— released from the hospital yesterday
— recuperating here at the Town House
Bruce is back at home.
October 30th, 2007— Molina Watch —
October 25th, 2007
Giant Geek — introducing Big Brother’s nephew . . .
October 22nd, 2007Do you ever get slightly nervous about somebody else gaining access to your personal information or knowing too much about your private behavior patterns? Do you like to go to malls, sports stadiums, or amusement parks? How do you feel about the possibility of the casino industry setting up shop in your community? Do the nosey inclinations of government make you uncomfortable?
Read this article before you answer any of those questions.
Punching through the odds again
October 20th, 2007Bruce had his re-constructive abdominal surgery at U.K. yesterday, and it was a long Friday for all of us. I slept in a deep, dream-filled state, waking up to a bizarre, nightmarish memory (Dadbo being lost in a sinkhole at the farm), in addition to a separate—but quite lucid—idea about writing the definitive history of the anti-fluoridation movement, wrapped in a biography of our erstwhile friend and client, John Yiamouyiannis, the central figure in a decades-long struggle against the corruption of entrenched political power. Yes, it was a rather strange morning, but that’s not uncommon when I sleep like the trunk of a fallen oak on Widow’s Knob.
Bruce came through his latest ordeal with flags flying, although he’s experiencing a bit of severe pain that complicates matters, to say the least. Most of what was left of his long-idle large intestine was stapled to the ileum, and the bothersome contingency from 2005 is history. This should solve the problem of his chronic dehydration. There’s a portion of descending colon that could neither be utilized nor removed, so that segment remains, taking advantage of a previous drain-hole in his side to complete the overall plumbing design. Surgeon Chang seemed pleased with the outcome, considering the very real possibility that he might face no option except shrugging his shoulders and sewing up Bruce’s belly, had the scenario proved too dangerous or daunting. There was no way to tell how “do-able” the procedure might be until the team was inside. Everything was accomplished in less than three hours.
So, now he faces 5–10 days in the hospital. His summer fitness program should give him a distinct advantage in bouncing back. I’m praying he can win the coin toss, as far as the 50-50 chance for developing an infection following this kind of surgery. Once again, he stays on top of the odds, and successfully knocks off another obstacle in his marathon recovery from pancreatitis. The outlook for a potential kidney transplant has just improved significantly. Hang in there, my son…
Thirty years ago . . .
October 18th, 2007When Dana and I marked our silver anniversary last month, it was recognized that a separate milestone we’d failed to observe had passed us by a couple months earlier—
thirty years since we’d first met. About half a year after my abrupt departure from Chicago, kind Fate placed us in the same small basement office in Wright State University’s publications department. Life as a freelancer in Dayton hadn’t worked out very well, so it was with a measure of keen anticipation that I sat down one afternoon with the classified section, a Cassano’s thin-crust pizza, and a pitcher of lousy beer. I don’t remember applying for any other full-time job during that summer of ’77. To be guardedly candid, if it were not for my journal and the extant artifacts of my creative meanderings, I would recall even less about those months at J’s INN.
Ah, yes… J’s INN. Even the sound of it on my mental tongue conjures a mix of both exhilarating and disturbing sentiments. Thirty years later, J’s INN is less a set of recollections than it is a reservoir of emotions and sensory vignettes. Jeffrey’s scheme to rent the sprawling compound near the airport in late 1976 was just the catalyst I needed to make my escape from that metro-leviathan which bear-hugs the southwest corner of Lake Michigan. I returned to Ohio. Chicago was, and still is, “my big city,” but I knew I couldn’t live there with any level of mental peace. It was just too big. I had this nagging idea that I really needed to reside some place where I could see a cow now and then. J’s INN would be the place. J’s INN would be the perfect environment where I could shake off the city, reconnect with my brothers, and map out a new life as an independent creative professional, and, to a remarkable degree, I somehow managed to do just that. I enjoyed a privileged status. One memory that survives is the time other tenants complained to the INNmaster that he was too lenient with me with respect to our division of duties, and he firmly replied, “What makes you think fairness has anything to do with it?” Although life at J’s INN was conducive to many things, it was far from perfect, and it became too large a phenomenon to fully control, despite Fron’s valiant effort as the legendary INNmaster. J’s INN had its own appetites and its own aura of defiance that could never be tamed. Eventually, one could only betray and abandon it to its own devices. When it finally spent itself and met its match in the bulldozer, it surely left a crack in the hearts of my Clansmen, but it’s difficult to accept that its legacy, as hopelessly scrambled as it is, has not proved to be a good one in the final analysis. To think otherwise is to deny the galvanizing purpose it played in Brotherhood, and to deny its role in drawing me to my lifelong “partner in all things.” So be it, J’s INN— May your forgotten crimes be expiated. May your limestone bones and fallen timbers decay in peace at last.
