I 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?
Archive for the ‘Angst’ Category
Elusive speculations
Monday, December 27th, 2010Impecunious 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!
Nagging thumbkin
Thursday, March 25th, 2010March Exercise V —day twenty-five— I continued to have difficulty with my “phantom thumb” exercise, so I called Mary Ellen to consult. She told me to just set it aside for now and not to fret about it. I suddenly realized how many other things I’d allowed myself to make an object of daily worry, pondering the connection between stress and vision problems. It seemed a good time to walk over to the Community Art Center with Dana and tour the dinosaur exhibit. We saw Nathan M and he offered to provide us the list of economic development conferees. Later, I sipped a cold Leinenkugel and watched the Wildcats secure their spot in the “elite 8.”
Today’s sight bite— Phosphorescent streaks and random geometric perfections —c-l-i-c-k— convincing me that exotic minerals are more fascinating to my current imagination than extinct reptiles.
Previously on M-Ex— It’s a madhouse! (3/25/07)
Tomorrow— Flying solo in the studio . . .
Fixed mundanity
Wednesday, March 24th, 2010March Exercise V —day twenty-four— I was burnt toast after my 22-miler tonight, making me painfully conscious of my sedentary occupation. But it’s March, when my bicycle legs are rudely punished until I can take 30 miles in stride, with a couple of knobs thrown in for good measure.
Today’s sight bite— Was that the familiar green and brown bag? —c-l-i-c-k— In the ditch? There’s another one! —c-l-i-c-k— My package design for livestock feed appearing as a huge item of roadside litter reminds me that I have chosen to spend much of my life creating trivial ephemera.
Previously on M-Ex— Conservation of energy—more secrets are revealed through focused awareness. (3/24/06)
Tomorrow— Dinosaurs!
Elusive calm
Monday, March 22nd, 2010March Exercise V —day twenty-two— After my tenth round of vision therapy, the balance of the day felt like a refutation of the popular fallacy called “multitasking.” I had little tolerance for more than one activity, train of thought, or sensory stimulus at a time. I accept that one is responsible for one’s own serenity, but there are times when I think that peace and quiet are the scarcest commodities. Tonight is one of those times, after having found a kindred spirit in the author of this remarkable blog. Two years ago she posted a picture of a Minnesota scene identical to the one I viewed from the Bluegrass Parkway this morning.
Today’s sight bite— Twin silos against an amber-pink burst of luminosity —c-l-i-c-k— as day breaks over a landscape carved by the Kentucky River.
Previously on M-Ex— March is for going a little bit “kook.” (3/22/07)
Tomorrow— Executing fleet graphics for a client…
Beyond sorrow
Friday, March 19th, 2010March Exercise V —day nineteen— We finally “pulled the trigger” and hired a roofer, ending years of distress that stemmed from our inability to afford the kind of roof we truly wanted. Someday, perhaps, this bungalow will once again wear a clay tile roof, as it did in the 1920s, but, sadly, we won’t be the ones to provide it. We can’t even swing the metal simulation, so we’ll do the best thing we can— restore the original terracotta color with a premium asphalt shingle. We’re tired of the indecision and just can’t attempt another rainy season with buckets throughout the attic. It’s time to press on.
Today’s sight bite— Low shafts of morning light —c-l-i-c-k— as they wrap around the ancient maple’s gnarled bark.
Previously on M-Ex— Our favorite hoops-gril finishes her high school career. (3/19/09)
Tomorrow— Our first visit to the Kentucky Artisan Center…
Friday, March 12th, 2010
The inertia is gone. Something is trying to bring me down. All I wanted was a warm, quiet day, but ended up outside, dealing with two different crews that stopped by to discuss a roofing estimate. And now I’m wilting fast and battling thoughts of defeat…
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 second
Wednesday, January 13th, 2010A strabismic’s eyes are not aimed at the same point in space. The difference between the left- and right-eye views is too great for the brain to combine the images into a single picture. A person with non-aligned eyes is confronted with a serious perceptual problem; she must somehow create a single, coherent worldview from conflicting input from the two eyes. To solve this problem, many strabismics suppress the information from one eye and look through the other. Some always use the same eye, while others continually switch between the two eyes, but in either case, they may never see normally through the two eyes together. As a result, most strabismics have reduced or absent stereovision.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze
Spending time with the View-Master as a child was a deeply moving experience. But, after all, it was just a toy, and I was embarrassed enough about my strong emotional responses that I kept them to myself. I recall being so affected by the Flash Gordon reel that knowing there was a finite limit of images nearly brought me to tears. What was it about seeing those 3D impressions that was so profound? Was it because my natural depth perception was already deficient or in decline? I knew I wasn’t very good at hitting or catching a ball. Did I simply lack an athletic reflex, or could it have had more to do with an inability to place objects in space, a known characteristic of monocular vision? How flat has my world been all along?
