Archive for the ‘Angst’ Category

Various & Sundry, part fifty

Friday, April 13th, 2007

— Dana and I had an interesting conference yesterday. We met a guy at a Starbucks in Lexington, unsure about exactly how his role dovetailed with our new project for ftb-automotive. We thought he might be a bedroom Web designer, and he turned out to be a top executive with HOST Communications, one of the most prominent providers of interactive services in Central Kentucky. You never know.

— The Arts Across Kentucky deal came through, and I was able to get a drum-scan of my Band Festival poster art in time to touch it up and forward it on to the magazine for today’s deadline. Dana took time to revise my biographical profile, and it’s almost beginning to sound halfway credible.

— NBC makes episodes of its series available online, so Dana and I just had to watch the season closer for “FNL” that we missed on her birthday. Even though it was inside a little box, and the video was kinda jerky and crude, and I was listening with cheap headphones, the finale choked me up. Peter Berg’s extraordinary show has me totally captivated. Now I’’ll be on edge ’til I find out if it gets picked up for a second year.

— This weekend is David’s scheduled event at the Simpson Range—his .310 Cadet and British Single Shot Sporting Rifle Matches. I’ll be combining some business with pleasure, and it’s certain to be a great time, but I have to admit I’m getting a bit concerned about how many days I have left to prepare for KOSMOS.

V & S

A rowdy rook to augur my fate

Tuesday, March 27th, 2007

March experiment—day twenty-seven— The morning began early, with Bruce needing to start his first Danville dialysis treatment at 6:30 am, but it was already obvious that the March Experiment was on life support. Whether I had it in me to shift from the grueling pace of the Indiana move to my ambitious studio checklist was up in the air. I was just about to declare to myself that the whole thing was “oh-vah,” but then thought I deserved one last effort at re-imposing the exercise, so I picked the most difficult thing I could think of to self-assign—complete my intimidating graphic interpretation of cornetist Vince DiMartino for the Band Festival merchandise. It’s a style of symbolic abstraction that is commonly seen, but often poorly executed. Although I’ve previously pulled it off with reasonable competency, to be honest, it’s a style I’ve never come close to mastering. Nevertheless, I attacked the demanding project, overcoming waves of doubt and discomfort, fighting computer crashes, and dealing with a steady stream of interruptions. And the result? Others will be the judge, but the Experiment is still alive, by Jove!

Today’s sight bite— The enormous black crow, perching high in our “Simon Kenton” maple—c-l-i-c-k—as I wonder if his rhythmic caw is laughter, mocking my insane pursuit, or a series of congratulatory salutes.

Tomorrow— Testing an invigorated schedule and the desire to persevere…

Just your basic inner freak-out

Sunday, March 25th, 2007

Terie, Marty, Dana, and I (plus Walie) travelled together to Indianapolis on Saturday. Bruce had dialysis in the afternoon, but he was home by the time we picked up the box-van rental and arrived as his place. When I saw the condition of the contents in the mobile home, including the state of unreadiness in the bedroom, and the storage shed, too, my mind raced with frantic calculations of time and labor. I struggled with myself to avoid the brink of panic. Inside I was almost like Heston’s Taylor when he cried,

     

“It’s a madhouse!”  
 

     

More wakes to cross

Thursday, March 15th, 2007

March experiment—day fifteen— I was able to take care of my physical fatigue with a good night’s sleep below an open window. I needed to find another way—perhaps not as foolproof—to deal with my mental weariness, and so we watched a DVD that Terie had recommended, Stranger than Fiction. It’s an exceptionally good motion picture and hits rather close to home for me. I’m feeling a bit disappointed about learning that another company is abandoning one of the well-recognized logos we designed in the 90s. On the other hand, I’m happy about Hayley’s honor. The director of our Community Arts Center abruptly resigned, so I’m concerned about how that will effect my scheduled one-man show in May. My dear friend Shirley C sent me an email today with news that her husband’s 48-year-old son died unexpectedly. It’s important for me to transcend these emotional cross-currents and maintain focus on the goals I’ve laid out for this month.