Forty years ago . . .
October 17th, 2007I’ve shrugged off the disappointment of not having my design chosen for the new library logo, and continue to be excited about the expansion taking place across Broadway. When I assess the daily progress from the vantage of our upstairs bathroom window, my memory skips back to the 1960s. We used to ride our bikes a mile or so toward town to watch the construction of a large electric-power substation on Tipp-Cowlesville Road. It’s not surprising that the rhythmic coordination of massive earth-moving equipment was fascinating to a youthful male. However, at the time, it was just another element of relentless change that I was observing firsthand, most notably the steady development of Dixonwood, our family property on Shoop Road. Clearly, much was churning in America during those years, but I didn’t sense the powerful shifts taking place in the larger culture as much as I had the perception of personally hurtling through rapid change in my own physical and emotional existence. It’s wild enough to be an adolescent, but to experience it as a “new kid” in a more sophisticated community, just as all the norms of social interaction were being questioned or summarily discarded… Before long, nothing seemed to be immune from total scrutiny, and the pace of upheaval that was accelerating month by month was rippling over my life like the waves of an incoming tide. Indeed, it was a “radical” period during which to come of age. Similar to those who had The Great Depression or The War eclipse their years as a teen, the cultural meltdown of the 60s was a fact of life, and you were just there in the midst of it, living it a day at a time, unaware of how it could have been any different. I haven’t come close to sorting through it all, and, perhaps, I never can nor shall.
The Wednesday Gang
October 13th, 2007Low temperatures have arrived too fast. This has been one of my most enjoyable seasons of cycling, and I’m a bit sad to see it close. Beyond safety in numbers, the best part is the group friendship—like most recreational pastimes…
Various & Sundry, part sixty-four
October 5th, 2007— Month of September workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-10; Run-5; Lift-7; Yoga-0; Pilates-2
— My exercise regimen is starting to come back into balance after a mighty season of cycling. The Wednesday evening rides are winding down. This week we barely got in a 20-miler before the light failed. Ernst and I managed an all-out sprint battle down Lebanon Road as a final salute to summer, but I still didn’t have enough to best him. It was a nice kicker to Sunday’s long ride. Although it was more windy than we expected, I got in a total of 60 miles, after I split off from the “Bardstown-to-Berea Century” group at Burgin. Ernst and the others continued east for the full 100. On another note, I’m making good on a challenge to myself by tackling the Tuesday-Thursday Pilates class at Centre. If I stick it out, I’ll eventually file an official report in this space.
— A huge Website proposal has kept us busy in the studio for a week or so, although I did temporarily fall under the spell of Ken Burns and watched a few series pilots, too (I may stick with a couple new shows if they aren’t yanked). For many years, Dana and I maintained a standard policy of refusing to propose visual concepts on a speculative basis. First of all, it seemed rather presumptuous to offer design solutions without adequate research and client consultation. Beyond that, it also seemed an unfair expectation—asking us to render our core creative service before making a commitment to hire us. Well, unfortunately, we’ve had to discard that practice during our lingering project drought, even though these types of competitive appraisals rarely involve comparing apples to apples. These days, everyone wants to shop for ideas and low fees, and it’s getting harder to remember when we could get retained strictly on the basis of our qualifications and past honors. It’s just one more aspect of our industry that’s changed radically in the new century. Many of the others are equally distressing. Meanwhile, I navigate the choppy waters and avoid hair dye, unlike Creed at Dunder Mifflin.