Yesterday I went to the Vision and Learning Center for a battery of diagnostics that measured and benchmarked the current state of the eye disorder. I’m starting to get more comfortable with phrases like a) Vertical Strabismus (eyeballs out of alignment), b) Oculomotor Pursuits (something to do with how cognitive function enables the eye to move smoothly), and c) Binocular Fusional Disfunction (inability of brain neurons to coordinate dual-eye vision). Actually, it’s wrong to think of it as an eye problem. A “brain glitch” is probably a more accurate way to understand it. Some of the tests seemed ridiculously easy, while others were very difficult and exhausting for me to perform. At the end of my session came a discussion about the details of therapy, timetable, and costs. Once-a-week sessions at the Center for 30 consecutive weeks, plus daily home practice, 30 minutes minimum. For some reason, I wasn’t expecting such a long program, and the sticker price knocked me for a loop. I left with doubts about whether I could take on the economic commitment, even though I knew I had enough discipline to make the approach work. Dana and I had a long discussion. We kept arriving at the same conclusion: I simply had to get this fixed, and somehow we would manage our finances to pay for it out of pocket.
Support and resistance
Friday, 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!
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.
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…
Musculoskeletal setback
Tuesday, March 3rd, 2009March exercise—day three— (Dear Back, You picked a great time to act up again. Please knock it off and return my mobility. Your friend, John.) The probable result of a 24-hour dose of stress, my lower back has treated me with an unexpected spasm when I bent over to work on a snarl of power cords. Bruce is doing slightly better after they moved a dialysis unit into his ICU chamber, but he still doesn’t recognize his visitors. Mombo sent out a nice prayer request.
Today’s sight bite— The high-resolution digital television picture —c-l-i-c-k— that is a result of solid professional know-how.
Tomorrow— I have absolutely no idea what Wednesday will bring…
Crash Bucket Chronicles — Epilogue
Friday, February 20th, 2009“Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea. A man dies on shore; his body remains with this friends, but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness in the event, and a difficulty in realizing it, which give to it an air of awful mystery.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
We navigate in a sea of souls…
Grim reality has a way of sweeping aside all the self-absorbing trivialities that clog a journal like this, but rather than ask myself — “What’s the point of it all?” — why not scratch ahead with a continued search for meaning? Maybe for me. Maybe for you. Maybe, maybe not. If I stopped believing it worth a try, this would be my final post.
Not long after the bulk of our community had shaken off the surprise of our shared crisis, most of us were shocked to learn that the life of a respected local leader had been tragically lost. If his name was added to the list of Kentucky’s weather-related deaths, it is unknown to me, but what is clear is that he was found in a vacant house where he’d been working with a generator. The coroner said the circumstances were consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning. It was a mild day. He wasn’t attempting to heat the building. People speculated that the wind blew the door shut while he was operating a sump pump. The precise circumstances remain a puzzle. I didn’t know anyone active in town affairs that didn’t consider him a friend. He covered the leadership bases—from business to social service. He made multiple trips to the Gulf Coast as a volunteer to help with the Katrina response. He was highly intelligent, compassionate, and knew how to do almost anything. The Chamber of Commerce named him “outstanding citizen” over fifteen years ago, but he never slowed down. He took to his grave an unmatched knowledge of the County’s industrial development history and infrastructure. He was the last of a breed of quiet men who had made a truly significant difference. The abrupt vacancy was painfully felt. I spent two hours in line to offer his family a few words that wouldn’t sound trite. I’m not sure that I succeeded.
