Yesterday my gray matter felt like a gooey mollusk, but today it’s firing in hypermode, typical of the period leading up to an Indy departure.
I sincerely look forward to seeing Bruce, while at the same time admitting that I detest almost everything else about these trips.
Months of low-grade tension and uncertainty have taken a toll. My standard methods for stress reduction and mental refreshment seem inadequate, and I find myself saying things to others without knowing why. It’s difficult to concentrate—more difficult to be creative. Even so, there’s no choice but to buckle down and get through it. Trouble is, I’m not sure what “it” is…
I’m back here in 4 6 2 O 1 .
After crossing my fingers so hard I injured a hand, the state of my Macintosh troubleshooting took its most catastrophic turn, forcing us to buy a new computer we weren’t prepared to purchase.
Well, sometimes you just have to shift into survival mode and let the future take care of itself…
Dana and I drove to Indianapolis after the reunion so we could spend time with Bruce. Some anonymous medical genius had him so sedated he could barely keep his eyes open. They load him up with drugs and then stop in and ask him if he’s feeling depressed. Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? On our lunch break we walked along the canal, visited the Indiana History Center, and looked at some Bodmer lithographs and 1860 watercolors of Old Richmond. By the time I’d stopped in the Cole Porter room to see the Hirschfelds and play a couple tunes on the Wurlitzer, I felt somewhat better, although I took out my residual frustration on a nurse by insisting Bruce get some plain yogurt instead of the version with artificial sweetener, which gives him a headache (no problem, we have drugs for that, too). I’m certain everyone’s glad when the grouchy step-dad leaves.
Perhaps this private torture chamber of uncertainty in which I currently dwell—what I hope soon to call my studio again—is meant to be a mere taste of of what Bruce has inhabited for so many months.
God doesn’t work in just mysterious ways. He surely invented the bizarre as well.
Have mercy…
Don’t even ask…
Our Macintosh instability was back with a vengeance today. With everything that’s taken a toll on our studio over the past six months, we can do without these maddening disruptions. I’m still trying to deduce my way out of it, fully aware of how dangerous that scenario can be. After hours of frustration I felt like I needed to either go run or find a Texas Margarita. (For the inquiring fans of Uncle John—he chose wisely.)
…an entire day spent waging war against the inexplicable perplexities of technological limbo, and the sad thing is I don’t know if I’m winning, losing, or perpetuating a stalemate. I used to hate those days I spent cleaning out Rapidograph penpoints and scraping wax off the underneath side of my Mayline, but that was paradise compared to the slow torture of troubleshooting a stubborn machine that’s gripping my throat like Vaporware.
Biked out to Mack’s Cabin to hear Milton’s remarks about the “intelligent-design-vs-evolution” argument. My hip didn’t feel too tender. Dana and I spent most of the day at Simpson Farm relaxing with our friends, but the Macintosh Panic was hanging over my head throughout the visit. Why is it that my storytelling ability degrades dramatically whenever I realize I’m “telling a story?”
Today had its ups and downs. I finished a 5-to-6-mile run to Millennium Park and back with a very sore hip (the downfall of Cap’n Lice haunts my soul, too.) I was impressed with Rita’s excellent photographic coverage of our Piratical Blowout earlier this month when Joan shared the CD with us while she and Mombo visited the studio. I was then dismayed to learn of my mother’s worsening muscular ailment. There’s a lot she can do from a dietary standpoint that will help her feel better, and I believe she’s prepared to make the commitment. Nevertheless, we still had an upbeat time at the new Hub Coffee Shop in downtown Danville. On our way out we saw Tony H on the street and he asked about Brendan. After we got home and settled back into the studio, we had a major computer malfunction, as bad as the setback that hit us last winter.
Ian is heading out West. It will be an adventure.
How do I know it will be an adventure?
Because Ian is heading out West.
I remember the exact day that Ian turned cool. It was the same day my brother Jerome got married. I don’t recall the year, but during the wedding reception there was a precise moment when Ian turned unmistakably cool. Most likely he’d already been semi-cool for a long time.