— Arts Across Kentucky finally updated its site with the fall issue, but offers no peek at my featured work. I continue to rotate layerist collages at the “Tree” without my first score. Wilma accepted my Band Festival painting at her new gallery on Main Street, and I’m optimistic about the potential for a sale. The “Egg” is the best downtown enhancement of the year, but the most exciting news item is the recent decision by Larkspur to upgrade the Manning job to a book project, with my most recent wood engraving, “Boss’s Bucket,” as the frontispiece illustration.
— Bruce has improved dramatically since he came home to Danville six months ago. The imminent surgery is a good measure of his progress, although the side-effects of dialysis are a continuous challenge for him. He’s able to exercise increasingly, and is much more energetic on a daily basis, both mentally and physically. To see him helping with the household drudgery, building a routine of creative writing, working on his car, composing letters to the newspaper, and more actively moving around the community is deeply satisfying to witness.
Oldenday XII
September 23rd, 2007Although I’m actually sitting in my studio with fingers on keyboard, I’m not really here at all. In my mind I’m running across the state-owned meadows of Kentucky School for the Deaf, under the patchy morning sunlight of late September. The characteristics of the season remind me of my high-school cross-country days, but soon I’m catapulted back in memory even more. For the countless time in my life, I breath in the fragrance of fresh-cut hay.
The smell of hay… I’m an elementary-schooler once again, playing with my friend David Silknetter in the barn at his family’s farm on Route 48, just north of the old water-wheel landmark. Remembering Silknetter is to relive the angst of accepting and defending his childish fantasies, and to make the painful choice between placing trust in a friend or in family. It is foolish to believe these early experiences fundamentally shape our character, but naive to think they do not have some kind of influence. For me it came at a crossroads of my sense of the “world out there.”
“Real life” outside the nuclear-family nest was intriguing in part because it seemed more than a bit dangerous, and David’s appeal was his smug disregard for the forbidden. Part of the lure of building bale forts in his barn loft was linked to the stories of kids suffocating when their improvised warren collapsed. Certainly the smell of hay was the last sensation of their brief, tragic lives. I could scoff at such hazards by trusting David’s construction skill and his brilliant idea of positioning the deepest chamber next to a supply of air and light—the largest knot-hole in the barn siding. My trust would be well placed. Or would it?
When I came to accept my family’s conviction that Silknetter lied to me about his secret machine that wrote down the name of anyone who discovered our hay-bale tunnel, it was clear I would never play with him again, and the exposure of his deception would mean that he had no choice but to mark me as his enemy. Hadn’t I betrayed his confidence? How much do these formative judgments affect our evolving sense of the external world, the nature of human relationships, the relative surmountability of life’s dilemmas, and the stability of “things as they are?” Yes, I understood that the pitfalls of life were realities unconnected to Whittlin’ Jake’s puppet shows, or the nightly Old-West perils of a television backlot. The messy business of choosing new friends and confronting the unknown was real, of course, and part of a world that appeared, to a developing degree, forebodingly unpredictable. Boyhood imagination about such things can be a rabid creature when infected by rumors and fragments of truth… Or unexpected developments—like the time John Herman threatened to beat me up if my brothers continued to laugh at him. And they continued to laugh at him. It was a known fact that the real world had its share of John Hermans, and that rural existence was filled with grim eventualities. The Iddings boy had two fingers and a thumb chewed off by a corn-picker mechanism. A local farmer, a family acquaintance, had accidentally killed his own son when the youngster fell off the back of his tractor and under a hay mower. I eavesdropped with astonishment when the older boys talked about how Elwood’s brother had ”half his head blown off” in a shotgun mishap.