I didn’t attend the funeral the next day, but paid a visit with my friend Danny to the Abbey of Gethsemani. It was my first time there. It was raining and in many respects would have been considered a dismal day, but others were also making the same pilgrimage, and I found a sense of peace in the setting that defied personal understanding. God is everywhere, but keenly present in some places, and that suggests to me the appropriate use of the word “sacred.” We also stopped at the Saint Rose church in Springfield to meet Father Murray, and I had my first look at the extraordinary Bavarian-style windows. Father Murray is extraordinary, too. At age 87, he looked to me to be in his mid 70s. He told me, “Well, I’ve always gotten a lot of exercise.” He pointed out 70-year-old trees damaged in the ice storm that he helped plant when he was a novice. The seminary was moved east long ago and the associated buildings demolished, but the church remains, a splendid structure full of artistic treasures, including a 13-figure Last Supper and a 12-figure Pentecost, all wood carved in the Italian fashion. Danny wanted to show me the Convent near Loretto and to check on any damage to the outdoor Way of Sorrows. It was evident that huge limbs from the tall grove of surrounding trees had crashed all about, but the only casualty was The Crucifixion. We marveled that each figure of Our Lady had escaped harm, but that “Christ took the hit.”
Several days before, Joan had an opportunity to meet Danny when he joined Joan, Dana, and me at the Hub for coffee after one of Hayley’s high-scoring victories. It was another meaningful, in-depth discussion about heavy subjects. Joan thought she might have intruded and skewed the conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. Danny told be later he was pleased to meet her and said that my sister was a “strong soul.” He is correct, of course, but I’ve already known that for some time. Danny is quite a soul himself. The word I would use is “magnanimous.” Yesterday he brought over his pole saw and tied himself to my chimney so he could deal with the big branches that were still jack-knifed on our rooftop. One of his earliest memories is watching his father top trees as a lumberjack in the high Sierras. He seems to have the right tool for everything and knows how to use them safely. I can’t say how much I appreciate that in two hours of work together, his generous favor of skill has saved me hundreds of dollars in tree-service fees (or maybe more, from what I’ve heard around town about what people have been charged since the storm).
So, with power now restored for Mombo and Clan Valley and the last of my storm-related headaches resolved, can I say that circumstances have returned to normal? “Not hardly,” as the expression goes. I think I’m battling the same virus that put Bruce back in the hospital yesterday with pneumonia. We’re sleeping on the floor because we made the blunder of giving away our old mattress before FedEx delivered the complete replacement set (and, wouldn’t you know it, they lost part of it). I have no complaints. Things are picking up in the studio, and I have a fun project to work on with KK & K. It’s time to put the Crash Bucket away and begin preparing for the March Exercise.
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.
Crash Bucket Chronicles — Day Three
Thursday, January 29th, 2009“But all these little vexations and labors would have been nothing—they would have been passed by as the common evils of a sea life, which every sailor, who is a man, will go through without complaint—were it not for the uncertainty, or worse than uncertainty, which hung over the nature and length of our voyage.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
We are out of champagne and I’m stuck my dear…
Water pressure came back around breakfast time. I immediately began filling a bathtub, but forgot about it, and it almost overflowed (my tub is so old it has no safety drain). Still no power, though. More areas of the city have been restored, including Lee and David’s neighborhood, but the whole idea of our benefiting from a downtown priority was in error, because Main Street is back in action with traffic lights and storefront electricity. Obviously, we’re not part of that circuit. More likely, we must pay the price for all the tree damage on Lexington Avenue and the block of Broadway to the west. Fortunately, our new gas water heater is operating again, so at least we now have hot, running water, which makes taking a shower the most inviting development of the day.
Two KU trucks were out front for a few minutes and linemen were examining the service connection next door, where the anchor is broken and the conduit is touching the roof of the car port. It looked like a promising sign, but a neighbor told me that the utility guys said what they’re currently working on would not affect this end of the block. I get the notion that nobody considers our area “low-hanging fruit.” I understand they want to restore the greatest number of customers as rapidly as possible, so if one happens to be on an oddball circuit, tough luck. As our house continues to lose its residual warmth, we cling to the idea that we’re on somebody’s checklist.
In the event that it could still be days before we have electricity, I’m starting to urge more conservation of cooking propane, but, at the same time, push for a more open distribution of heat throughout the rest of the house to safeguard pipes. This results in a lower temperature for the main gathering room—not a popular condition to be advocating.