Today’s sight bite— Abstract patterns on the natatorium ceiling pass by—c-l-i-c-k—gliding, drifting, fading above my backstroke—as devoid of meaning as the non-thoughts in my mind.

Tomorrow— Bump the cadence, just like I’ve done when running negative splits in a 5,000-meter race…

Just show up

Wednesday, March 14th, 2007

March experiment—day fourteen— Various difficulties made for a challenging day. No cause for alarm; I just don’t have the energy to write about it tonight. On top of that, I’ve been worrying more than a bit about the quality of some of my ideas, and—wouldn’t you know it—I encounter this statement from one of the most successful artists of my lifetime…

“Inspiration is for amateurs; the rest of us just show up and work.”

Chuck Close

And I think it’s gonna be alright

Sunday, March 11th, 2007

March experiment—day eleven— After we got home last night from our enjoyable date, I discovered a “giganto” wood box by the garage, plus a message from Joan on our machine. Joe definitely had an eye for cool boxes. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm for their potential to be exploited artistically was not matched by the ability to accomplish everything I set out for myself this weekend. I won’t go into the reasons, but most of them can be cured by adequate rest and some mid-course corrections in my goal setting. A possible analogy could be, “My eyes are too big for my stomach,” if you follow me, but I’m not sure it fits. There’s something to be said for avoiding late-night analysis. I’m giving this my best effort, so I’ll take a fresh look at my game plan in the morning. Too easy for thoughts to turn negative when on the brink of exhaustion.

Today’s sight bite— As we travel east on Lancaster road toward Mack’s cabin, a fiery orb burns through the horizon—c-l-i-c-k—with the realization that I would’ve missed a spectacular image without the clock change that I’d just been belly-aching about.

Tomorrow— A top-to-bottom evaluation should provide opportunities for creative synthesis…

Just keep moving and don’t fret

Tuesday, March 6th, 2007

March experiment—day six— Good grief. I think I’m complicating this too much. Isn’t it just a matter of how hard I crank the pedals?

Before
enlightenment,
chop wood
and carry water.

After
enlightenment,
chop wood
and carry water.

Wu Li

Awareness of the drift

Monday, March 5th, 2007

March experiment—day five— After a Sunday break, I struggle to dominate the desired level of focus at the heart of the exercise. Rest is important, but I shouldn’t have to learn all of last year’s lessons over again. I’m not happy about my productivity today, but I’d best not stress about it. Perhaps there’s something important to learn about maintaining the essential inner momentum, even when the outer goings-on don’t match the prescribed agenda—for example, this morning’s distractions with a plumber down the hall, and my unforeseen but necessary email replies. Tonight’s Mozart at Newlin Hall is not on my checklist either, but if I’m receptive, it may prove more inspiring than a full box of collage scrap.

Today’s sight bite— Ancient trees in McDowell Park—c-l-i-c-k—engraved by sunrise against a blue sky.

Tomorrow— Making up for a bit of lost time…

A yesterday of mixed emotions

Tuesday, February 27th, 2007

Last evening, just as I was preparing to depart for a key presentation to the Danville City Commission, Dana was coming up the stairs and hurt the knee she’s been carefully nursing for a month or more. It was weird to leave the house with her sitting on the floor, the painful joint bundled in ice packs.

In my remarks, I provided a formal introduction to B.I.K.E. | Boyle County and our organization’s purpose and priorities. This was the fourth meeting of the newly composed city government. My friends Bill S and Dave A followed, summarizing our infrastructure recommendations and the diverse benefits of creating a bicycle-friendly community. The Commission voted unanimously to approve the “Safe Routes to School” grant application that we developed in collaboration with the city manager. As we approach the first anniversary of our local group, it was a great milestone for our pro-cycling advocacy.