During those years I probably reached a turning point of which I was not consciously aware. In other words, which perspective seemed more inviting to me—the hidden potential of taking on the outer world, or the possibilities of fashioning a plastic inner world? How did I prefer to risk my creativity? When mixed with the harsh moral instruction and institutional propaganda of the 1950s, is it surprising that I found less comfort in the mode of an extrovert? Is it difficult to understand why I chose internal family mythology over practical community engagement, Hollywood over literary realism, art over science, seat-of-the-pants intuition over sober accountability? Or, had my gears been calibrated and set in motion long before? Was I already imprinted by an invisible heritage to turn and grind a particular way? 
Still talkin’ like a pirate…
September 20th, 2007
Aye, a long post on the hallowed day with nary so much as a single “Arrrgh!”
Run me through with a bleedin’ narwhal tusk— guilty as charged!
And thus, ye be conspirin’ t’ dangle me from the nearest yardarm, are ye now?
Treachery, betrayal, and doom!
I laugh at yer mis’rable ploys!
Come at me now, if prepared t’ taste me blade, and see who the real PIRATE be!
Various & Sundry, part sixty-three
September 19th, 2007Call it Nine-One-One
— Needless to say, our wedding anniversaries now tend to start out with a somber mood, but that’s just part of being an American, so we put it aside to begin our own joyous observance. We took a nice drive up Highway 33 after stopping at Shaker Village and then spent part of the day in Midway, where I made arrangements for the Damselfly gallery to display my wood engravings. We enjoyed the sunny afternoon together and had a delicious dinner at the Heirloom restaurant. In downtown Lexington we discovered the same spot that Dana’s parents stood for a wedding photo, when they eloped to Lexington many years ago. Several times, leading up to the event, we talked about having a picture made on our milestone day, but we didn’t even have a camera with us, so we had dessert, did a bit of shopping at Wild Oats, and then headed home.
Lalo the Magnificent
— Joan paid a visit and made a closing installment of anniversary gifts, even though she’d given us a new Mhing game back at the Seitz Reunion. She told me about the recent NPR interview with Schifrin. My favorite part was when the interviewer asked how he was able to move effortlessly from one type of music to another. Describing himself as a “chameleon,” he said he can do it because he’s able to see the “essence” of each form. That idea speaks powerfully to me.
Lust for Lit
— To have discovered the joy and consolation of literature at this stage of life is an unexpected blessing. I recently read my first story by Paul Horgan. Joan gave me a copy of Flannery O’Connor writings. Both are masters of the short story who happen to have been Catholic. A good friend of artist Peter Hurd (brother-in-law of Andrew Wyeth), Horgan also created little hand-made library-card pockets that now sell to collectors for $500 each. He died in 1995. I don’t know anything yet about O’Connor, but I read one of her stories and found it interesting, but just a bit creepy.
Lucky’s Day Wasn’t Lucky’s Lucky Day
— I didn’t even know about Smoked Mullet until the recent BillyBlues concert at the Constitution Square Festival. James and Susan urged us to come back and catch Aaron’s performance the next day. He’s obviously looking for that elusive “hit” for which nearly all young songwriters yearn. It reminds me of my conversations with Danny D about his long haul through the music industry. Danny hit paydirt overnight when he wasn’t much older than Aaron; he hasn’t seen anything quite like it since. I also remember how a friend of mine from Yellow Springs watched his son go to Nashville to strike gold, only to see him throw away the whole opportunity when the lad couldn’t steer clear of the whiskey bottle.
Kelly Watch
— Urban Picnic received a slideshow highlight by The New York Times, and the young talent from Danville was mentioned by name. Not bad. She’s one to keep watching.