Crash Bucket Chronicles — Day Two
Wednesday, January 28th, 2009“Such are the trifles which produce quarrels on shipboard. In fact, we had been too long from port. We were getting tired of one another, and were in an irritable state, both forward and aft.”
—Richard Henry Dana, Jr.
Two Years Before the Mast
IDEAL FOR: Camping, Tailgating, Emergencies
We made it through the night without any “casualties.” Before bed, Dana had reached her brother in California to discuss carbon monoxide safety issues. We cracked a window for fresh air and verified that the flames were burning a steady blue. I’d already made sure to set the flue damper for a decent exhaust draw. Dana also had contact with Joan. She was burning wood at a socked-in Kelley Ridge. Mombo had been evacuated to the Keep by Glenda, and the Hellyers were reportedly clustered around a kerosene heater. We hoped that they also had made certain of adequate ventilation.
Bruce and I disagreed over his wanting to go outside to begin clearing fallen limbs. In addition to the hazard of continuous downfall, he’d just been released from the hospital over the weekend after recovering from pneumonia. I protested harshly and we both over-reacted in turn, which is usually how these stress-induced arguments take hold. As it turned out, we soon apologized and teamed up to clear the driveway just in time to relocate our other two vehicles before more heavy limbs from the big maple crashed down. Old “Simon Kenton” is taking a horrendous splintering, and the worst may be ahead, if the wind picks up. I’d dodged a bullet with one night of “Ned” sitting underneath, but once the knee-jerk emotions were cleared out, I knew we had to get the truck and Bruce’s Corolla over to the funeral home parking lot right away. Too bad we blew our cool for a minute. I shouldn’t have been so tactless with my objections. In fact, by myself, I might’ve been unable to extract both cars in time.
So far, several massive limbs have cracked and jack-knifed to the roof of the house and garage, but none have caused significant damage. The pin oak out front has shed major downfall, too, but the only real damage to property up ’til now is one severed telephone wire. The power line looks unharmed, but we won’t have a net connection, even if the electricity is restored, until the broken land line is repaired. Our second phone line is intact, but has no high-speed service. It will be a bitch to deal with all of this when the weather breaks, but we have it no worse than nearly every property owner in sight, and clearly there are some who have sustained severe damage.
It’s a good thing I’ve been reading Two Years Before the Mast, or I’d believe that this was true hardship. Nothing must compare to laying aloft in a gale of freezing rain to furl a sail with your bare hands off Cape Horn. Lord, how did they do it? Youth and necessity, I reckon—how it does remind me of the soft life I live by comparison!
One of the first orders of the day was to get the propane camp stove from the attic, so Dana could prepare the hot meals she prescribed for all. I finally went down to the basement and opened the “crash bucket” to claim its fuel canisters and spare batteries. So long in storage for just this kind of misfortune, the large Rubbermaid tub filled with emergency supplies hadn’t been disturbed or replenished since the Y2K scare. We defied the warning against using the camp stove indoors and set it up in the kitchen, but closed off the room to the rest of the house, keeping the back door open for fresh air. While in use, the kitchen’s temperature was not much different than that outside. Dana is nothing else if not a trouper. She used some poultry that was in danger of spoiling to fix a tasty fried-chicken dinner, and I helped make the mashed potatoes.
We had plenty of drinking water, since we routinely distill our own and maintain several days worth on hand. I dug out my Sony Walkman to listen to local radio reports. Garrard County has no public water. Wal-Mart and Food Lion sold out of bottled water. Inter-County Energy phone lines are out and even the 911 call center can’t make contact with them, due to jammed lines. Reportedly, crews are now closing in on 30 hours without sleep in their efforts to restore power. With the forecast of 15 mph winds tonight, lines could continue to come down again, even after repairs are made. If the current comes back on, I can’t think of anything to do first except distill more water, in case we lose power again. Other priorities? Cook food and run the furnace as long as it lasts. I can presume that downtown Danville will be a priority for responders, but, with the latest news, we may need to face another cold night without electricity before we have the benefit of repairs—maybe two.