When I got home I realized that Dana’s injury had taken a turn for the worse, so we decided to listen to Hayley’s tournament game on the radio instead of traveling to Garrard County. The Lady Rebels crushed cross-town rival Danville, with our amazing Belle putting the game out of reach in the second quarter (after a slow start). She ended up scoring 25 points, with a strong free-throw percentage.

Dana is heading down to Campbellsville with Terie to see Jerome this morning, and I’m praying for the best diagnosis. Whatever happens, she’ll be dedicating herself to a natural recovery, and I’ll do everything I can to help out along the way.

Oldenday XI

Tuesday, February 20th, 2007

Early childhood accumulation is the most authentic form of collecting—that first little box or drawer with trinkets to stimulate the bud of imagination. Certain special shards of quartz from your “rock store” just couldn’t be carelessly tossed back into the driveway gravel, could they? When it came to postcards or match-packs, adults would facilitate, but most likely it wasn’t their idea at the outset. Not all children collect, but for many of us, the desire was innate. What was it about that hoard of popsicle sticks or milk-jug caps that gave us a tingle of satisfaction? It was only a small step of forward progress to coins, stamps, baseball cards, books, antique tools, vintage toys, etcetera. Or was it the opposite of progress? Some types of collections made you feel “big,” but now I am, and everywhere in the world of grownups are admonishments to clean up the mess, downsize, and banish your clutter. I caught a few minutes of Dr. Phil the other day, apparently a whole program about the dysfunctional pack-rat, in which the message was unequivocal—needing to keep all that junk is the latest fear-based personality disorder.

Well, maybe it is, but I was happy to recently discover the other side of the spectrum with In Flagrante Collecto, Professor Marilynn Gelfman Karp’s fascinating, richly illustrated treatise on our essential impulse to acquire—the rare, the strange, the unsung, and the incidental. How, as a life-long collector, she’s found the ability to survey the topic with such intelligent objectivity is quite remarkable to me. She defines six shared traits among all collectors:

1) Unquestionable Dominion • the total mastery of your self-defined territory.

2) Hands-On Gratification • the satisfying communion with your booty.

3) Empowerment by Delimitation • the boundaries and criteria of allowable desire.

4) Hunting and Gathering • the fulfillment of discernment plus the exhilaration of the quest.

5) Possession • the self-affirming ownership of historical era by osmosis.

6) Husbanding and Transference of Characteristics • the salient attributes of the collection which accrue to the collector.

Her bottom-line assessment is that “loving the unloved is the purest state of collecting from which all collectors’ motives may be deduced. An object of material culture is any object that a person deems worthy of collecting.”

I suppose most of us who face piles of stuff fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum between connoisseur and cripple. So the question remains—what do I do with all of it? Much has no intrinsic value and begs to be pitched (if it isn’t actually begging, then my patient mate surely is). To me, it’s an archival record of what has appealed to heart, head, and hand throughout my life. Ah, precisely… there’s the source of its abiding interest to me. It represents the creative opportunity to organize, process, synthesize, repurpose, and present to others a “culminating artifact” that maybe, just maybe, will achieve some level of extrinsic value greater than its inherent nature as a sum of overlooked ingredient elements.

Will that make it art? It’s worth a try…

Olden…

Not the way I’ve been wired— caution required

Wednesday, February 14th, 2007

Yesterday my favorite big sis had her birthday, and I won’t comment about whether I think she’s officially “pushin’ 60” or not, but I need to confess that one of my hand-made greeting cards was not among her collection this year.

When I made the decision to cut back the activity at John’s HAUS of CARDS, I figured I’d still be making my originals for family, but the redeployment of my creative resources has decimated the old HAUS far more than I ever expected, and I miss that time spent meditating on my loved ones. I haven’t found a happy medium yet, but I must, because I’ve always refused to do store-bought cards. I can’t start now—not at my age…

Of course, this is a nontrivial matter. An artist can take many paths, and most of them will cross minefields of egocentricity. I’ll need to be on guard as I make my shift from a gift orientation to this new focus on personal artistic goals. I believe it will all balance out over time, but there are sure to be some pitfalls ahead. What appeals to me about the “Layerist Premise” is the emphasis on connectedness and a holistic perspective. Much of the art in my life has been in service to a specific recipient or client. I must take the positive aspects of that motivational framework and merge them with an effort to evolve my own voice, to avoid the undesirable side effects of self-absorption so prevalent in the world of art.

