s just as slow getting to the Holy Land as it was then.”
Log post #888
July 21st, 2009
— photo by Clay Jackson. Visit Clay’s Daze today!
• While swimming my weekly mile today, I had to make an effort to quiet the mental static and focus on a steady rhythm of breath and body. I can sometimes lose count of the laps doing that, but there’s so much going on right now that I needed the meditative pause. After the workout I took advantage of the sunny afternoon to shoot some photos around campus for use in an illustration that suddenly became a rush job when I worked on everything else. During the walk home I realized it was time to “come up for air” with this blog and to jot down some overdue notes.
• News came today that Pat R’s shocking, month-long cascade of medical emergencies had come to a lamentable end. My heart goes out to all the Greystonians and their extended family. Our ability to make the trip to Ohio for the burial is complicated by another round of hospitalization for Bruce. He went to Lexington Friday night with more GI bleeding, but it looks like he finally found a team at St. Joe that wants a solution, and to get him back on track for a kidney transplant. Dana stayed with him through the inevitable admission ordeal while I took part in the weekend activities at Blue Bank, including some major attention being given to Spring Hollow and the area around the pond, plus a milestone Clan Council (first on Skype), as well as a long Sunday session for me that nearly completes the stone work on the Hall flue. One more day of labor should do it, and then I move on to the finish carpentry. How many years ago did I begin this project?
• I was a bit surprised that Mombo’s face was healing so fast, although she is still experiencing a visual disassociation between her eyes. I urged her to demand some type of sight rehab or therapeutic exercises from the ophthalmologist. She’s tempted to close or block off one eye to see clearly, and that’s probably the opposite of what she needs in order to regain her eye coordination. Actually, I’m a poor one to judge or make suggestions, since I’ve continued for years to put off a proper examination for my own eye condition.
• The closest I can come to imagining what it would be like to have some type of severe short-term memory problem is what I experience when trying to remember my dreams. No matter how vivid and realistic the images I have when awakening, under most circumstances they will be quickly gone—and irretrievable—if I don’t write them down or make a sketch. Think what it would be like if one was that way with actual waking events. Making notes to oneself would be the only way to function. (Makes me think of my Uncle Art.) It’s true that I do remember some dreams, but they tend to be the ones that reoccur, or the ones I wrote down and periodically read over. There I go again. Didn’t I promise myself I would not use this space to talk about dreams?
Update: Mombo
July 9th, 2009I think Mombo got to take one nap in her own bed before she was back in Danville, hospitalized for additional observations and tests. When I visited yesterday, she had more energy than over the weekend, and her eye had continued to improve. Josh’s mother made a friendly stop while I was in the room, and a phone call came from the Adkins and Hornsbys in Louisiana. Mombo talked about how much time Jeanne had devoted to her daily care. The main issue remains— what caused the blackout? The cardiologist wants to rule out her heart, or to reveal something unknown. From her own perspective, she seems to suspect the change in hypertension medication. Understandable, given her long history of peculiar side effects. Of concern to her is the possibility that this sudden mess could affect her freedom to safely drive. Anything like that would certainly cramp her style.
Fireworks she could have done without
July 5th, 2009My mother spent most of her Fourth of July holiday in that painfully unpleasant hurry-up-and-wait-mode characteristic of modern emergency-room care. Around mid-day she’d lost consciousness for some still-unknown reason, while taking recyclables out to her car, and did an unfortunate “header” into driveway gravel. Ouch! Much later, after a series of tests at two different ERs, we learned that the only major injuries were to the bones around her nose and right eye. Nevertheless, she’s pretty banged up from the fall, and Mombo looks like my friend Pam after her bicycle crash. A procedure to relieve pressure around the eyeball was performed at UK before she was eventually released without a hospital admission. We left Lexington about 3 am. Jeanne was still waiting to take Mombo to Eagle Nest. James was still at her side in his garden-tilling boots when Susan and Rita came to see Mombo and pick him up. The uncertainty about why she passed out in the first place hangs over the event. One ER doc pointed out a low sodium level. Another suggested the possibility of a “retrograde amnesia” that would block her memory of having stumbled or been tripped by dogs underfoot. We do know that Panyon’s licking revived her enough that she was able to trigger the electronic life line. Josh was nearby, having been alerted by a friend about an ambulance heading to Blue Bank Road, and so her grandson the soldier was the first to respond. I just found out that the eye specialist is pleased with the condition of that nasty-looking right eye. With very little rest, Jeanne drove Mombo back to Lexington today, and they’ll be traveling to the city for another check-up tomorrow. Stay tuned here for updates.
Haven’t met an uncool Andrew yet . . .
July 3rd, 2009Pushing 60 has its drawbacks, but having some awesome young pals is not one of them. Three are named Andrew, a moniker of which I’m somewhat fond. Bursting with talent, Andrew-I is a maker of films. He gave me a non-speaking part in his latest under development, and I hope he’ll ask me to help with the titles, too. Andrew-II is a native South African, recently engaged to a dazzling lady Mexican encountered during his most recent high-level telecommunications assignment south of the border. Andrew-III is also a world traveler, equally brilliant in his own way, and currently about two weeks into an eventful trans-American cycling odyssey. You can check out his cross-country account at this online journal. Oh yes, I should warn you — day 11 is not recommended for the squeamish.
Good luck to all the Andrews out there!
Strange matters
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?”
Milestone
June 26th, 2009
Oops!
June 20th, 2009When the tyrants of Iran invested their future in the radicalization of an entire culture and rising generation, did they ever once suspect that democracy might become the new jihad?
Wildcards and constants
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.