As the light begins to fail, I’ll make these last notes of the day. Lamp oil has been added to the lantern and new batteries have been inserted in preparation for another night without power. Radio says the entire twelve-county Touchstone grid is down, with a spokesperson declaring “several days” before expectations of wide service. No word from Kentucky Utilities about the city, but I would assume the prospects are better. No more news from Clan. Dana tried to reach Eagle Nest, but no success. Bruce was able to charge a cellular phone battery with his car’s converter. It’s getting too dark to write comfortably, so it’s time for me to be about my duties at nightfall. It will be colder than last night, but the gas is still on. God knows how much it’s costing us to burn constantly like this. My prayer is for a quiet night, and the return of power on the morrow.
Various & Sundry, part eighty-one
Thursday, November 13th, 2008
Pearallel Universe
John Andrew Dixon
Mixed media collage
25 x 21 inches, 2007
Collection of Saint Joseph Health System
— Month of October workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-3; Run-1; Lift-1; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus Drills-1
To the heart of the matter
— I believe the latest recommendation for adequate exercise is 30 minutes a day, 4-5 days a week. Although my workouts are longer than that, the totals are falling short by a long shot. Can I get the daily habit back to preserve my health?
More library deprivation
— It’s been nearly a year since the library hauled itself off to the edge of town, and, although I knew it would be a bit of a hardship, I didn’t expect this level of low-grade suffering. Man, had I ever come to rely on that nearby environment for a periodic dose of mind-restoring tranquility—the kind that is unique to a truly fine reading room. I’m thoroughly impressed with the design for the new wing, but Karl told me recently that construction was three-to-four months behind schedule, so now I have no choice except to hang on until spring. I must have that extraordinary place available out my front door again or I shall go mad!
Sweet Owen County
— On Halloween I made my return to Larkspur for another printmaking retreat. It was a special time with creative people whose friendship I value more each year. An exhibition at the vineyards was mounted to honor Wesley’s work, and I was invited to include four of my wood engravings, since he’s had such a profound influence on my development in that medium. I sold one of my remaining proofs of Waiting for Joe, in addition to an unframed print of Penn’s Store, the latter to a collector interested in acquiring examples of my final edition numbers. Now all I have to do is print more limited editions of blocks that I’ve only proofed so far. I managed to complete a small block of a tiger, but was unable to finish during the workshop my larger, more complex engraving of a paddock scene I shot the previous week at Keeneland. It’s my first attempt at engraving a human figure, plus I had to include a horse and a stone wall, too, of course. What was I thinking? When I get it done, I’ll spend a day in Gray’s shop and print another block or two as well. Dana and Lee came up to the winery on Friday night and got to meet Wes and hear Juanita perform. Make no mistake about it—one can develop significant friendships at every stage of life.
Feeling a trifle exposed
— County employees demolished the little retail cottage next door to “put up a parking lot,” and it’s as if somebody yanked my gym shorts down. Whatever meager backyard ambiance we possessed is now lost. Instead, we have more noise, urban light pollution, and litter. I remember the year we held an open house and backyard gathering for Brendan’s graduation from Centre. If I’m not mistaken, that was the summer Carol and Bob came to the Brass Band Festival and spent time with us in the backyard. There are circumstances when a setting is at its peak and one rarely knows it at the time.
Custom built for a guy like me
— In a perfect world, Gene Wolfe might have contacted me to ask, “What type of a story idea would you like for me to develop that would please your singular peculiarities?” He didn’t have to. He wrote Pirate Freedom for his own reasons, and I became the grateful beneficiary without ever having to request “an absorbing tale of spiritual contemplation, time travel, and the golden age of piracy along the Spanish Main.” Unbelievable!
Dr. Quest’s pear-a-power ray
— I finally sold the mixed media piece I called Pearallel Universe. It was completed around the time of the original “March Experiment,” was part of my KOSMOS show, and made it out to New Mexico and back for the SLMM anniversary (but not without sustaining some damage to the frame, which the Albuquerque Museum people were kind enough to repair). It was purchased last week by Saint Joseph Health System to hang at its new ambulatory care center in Jessamine County. A hearty tip o’ the hat to LexArts!