Hey, enough of that— My valentine sweetie awaits!

: : : : Why must I read this stuff? : : : :

Friday, January 19th, 2007

I think I understand why writers must write. It’s really no different than why sketchers must draw or why dancers must move, but why do we read? Why do we engage in this intensely self-centered activity with books? And what’s even more perplexing to me is why our society seems to exalt this particular kind of internal isolation, because, for the most part, it raises a collective eyebrow at meditators or deep, introspective thinkers. It wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable to spend much time playing golf by yourself, or going to movies by yourself, or drinking by yourself (certainly not), but almost all of us feel differently about reading.

My friend Danny would say we must read to train and develop the mind—to understand influences and work backward to the early sources, the original premises.

My “big sissy” is a librarian, so I asked her, and she said that reading makes us a more interesting person—reading may be solitary, but it’s not inherently selfish.

Watkins, Wolfe, Hammett, Hemingway, Twain . . . Why do I read their fiction? What am I looking for?

Every so often, I find myself listening to the lyrics of Eric, a talented friend. He writes:


You can seek your life to find
Answers that satisfy your mind,
But Jesus spared your life by giving his,
And, Brother— That’s all there is.

Cross dog

Wednesday, August 30th, 2006

We keep death close by—in our literature, art, news, and entertainment… perhaps most of all, in our humor. We tame it, sterilize it, and box it, so we can sprinkle it like black pepper for a bit of “zing” on the tongue each day. Death is like fire—interesting to watch in a fireplace, safe and familiar at the tip of a waxy stem, but when it decides to run its own course, it can be frightening and devastating, quickly rendering almost anything hideously unrecognizable. When it slips its leash, death’s bite is excruciating, and the pain lasts a very long time.

Martin joined the Wednesday bike ride tonight, and I heard myself utter the typically hollow words of sympathy. It seemed like I was watching myself do it; it was not much different than watching others do the same thing… mouths moving without any words reaching my ears. I found out more information than I really needed to know about his son’s tragic accident at Red River Gorge, but human nature has a perverse way of investigating details when a friend is mourning… God knows why.

Leave it to me to have made unwarranted assumptions about the circumstances, imagining a noble, athletic demise. Leave it to grim reality to assemble a colder, inexplicable scenario. This is how death operates outside of its package. This is what death is like on the other side of the illusory boundary we convince ourselves will contain it, for our insatiable fascination and amusement.

We can be such fools… and we know we are.

The sour and the sweetness

Friday, August 25th, 2006

Even though Dana made me blueberry pancakes this morning, we almost quarreled about the upcoming pirate gig. I realized later that it really had nothing to do with that. I was upset about continuing problems with my Mac G4. Make no mistake about it, Apple Computer has manufactured at least one miserably poor product, and it happens to be sitting on my desk.

A more enjoyable thing was taking what I learned in Kathleen’s studio yesterday and starting work on Florence and Bill’s 50th Anniversary collage. However, the best part of my day was finding out that Fron had already string-trimmed the gully at the Clan graveyard. I was shocked to discover that it was finished, and all I had to do was mow the grass in the orchard. And then he filled my box with tomatoes again. I definitely like this guy…

My brother, my mate, and my true friends

Wednesday, August 16th, 2006

Last night I stayed in Tipp City with my chum Bill and we enjoyed our shared anticipation for a September fishing trip to Michigan. Even though I failed to reach him by phone and he was bone tired from a day in the sun (after clearing fallen trees from the Great Miami with a chain saw), he welcomed me with a bear hug and set his last Bud Light in front of me—that’s what I call a friend.