I remember reading Ian’s blog for quite a while, but I guess it hurt too much, so I stopped. It made me think a lot about the painful stuff I couldn’t write down at his age. I hadn’t learned yet how to use my journal to transmute all that torment. I chose to do stupid stuff instead. It was a time when young people did a lot of stupid stuff. Maybe it was more like today than I recognize. Maybe not.
I also remember the time when another of my brothers decided to create a new nickname for Ian. James tried to get people to say “Largian.” It didn’t stick. Lot’s of things never stuck to Ian.
Good luck, my nephew.
Be safe. Have fun.
Something hasn’t felt right about the situation with Bruce, especially after having to avert his precipitous transfer to an inferior convalescent facility. When the harsh economics of modern health care kick in, sanity seems to drain away rapidly. After an enlightening (and fortuitous) conversation with Audrey, it’s my firm opinion that he needs hospital-based rehabilitation with aggressive physical therapy, while preserving high-level continuity of care. My viewpoint hardened last night when his potassium level spiked dangerously and the nephrologist ordered emergency dialysis, personally wheeling his bed out of the room. Dana has been persistent in her role as protector, but I see signs of a deep weariness. I must say that Bruce’s wife Pam has come through admirably as a forceful advocate of common sense over the past few days. Way to go! Let’s get some mileage out of that personality, Toots…
Website Makeover™ Man has hardly shown himself in days, making a brief appearance at a wedding in his secret identity, but otherwise he’s kept to his upper sanctum.
Website Makeover™ Man is struggling. He doesn’t want to turn to the dark side…
— Month of May workout totals: Swim-6; Bike-0; Run-2; Lift-0.
— I won’t even try to elaborate on the sad state of my fitness program. At least I continue to swim, although I need to boost that monthly total to a minimum of eight workouts. On the bright side, I had a decent session yesterday and was only a second off my all-time fastest 4-lap sprint. Now, when am I going to get back on my bike?
— In the past 24 hours or so, my niece Caitlan (sister of
Brendan) successfully winged her way to Europe. Her mom’s advice: “Have the time of your life!” I’ll second that motion.
— I spoke to Josh Sunday when he called during the Clan gathering. I really didn’t know what to say to him. I’m terrible on the phone in those situations. Always have been, I guess. We talked a little about his current assignment, until he goes back out on the road, and whether his area was in danger of any mortar attacks. I told him how much I support what he’s doing, but it didn’t sound as strong as I feel about it. You know, if I had to make my log entries with a telephone I’d never do it. I’d just scrap
this whole thing.
— Bruce has dodged another bullet, enabling him to fight onward toward the day he gets to go home. Frankly, I don’t know what a home life is going to be like for him when it’s restored, but I’m certain he looks forward to it with an abiding desire that provides a strong source of fortitude. I’m aware that I haven’t mentioned his wife much in this log. Perhaps I’m not confident enough in my own kindness to put thoughts in writing. At this point I’ll just describe a funny New Yorker cartoon that seems apropos: A man is lying in a hospital bed, appearing totally down and out. Tubes, cords, and medical technology are everywhere. A doctor with a somewhat forlorn expression is standing beside a woman dressed in pearls and a fur wrap. Her expression is one of exasperation. She says, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
Mombo seemed surprised to see me shooting with the digital camera at Eagle Nest. I suppose she’s gotten used to that 33-year-old Nikkormat FTn in front of my face. I enjoy the immediacy of digital, but haven’t shaken the nagging discomfort of feeling myself slip away from negative film. Polish cinematographer Janusz Kaminski (longtime Spielberg collaborator finishing up “War of the Worlds”) has his own more influential misgivings. He worries about “our ability to preserve history photographically,” and about “creating people who accept visually inferior images as the norm.” For me the economics are forcing a reluctant shift, so I should heed his concerns, maintaining a bank of quality images and making sure they outlive me. If “digital is degrading our aesthetics,” as Kaminski fears, there’s nothing I can do about it. I think it was already happening long before this particular development (probably began with the decline of the Arts & Crafts movement). However, I can refuse to give up my desire to document my family in a way that perhaps no one else in my generation is suited to achieve.
Missed my Saturday dawn run again, to which I paid religious adherence for years. The last time I was this out of shape I attended local races as a spectator and put together a photo essay
for friends.