My annual knob stalk
— My pals David and Greg are the sort of knowledgeable gun aficionados that know a bargain when they see one, so I was stunned when they gave me the gift of a 50-caliber muzzleloading rifle they just couldn’t pass up. When I recovered from the shock of their generosity, they taught me how to safely operate it—just in time for me to test it out during our recent Clan gathering, which happened to be the lawful period for using primitive weapons to hunt white-tails. I came as close to the moment of truth as I would that weekend when I cocked the hammer early Sunday morning, as three does crossed Robin Lick and made their way across a hay field, on the garden side of the Irrylynn gully. But something spooked the lead deer about 75 yards from my spot beside a round bale—my scent, the motion of my aim, or perhaps the pattern in my profile. She snorted an alert, danced a bit, and took off in the opposite direction, never presenting me an acceptable shot. As I say, that was the nearest I came to using my muzzleloader while I was in the Valley. Three weeks later I found myself back at Simpson Knob with my Marlin 1894S carbine, full of optimism for a freezer harvest, but I never observed a single deer in the woods, and neither of my two friends had the opportunity for a shot. This gives me a couple more options for success—this weekend at Blue Bank with the 44-Rem. magnum, and another December time slot with the Hawken-style that I’ve decided to name “Girty.” As much as I want to bring home some venison this year, there is nothing like having an excuse to be in the wild knob-lands at daybreak, whatever the outcome.
You’ll never walk alone
— Originally, our Hurray Day events were planned to coincide with the fifteenth anniversary of Dadbo’s passing, but we still wanted to have a family commemoration, even though the quarterly gathering was moved to the previous weekend. I was preoccupied with my tedious progress on the stone flue in the Hall, but I knew Joan was thinking about what to do, which is so typical of her desire to properly plan this kind of thing. We were listening to some old music and the tribute wasn’t on my mind when I suggested she experience Judy Garland’s stirring rendition of the inspirational song from Carousel. I’d never heard that version before, and Joan was out of the room when the CD track played. Had it been up to me, I don’t think I would’ve made the connection, but she realized it would be the perfect accompaniment to our outdoor service. I enjoyed spending some “palsy time” with my “big sis” for those two days, and it reminded me of how distinctive a life-long bond we share.
Various & Sundry, part eighty
Thursday, October 16th, 2008— Month of September workout totals: Swim-5; Bike-3; Run-2; Lift-0; Yoga-1; Pilates-2; Lupus Drills-0
— With my bicycle miles winding down, I’m adapting again to the Pilates routine, and the pool is beginning to feel like the best place to be for a satisfying workout. Tradesmen were replacing the lane blocks today, and the slender gal on duty was trying to tell me to avoid splashing their work area, but her voice was so soft I could barely hear her, even when she was standing close by. These students are technically lifeguards, but I wonder how often they look up from their assigned reading to see if a fiftysomething guy like me is on the bottom with a cardiac spazz-out. I’ve seen some fairly hefty dudes swimming laps in there, too, but I shouldn’t criticize, since I was a pool guard back in the day. One time I did have to pull a guy to the side who outweighed me, but it’s not like making a “save” in a pool is honest-to-goodness lifeguard work, compared to a lake or surf monitor. That would be like the difference between a first responder at a warehouse blaze and a homeowner putting out a grass fire with his garden hose.
— The deli on Fourth Street has taken a new turn and become the most interesting hangout in town. (I haven’t been within walking distance of a tap with Stella since living in Bruxelles as a callow youth.) Dana and I were down there having a chat with Geri about software upgrades, and I found myself talking like a proponent of “vintage systems.” Perhaps that’s because I’ve been making do with applications that suit my fluency, but are clearly a few notches off the cutting edge. Sometimes new means better, but not necessarily; it’s become a risky practice to make that assumption. Our friend Pat, an experienced user, and Victoria’s brother, a novice, are both living through a nightmare with their Vista operating system upgrades. People are talking about how Bob Staake illustrated a recent New Yorker cover using Photoshop version 3 on a Mac running OS7. Hey, we had our nearly 40-year-old Hobart refurbished this summer, and nobody will convince us that it isn’t far superior to anything built today. Old is the new New!
— My story about meeting Johnny Crawford was recently added to Ginia’s tribute site. She’s a very nice person. I like her quotation from Mark Twain: “A cat that sits on a hot stove, will not sit on a hot stove again. He will not sit on a cold one either.” Also found a connection at her MySpace page that Joan will get a kick out of: The all new DonGrady.com!
— I had fun creating a piece for the Library’s recent call for artwork. The opening reception for the resulting exhibit was tonight, and Nancy M won the best of show with her outstanding felt composition. Julius F was the juror, and he selected items for merit awards and honorable mention. He didn’t recognize my entry, but the collage, Cascade of Knowledge, was among those works library representatives chose for purchase and display in the new facility. This pleases me, because I produced it with the library setting in mind, hoping it would appeal to them.