It took me ten hours to get home from Ohio today. The joint in my rear drive shaft broke south of Kenton County, but I was able to arrange a tow and successful repair before the end of the day. I felt like I’d sweated off a couple gallons, baking on the shoulder of I-75. It was almost the exact spot where years ago a state policeman pulled me over after the Cincinnati Marathon to test my sobriety. Old “Ned” continues to give me fits if I don’t keep spending money on him that I’d rather not. I’m glad this didn’t happen yesterday with Mike.

Crucial to getting out of my predicament: 1) Dana insisting on Monday that I carry a cellular phone. 2) Being able to talk through the details of the breakdown with my brother Jay, an expert truck mechanic. I was so focused on his long-distance analysis and advice that I completely forgot that today is his 45th birthday.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my brother, “Bub.” I love you, forever…

Sitting for a long time at a garage in what barely passes as a “waiting room” can be a strange experience. I watched part of a “Gunsmoke” episode featuring Anthony Zerbe playing opposite himself in a split-screen double role, but my mind was on a personal crisis more critical than a broken pickup. I thought about the counsel of my best friends from youth. Each has his own brand of wisdom, having survived his own chapters of adversity. Both genuinely care about the particular challenges it’s my turn to face.

Dadbo once said to me after his buddy Joe died that a man is lucky to have one or two true friends in life, and now I know what he meant.

Scholars and Palsies

Friday, July 28th, 2006

It might have been one of those ideal days, had I not left up in the air my potential plans to attend a rifle match with David. Eventually the uncertainties seemed to resolve themselves by default, and I was able to focus my creative attention on preparing artwork for the Layerist exhibition scheduled this autumn in Lexington. At lunch there was an enjoyable Rotary program with bright, bubbly representatives from the “graduating” GSP class. Tonight we had a delightful dinner with Joan—lamb chops, sweet corn, plus Fron’s tomatoes with basil and cheese. To that we added red wine, soy yogurt over mixed berries, and good conversation about how our families ate when we were all kids.

A memorable year for the most awesome annual athletic competition

Monday, July 24th, 2006

After being home from our trip some 36 hours or so, I finally found my house keys. One of those quantum warps in space or existential blind spots, I suppose. I was miffed to the point of near obsession, but discovered them at last, in a place I’d already searched three times. Madness…

I’ve also had an unsettled feeling all morning, wondering if maybe there was a Clan gathering yesterday that we missed. Nobody told us if the Council had been rescheduled or not, due to the cancelation of the Seitz family reunion. We got back pretty early Sunday morning and didn’t have much energy yesterday, but we would have made the effort to attend. I guess I should have inquired, but didn’t think of it until I found myself in the midst of a restless sleep.

I said I’d record some notes about the Tour de France, which could not have offered more interest to bicycle fans this year. Floyd Landis won the race after being declared out of contention, pulling off one of the greatest comebacks in sport so far this century. His Alpine performance on Thursday bordered on the superhuman, and he left no doubters concerning his place as Lance’s rightful successor.

When he first started to compete as a cyclist, my pal Brian (who gave me a nice pair of his pedals earlier this year) used to race against Landis, the Mountain Bike Cross Country National Champion at the time. In a recent article about the Tour, several of us local cyclists were asked to make a prediction about who would win the event. I hedged my bets, and the Advocate Messenger printed this quotation from me:

“With Armstrong’s top four challengers from 2005 out of the picture, predicting the victor this year will be harder than picking the winner of a Kentucky Derby. Team Gerolsteiner’s Levi Leipheimer, from the United States, may be the man to beat, but it’s hard not to like the chances of Aussie Cadel Evans or Phonak’s Floyd Landis, another American. However, my hopes are with one of the Discovery Channel cyclists—Ukrainian Yaroslav Popovych, Italian Paolo Savoldelli, or, if I had to pick a favorite, American George Hincapie. This is a team that knows how to produce a champion.”

In contrast, Brian didn’t beat around the bush, and he placed a single public bet on Floyd Landis with his own statement to the same reporter. It was a great call, the same kind of smart, gutsy, no-fear attitude he shows the rest of us every week, and that’s what it takes to be a competitor on two wheels.