Still Crankin’ Forward
— I’ve been ingrained with the committee approach through my board service and community involvement (Band Festival, Chamber of Commerce, Salvation Army, Rotary Club, etc.), but I’ve picked up resistance about going that direction with the B.I.K.E. group. The “c-word” doesn’t seem to have taken hold as a positive idea. Too many meetings. Perhaps a more workable approach is to have a volunteer “project manager” for each objective. Those people can “take ownership,” rally a few helpers to move the ball, and then get back to the steering group with a progress report. The whole thing reminds me too much of the foundering honcho system within the Dixon Clan Council. Hopefully Mombo’s new trust will be a better context for a workable committee arrangement. To be honest, I have diminishing enthusiasm for attempting to structure the cycling-advocacy team. I’d rather devote myself to individual creative and lobbying efforts, like our area master plan, a “share the road” promotional effort, and the planned multi-use trail along the new bypass connector. Although we’ve made some great progress, I’m somewhat weary after 18 months at the helm. I’d like to see a different leader with more management skill to succeed. This would free me up to work on actual projects instead of administration. Meanwhile, the need for studio activity outweighs all these other considerations. Where’s that old Graybeard when we need him?
Silver Celebration
September 11th, 2007Exactly 25 years ago, in my family’s back yard, we made our vows in the presence of others dearly loved.
Today, as the nation observes the memory of a morning filled with terror and sadness, Dana and I remember when we owned the 11th of September as our personal date of promise and boundless joy.
Various & Sundry, part sixty-two
September 7th, 2007— My cycling chum Bill S commissioned a hand-made card for his mother’s one-hundredth birthday. He’s a great guy who shares a lot in common with me. His daughter is a terrific designer that works for Lenox. Her new Urban Picnic design is being handled by Macy’s. When she was getting her education she asked me to give her an internship, but the workload couldn’t support it. I regret the missed opportunity to have experienced her talent firsthand.
— One of my primary community-service mentors, Carl M, who originally proposed me for Rotary membership, recently asked if I played golf, as we left our weekly luncheon at the Danville Country Club. I told him that when I had the available time, I much preferred to be on a bicycle. It was clear from our conversation that he didn’t think much of the sport, but remarked that I thought it was a “great game,” and, from time to time, I did enjoy watching the best players on TV. Well, I reinforced that viewpoint for myself over the holiday when I glued down with the head-to-head play of Mickelson and Woods. Anyone who can witness that level of psychological combat without total fascination should steer clear of golf in any shape or form.
— I’m not sure when I became hooked on short stories. Maybe had something to do with Brendan getting me addicted to very concise ones. I shall never read all the great American novels, but I do hope to eventually read all the best short stories ever written by Americans. If you have some favorites, let me know. I can’t get over the variety: Wharton — James — Hemingway — Thurber — Faulkner. And I’m discovering others new to me: Walter Van Tilburg Clark — Katherine Anne Porter. I’ve been aware of The Ox-Bow Incident and Noon Wine (Peckinpah’s lost rendition with Jason Robards is remembered by some who saw it as the finest television ever broadcast), but didn’t recognize those names. Yes, I know… I’m a late arrival at the grand old house of our national literature.
— I have to admit that, after 13 years of conditioning, all I want to do after Labor Day is draw, fish, swim, relax, and enjoy myself. Seeing the picture of the Adkins Family makes me realize how much my nervous system craves some sort of vacation. I decided not to make the trip to Upper Michigan this year. Being with Dana on our silver anniversary is more important. If we can pull ourselves away from the studio, we’re due for our own getaway. What can one say about a quarter century of marriage? I can write a bit, but not well enough to tackle such an assignment. It’s been more than that, too. A working partnership on all levels. An uncommon occurrence in human relationships. Beyond my capacity to summarize.