— Bruce had a great letter to the editor in the paper the other day. Maybe his best so far.
— We never removed the old-fashioned TV antennas from our rooftop. I always liked the period look they gave to the dwelling, and besides, they were virtually inaccessible. Yesterday I climbed up there and installed an amplifier and new line for digital signals, without falling or electrocuting myself. By george it worked, just in time to watch the pie maker and the presidential debate.
— We always heard stories about how local county government had been interested in bidding for our downtown building on the 1988 auction day we won the Town House. That was nearly 20 years ago, and, for most of that time, we didn’t think much about it or suspect there was any continued interest. And then, with a flurry of new judicial centers being funded over the past few years, we began to hear rumors—too many to suit me—so I sought confirmation or denial from the Judge Executive. He admitted that the option to take our lot by condemnation to create the footprint for a court-system expansion had been discussed in his presence. Although he would not pledge to oppose the idea on my behalf, he declared that it was not his preferred course of action. I let him know how strongly I felt about my desire to keep our home and business location intact, here on historic West Broadway. Recently I shared the information at our annual neighborhood “Block Party.” With the current fiscal constraints on state government and the backlash against perceived extravagances in some of the judicial centers recently constructed, the mood may be slightly in our favor, but it’s difficult to shove the unpleasant possibility from the back of my mind, and the uncertainty works against the necessary enthusiasm to undertake improvement projects and the confidence to continue investing in our property.
Various & Sundry, part seventy-two
Saturday, March 1st, 2008My log is currently suspended for the annual March Experiment.
— Month of February workout totals: Swim-3; Bike-2; Run-3; Lift-2; Yoga-0; Pilates-3; Lupus-1
— If I accomplish nothing else over the next 30 days, I must find “the means.” I won’t try to define exactly what that means (hey, is that a pun?), but most of you know what I’m talking about. It can look like ferocity, but mere ferocity is no match for the kind of unrelenting competitive intensity that Uncle Don held out as mark of the victorious spirit. Well, maybe I did just define it. All I know right now is that I need to regain the source of it, and the man who coined the term is in the hospital and probably dying. He is my Godfather, and from him I inherit the challenge of “the means.” James and I were talking about him this morning when we accompanied Joan to inspect Joe’s Riverland. It was a wonderful outing that combined the gentle Lamb of March and memories of our lost Clansmen with an enduring camaraderie that is too rarely enjoyed (and I don’t mean scarce, but rare). I’m so glad we did it.
— Speaking of Joan: she uncovered this NPR feature that makes me think we might have been among the last of the “Oldenday Players.” This closing thought sums up the sad, ironic state of current affairs:
…in the rush to give children every advantage—to protect them, to stimulate them, to enrich them—our culture has unwittingly compromised one of the activities that helped children most. All that wasted time was not such a waste after all.
— Wow, did I ever miss the mark at the end of January when I failed to predict that the majority of Democrats were finally ready to kick their Clinton habit! Rather than Senator Obama’s campaign suffering from too many losses in too many states, it appears that the exact reverse has taken place, and now Hillary faces the need to complete an urgent end-zone bomb to stay in contention. Too bad that more conservative Republicans didn’t rally to Romney sooner and offer to the nation the kind of clear ideological choice that a Barack-vs-Mitt face-off would provide.
— Dadbo once gave us an item of firm advice: never work through a general contractor. He learned that lesson the hard way when he and Mombo built our house on the Shoop Road lot. The truth of his warning was born out last week by my experience with one of our clients who’s completing a new dental office. Due to the construction manager’s faulty information and his cover-my-butt attitude, what could have been a perfectly handsome interior wall treatment will fall short of what we worked to achieve on our client’s behalf. It makes me wonder how many other compromises they were forced to swallow in order to get the doors open on time. But maybe I’m missing the whole point—they did what they needed to do to achieve a massive relocation, with a net gain of significant improvement. What’s wrong with me? Done is better than perfect!