The Bastille aflame

Friday, July 14th, 2006

Not too many things make me angry, but I must say that I hate to misplace things, and looking for a missing item is a fast track to the loss of harmony as well. I truly hate the entire dynamic, and it goes to the heart of my quirks about organization and a personal relationship with “stuff.”

Before long, we’ll complete our final preparations and leave for Michigan. If we can survive the packing.

It must not matter if you’re famous or anonymous, nor whether you have the means to buy almost anything once you arrive at a destination, there’s still something about packing for a trip that generates tension and the potential for conflict. When you add to that the frustration of locating misplaced items, the combination can be rather combustible.

Charlton Heston thought enough about this volatile phenomenon to include some observations in his excellent collection of journal entries called “The Actor’s Life.” He wrote about various pre-departure blow-ups. Later, he records that he and Lydia finally came to a workable resolution—henceforth, he would play no part at all in packing.

He never mentions it again.

On this point alone, Chuck is more man than I shall ever be.

Pulling thistles in the emotional weed bed

Tuesday, June 27th, 2006

I spent a good portion of today and yesterday cleaning out and organizing our stash of project files and “job jackets,” and I think I’ve hit on a key reason I’m so averse to throwing out personal papers and old records of past work. It must have something to do with a resistance to stirring up dormant feelings. To toss is to toss, but to conscientiously purge files while retaining only that which is valuable means reliving the emotional experiences, to some degree, both pleasant and unpleasant. For me, accepting this sheds light on another aspect of throwing things away—overcoming the apprehension of making a mistake or misjudgment, and inviting future emotions of loss or regret.

Some of this is downright crazy—rekindled emotions tied up with worries about emotions yet to come—and I can see why others just turn off the scrutiny and pitch away. There has to be a balance between the two forms of mild madness. One must not dread feelings from the past nor carry a fear of feelings yet to come, for both impinge on the equilibrium of the present. The past doesn’t exist, and the future is forever unreal. All we ever possess is the present. The continuous now is our only laboratory for the mastering of time and space.

Time… I’m spending it with my rubbish!

Space… I need more of it! Now!

Humbug

Sunday, June 18th, 2006

Well, at least I’m not orbiting the planet, trying to reboot the operating system in pitch blackness so I won’t die…

Relentless Modernity Holds Sway

Thursday, June 15th, 2006

Computer problems. Bah! Humbug!

Who built this kingdom of Babel?

I don’t have the developer’s disposition. For them, every glitch, bug, or snafu is a stimulus to enthusiasm, something new and challenging to solve. If I were the Maytag repairman, I’d be content to daydream my way through each blissful day.

“For every improvement there’s a commensurate level of frustration and confusion… With our intellectual assets more and more dependent on the Web, on networked computers, we seem as vulnerable as ever. Call this a pragmatist’s view of progress: All things change but our life experience remains essentially the same; everywhere there are new problems.”

Dale Dougherty wrote that in 1998, and it remains as true as ever.

The Rune Man Appraisal

Wednesday, May 31st, 2006

It’s happened a second time within eight weeks—more property dumped in the gap between the Town House and the building on the corner next door (this time a pile of antique silverware). While I was waiting at the police department, a nervous guy with extensive rune-like tattoos started a conversation. I think he might have been a crime victim and it looked like he was there to turn in a list of stolen items. He was telling me now crazy a place this was, a conclusion he’d formed after living here a month.

“People do meth. I’ve never even seen meth. They snort it at work. People drink and drive all the time. I don’t even drink. I’m from New York. This place is crazy. It’s like it’s a no-consequences town or something. If you get caught drinking and driving in New York, you don’t get your license back. Not like here, with multiple offenses before they do anything. It’s crazy.”

I didn’t know what to say. How bad will it have to get in Kentucky before we experience the kind of enforcement crack-downs that have already taken place in other areas of the country? How bad will it have to get in Danville?