What Caitlan should do with her life
September 4th, 2007A very public list of options for my niece:
• Use the Oxford credential to land a position at a respected institution, starting as the assistant to a highly experienced leader — humble yourself to soak up every scrap of street smarts for the taking — do it as long as you can stand it, and then walk away with whatever new perspective you’ve attained…
• Earn a decent position with a progressive municipality or quasi-governmental agency as a lifestyle platform for high-level volunteerism — “take ownership” of a huge challenge in the non-profit or charitable sector indirectly related to your job and use that opportunity to make something very significant happen in the community — pull up stakes and carry what you’ve learned back to the academic environment — now you’re ready to conduct seminal research in an area that actually affects the lives of people…
• Wager your impressive undergraduate degrees in a job search that’s limited to companies with an outstanding corporate culture — do your homework and cull it down to only the leading-edge organizations — satisfy yourself that doing anything within the very best of management teams trumps practicing your specialty in a deficient business or institutional environment, and then you’ll be prepared to investigate your next strategic career move…
• Take a job with a publisher, polling firm, or media company to learn the communications industry from the inside — learn everything there is to know about niche-market service — job hop laterally until you’re ready to devote your new knowledge and skill set to a specific area of personal interest as a writer, and then make the leap of faith…
• Get into the best damn graduate program you can pull off, and then, regardless of your specific thesis parameters, seek out the advice of mature scholars who have the most balanced heart flame you can discern — then you can begin thinking in earnest about what next you should do with your life…
Meet your opportunities by being who you are. Don’t sell your skills, but sell your aspirations— to learn everything you can about being part of a successful team. If that doesn’t unlock a new chapter, you don’t want to work for that organization anyway. The best recruiters understand that you “don’t know jack” at this stage. They want to invest in attitude and potential. Keep scratching until positive things happen. Good Luck, KK!
Various & Sundry, part sixty-one
September 1st, 2007— Month of August workout totals: Swim-0; Bike-9; Run-0; Lift-2; Yoga-0
— When I first participated in the Pound & Pedal 20-miler, it started in downtown Danville and ended at Turtle in the Night Farm, the Morgan family homestead in Forkland. With a climb up Catholic Knob, plus its 30-to-40-mph descent, the course was tough and exciting. As we gathered this morning for the annual challenge, which now has a long-established course that extends into Mercer County and back, nobody remembered exactly how long a history the event has, but Ernst thought today might be the 20th anniversary. The current course is not as dramatic, but it’s still rigorous and far from flat. The best athletes took part in the traditional run-bike team competition, so I managed to win the bicycle-only division with a time of 1:05:41. Once again it fell short of the elusive 20-mph average, but only 19 seconds slower than my 2001 finish. Hey, I can live with three seconds a year. Dick B told me I was “aging gracefully.”
— If I could make a living doing what I did yesterday… Well, I don’t know how to complete that sentence. After spending the morning with graver tools, I pulled a crude proof to see if my block was nearly done. It was the best print I could produce at home, but it told me it was time to head to Larkspur. We made the trip to Monterey and I spent the rest of the day alternating proofs on the Vandercook with more clean-up and finishing touches. I wasn’t sure if Dana was getting bored, but it turned out to be an opportunity for her to spend some time with Gray and get a better sense of his rare individuality. I left the block in his capable hands with a sense of satisfaction, looking forward to his broadside composition of the Manning poem with my illustration.
— I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, but the Arts Across Kentucky article about me was published with a disappointing number of errors and poor visual decisions, but that seems to be somewhat typical of the magazine. Nevertheless, it’s good publicity and is apparently seen by many high-level people. They still haven’t updated the Website to reflect the current issue that contains my profile. It’s up to me to leverage this constructively, otherwise it may offer little on its own to enhance my situation.
From black board to spitzsticker
August 28th, 2007Forgive me for yesterday’s wacky post. I’m rounding the final turn of a new wood block—the first I’ve executed outside the workshop environment. The spot I’ve set up in the little galley kitchen on the second floor is ideal. Painters need soft northern light, but the way the afternoon sun from the small window streams by my left shoulder is perfect for engraving wood. I can see each minute detail with total, three-dimensional clarity. Gray loaned me a magnifying visor, but I prefer the naked eye, as long as I have the proper light.
Why does wood engraving appeal to me? There’s something about the precision that satisfies an inner aspect, much in the same way that the spontaneity of collage appeals to another part of me. Perhaps Wesley put it best when he wrote, “Engraving is like drawing on a black board. Every line you make is a white mark on a black surface. You are adding light to darkness.” That hits pretty close to home for me.