— On Saturday, March 8th, the Community Arts Center will hold its annual benefit and live art auction. According to the Center’s promotional material, the artwork is from some of the area’s top artists, and I can’t disagree with that, even if the list includes your humble correspondent. The online photo gallery offers sneak previews of artwork that will be on the block, and they did a good job of putting together that feature for the Website. The mixed-media collage I donated, Then Sings My Soul, was created nearly a year ago for KOSMOS: Discovery and Disclosure.
— Go back another year to the first March-X and that’s when I helped organize some local cyclists that would form the B.I.K.E. | Boyle County group. On March 11th, the local organization devoted to cleaning up and preserving Clark’s Run (C.R.E.E.C.) will host a community forum that will focus on trails and greenways. B.I.K.E. has not only promoted the idea of safer, more bicycle-friendly streets and roads in Boyle County, but has always hoped to collaborate with community partners as a catalyst for planning a network of shared-use byways and connecting trails.
Yesterday I finished a draft of our comprehensive recommendations to kick-start the development of a community master plan that envisions much more than the construction of a few off-street recreational trails. The process will take leadership, commitment, and years of effort. Available funding will go to the localities which combine a strategic vision with constituent support. It’s a challenging goal, but many places have already done it. Some of you know that from your travels and vacations. Those communities improved the quality of life for their populations and, at the same time, attracted visitors, new residents, and employers. Can we do it here? Stay tuned. Bye, everybody!
For the despondent, every day brings trouble;
for the happy heart, life is a continual feast.
—Proverbs 15:15 (New Living Translation)
The “kk dilemma” plus another March-X
Friday, February 29th, 2008I think I’ve accepted that happiness is not a state, but an event that should be savored each time it occurs. May we all be blessed with many regular occurrences, and learn how to pursue their arrival.
Kyle is right, and probably Caitlan knows it deep within, but part of coming to terms with that eternal “kk dilemma” is understanding that we aren’t called to perfect ourselves with a single endeavor or cycle of accomplishment. It’s more about the will to strive—and the steady commitment to a more difficult path—than it is the measure of any product at intervals along the way.
There’s one thing this graybeard has learned—the key is Balance. But, as I’ve so often stated, “Easier said than done.”
I recall a time in my own studies when I received the second of my two most treasured letters from Dadbo. The first was when I was an adolescent, but this second note was in response to my angst at the tremendous rigor of my undergraduate program. I could dig out the correspondence and include a quotation, but I won’t. In some ways, the message that sticks with me now (and always) remains more profound. He took time to reinforce for me the old wisdom of “all work and no play.” It was a lesson about Balance—a lesson that he was still learning at an age (then) that was a bit less than mine (now). Within a relatively short time, he would suffer his first heart attack. Easier said than done.
Nobody worth listening to will tell us the journey toward balanced self-refinement is an easy one. I’ve had my periods of 60-to-70-hour work weeks, as well as my indulgent—and ultimately pointless—excursions into doubt, fear, and denial. I guess it’s part of the terrain, or it was for me. Sometimes there is no discernible outward difference between compulsive depletion and focused commitment, or between apathetic procrastination and therapeutic relaxation. I hate to admit it, but it’s not always inwardly apparent either, although it usually is. The conscience is rarely fooled. Nevertheless, the intuition of the heart is not always equipped to pinpoint the nature of its discomfort, and can only signal that something doesn’t feel right. We must continue to train our faculties of spirit and intellect to solve the puzzle of personal destiny. And, take it from me—the whole thing can still look like a miserable mess without the proper physical component. It’s quite amazing how a brisk walk, a long bicycle ride, or a mile in the pool can provide a fresh perspective on most troubling situations (not to mention the value of sound nutrition and a good night’s rest).
My mind is running this course in part because I’m using Leap Day to prepare for a third annual March Experiment. I’ve decided to pull away from the online journal to enable a more sustained level of active concentration. Whatever can be temporarily set aside for intensified focus needs to be put on hold during the exercise. I’m beginning to get excited about it, feeling the positive anticipation that comes with diving into the regimen, much like putting on the wet suit for a Lake Huron swim, realizing it will be cold, but concerned more with the determination it will take, after the initial plunge and past the inevitable yelling of an underwater “fuck,” to gain the efficient forward momentum required to cross the channel safely, with no thought for my turning back, because mental defeat is unthinkable—no obstacles exist but the outworn patterns of consciousness.
Nothing is impossible to the man who can will.
—Mirabeau