Now that I think about it, I wasn’t nearly this out of shape.
Sigh…
Got to thinking about Mission: Impossible, the classic series, the cool revival, and the prospect of a respectable Cruise feature at last (third time a charm?). Started surfing around and was stunned to learn that Tony Hamilton died ten years ago. I had no idea! He played Max in the 80s and worked “until his death from complications due to the AIDS virus in March of 1995.” I get really sad when one of my many favorite TV players passes on. Mission’88 should never have been cancelled. The network refused to give it a decent time slot and then leave it alone. It was better than most of what was on the tube at the time, and the Australian locations were fresh. Oh well, here are some other good shows that should’ve been given a better chance to stay on the air: The Yellow Rose (1983), Mancuso, FBI (1989), Ned Blessing: The Story of My Life and Times (1993), The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. (1993), The Byrds of Paradise (1994), and High Incident (1996).
I spent the day with exterminators (don’t even ask!) and felt my livelihood slide one more notch toward crisis. All I want to do is watch “Alias” and “Eyes,” back to back (the two most entertaining dramas on network television, due to Ron Rifkin and Tim Daly).
I knew I’d been spending a lot of time at Methodist Hospital when too many people looked familiar. That was about two and half weeks ago. I saw a lady in the hall today, walking in the opposite direction. It didn’t surprise me to recognize her as one of the cashiers from the cafeteria, but I freaked myself out when I realized I knew her name. Good Lord… Bruce has been in there over five weeks.
I haven’t been sure if I had any more “olden” entries in me, for now (because they might be something cathartic related to the past 4-5 weeks), but then I went to my Rotary lunch meeting today and heard a performance of the Boyle County Chamber Singers. These highschoolers are tackling Mozart’s Requiem and other pieces that would be considered advanced at the college level. To think that there are youngsters today with this kind of access to high-quality fine arts instruction at a local public school… well, it just might get me musing again about my own dearth of artistic mentorship and stir a few dying embers of resentment for your amusement.
I regret that I didn’t pursue animation. Yeah, I know, it’s not fashionable to have regrets. I suppose there are self-actualized individuals who’ve genuinely reached the point of “no regrets,” but I reckon that with most people who purport to have no regrets, the claim is wishful horseshit. You have regrets when you fail to go after a skill or livelihood that necessitates beginning when you’re still young. For me it’s sailing, horseback riding, martial arts, and animation. Don’t get me wrong; it’s never too late to start doing anything you’re passionate about, but you have to face the fact that there are certain things that require a lifetime to get good at. Now I admit it’s true that Yukio Mishima didn’t start to train in the martial arts until he was 40, and still became a kendo adept, but he also flipped out and disemboweled himself in public, so I don’t think I’ll suggest him as a role model. There have been rare exceptions among artists (like Grandma Moses? Who else?), but the fact is I made choices that removed me from the world of animation, even though I’d art-directed a corporate animation for Rand-McNally at the age of 24 and had come to the attention of Chicago’s top animator. It’s not complicated—I out-smarted myself and stopped animating, just like Dadbo decided to become an engineer instead of pursuing veterinary medicine. Regrets don’t have to be debilitating, but most likely there will be something you’ll abandon and wish later you hadn’t. Just make sure it isn’t one of the “big things.” Never turn away from your true passions. So… I can’t sail, cycling is the closest I get to real riding, I’m still an Aikido white belt, and I’ve learned to live without animation, even though I still dream of having gotten rather good at it. I contemplate taking the time to study Tex Avery, Jay Ward, the TerryToons, and all the classic cartoon arts or immerse myself in the works of Jordan Belson, Saul Bass, or Hayao Miyazaki. Fortunately I still hold on to my greatest touchstone. I continue to draw with my own hand…
Bruce was able to get on his feet with some help from the nurses today. He also spoke a few words to his mother on the phone. As he improves, many issues are presenting themselves, such as when will the system determine that he should be released, where will he go, and how will he receive the care that he’s not yet ready to provide himself? These are not simple matters, as they might be for someone who has full insurance coverage. Regular dialysis must now be factored in, including the ongoing logistics. A new set of stressful challenges are at hand, but they’re mild when compared to those of last week.