On the other hand, it’s widely acknowledged that wood engraving is a demanding, unforgiving medium. I’m considered fairly decent for a “beginner,” but that’s because I can tap a lifetime of graphic investigation as I make each binary decision—black or white? I still have a significant mark-making technique to learn and “muscle memory” to acquire. I must also develop an even deeper resistance to haste. There are no shortcuts, “happy accidents,” or undo keys in wood engraving. Every mark must be deliberate. The process does not reward chance; it yields only to planning and tenacity. I find a challenge in all that, obviously, but I wish I’d been more strongly captivated by it earlier in my artistic life. After creating the lino block for Joan and Wayne’s wedding invitation, I abandoned printmaking for nearly 30 years. So be it. I’m slowly making up for a bit of lost time.
When did my world turn CrAz-O?
August 27th, 2007Local headline:
Library offers $1000 for winning logo
What’s next?
Patient offers $1000 for winning diagnosis
—or—
Defendant offers $1000 for winning defense
I laughed back in the 70s when one of my UC professors proposed that graphic designers, like architects, be licensed by the state.
Need a Website?
You can get one from this chicken farmer.
—or—
Maybe you’re a chicken farmer, but can’t design.
—or—
Wait, you just need to look at an award-winning Website!
Hey, I’ll just change the name of our studio:
So, you think this entry is a big joke?
Who’s laughing?
I’m being swallowed by a black hole of insignificance, as my achievements are being ascribed to an impostor.
AAAA-i-i-i-i-i-EE-EE-EE ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Spooky music
August 22nd, 2007I continue to have a powerful belief in the synchronicities of life, but, for some reason, I’m astonished when they occur.
The wood engraving I’m working on will accompany a poem by a teaching artist who also wrote a book of verse about Daniel Boone, and it will be printed in Monterey, Kentucky.
Joan had a blind date with a teaching artist from Monterey, Kentucky, who is also the curator of the museum about Daniel Boone at Boonesborough.
Dana and I have talked for several years about the possibility of bartering for a painting by Irina, the extraordinary Russian artist who lives in Danville. 
Recently she chose Dana as the person to provide her personal assistance while recuperating from a broken hip. When we visited to pick out one of her works, she offered to loan me an art book from her collection. The first one I saw had КРАВЧЕНКО on the spine, a name that meant nothing to me. I thought it might be pronounced “Kravchenko,” but Irina seemed to be saying, “Kravkinkja,” so I looked inside. I was stunned by the reproductions. Who was the artist Кравченко? Without a doubt, one of the greatest Russian wood engravers of the early 20th Century.
Riding out the scorcher
August 19th, 2007Due to a stiff headwind for much of the route, this morning’s 40-miler felt more like 60. On the other hand, it was nice to wake up and discover a more moderate temperature plus a breeze, especially since it was 100+ degrees when we started out this past Wednesday evening. Ride turnout is down lately. If you intend to exercise safely out there, you have to be conditioned to this excessive heat. I never minded running during the peak of a hot spell, but I haven’t been doing it this time around. I’m thankful for the air movement that comes with cycling, which is all I’m clinging to for fitness these days.
Andante: at a walking pace
August 17th, 2007The sense of marking time characterizes my days, although I know that personal progress is taking place. There is no standing still.
The same old angst surfaces when we purge records and remnants of past projects. What is the underlying nature of this difficulty in destroying the evidence of how I spent a portion of my life? It is not, as Dana misinterprets, an issue of trust. I trust her with vast areas of my well-being, and have for decades. Perhaps it has much more to do with what Maurice Manning touches on in his poem, A Possible Blessing:
. . . the man who understands diminishment
will lay down in his coffin from time to time
and practice disappearing, like a bug
riding a twig on a stream: a speck of un-
belonging, immersed in careless undulation.
You lose your obligation to remember,
which frees you to the quickened world of matter.
—from A Companion for Owls, 2004
Salute to a cyclist in Louisville
August 13th, 2007Over two thousand riders showed up Sunday to participate in the Memorial Ride for fallen bicycle commuter Chips Cronen.