Lately it seems as though the more I try to get physically organized, the greater the resulting mess.
I’m sure she wouldn’t be pleased to learn this, but all I have to do to feel considerably less overwhelmed with my own clutter is to witness firsthand what my “Big Sis” is dealing with at her two unfinished properties…
Garrison Keillor informs us that when the E-RI-E was a-rising, the gin was getting low, and so after all these years I now become aware that we’d been listening to a version of the folk song sanitized for children… Or that’s what I’m thinking, but James and I never did find the old record at the Blue Bank Hall today, and none of us could remember the lyrics that left out the reference to booze. I always figured those poor canal boaters ran out of water.
The “Etch A Sketch” came easier to me than it did to most, but I never dreamed of doing work like this guy. Joan sent me the link to his site.
I suppose I’ve always had fairly decent eye-hand coordination. My sax fingering wasn’t that good, though; it had to do with rarely practicing, in addition to being able to blow on a reed, which I always detested at some fundamental level. Actually, I could have been a great bulldozer driver, or operated one of those tall cranes they use to build a skyscraper. Maybe I could even fly one of those Predator UAVs… Video games? You better believe I could do that, but I’ve never really allowed myself more than a dabble with Marty now and then. For me, doing more than that would be about as wise as trying rock cocaine.
I spoke to Chris P on the phone today and confirmed our reservation for the hilltop mobile home at Barefoot’s Resort this month. It’s ours from the 15th to the following Saturday morning. He said they’re having the best fishing season in over ten years. Lots of yellow perch and northern pike. Marty needs to pick out one of Joe Wood’s fishing poles for the trip. Joan was kind enough to offer him one a while back.
It’s clear that the cormorant control measures are finally kicking in, and the news is exciting. To restore the natural fishing pattern of the Les Cheneaux is the ultimate goal. As much as I love fishing for king salmon in the U.P., one has to recognize that the Michigan resource managers stocked those waters with salmon in response to the dwindling number of indigenous species. It’s only too obvious now that the introduction of non-native water fowl caused a devastating ecological imbalance that’s only now being successfully mitigated.
Conditions could hardly have been better on the second day of July for our bike ride early this morning. A 35-miler took us down through Moreland and out Black Pike, past where my brother Jay and his family used to live. Hustonville was quiet as a ghost town when we pedaled through, a perfect spot for our turnaround point. My pal Elisabeth was amused about winning the women’s division at the 5k in Stanford yesterday. She’s trying to figure out what to do with the huge trophy she was not expecting to bring home. A NYC artist who spends her summers in Lincoln County, she does quite a bit of running and cycling during her stays in Kentucky. She turns 50 later this year, and a good indication of her high fitness level is that I take ample satisfaction in ever being able to stay up with her on the road. When I asked her if she knew any sculptors, she laughed and said, “Lots!”
— Month of June workout totals: Swim-2; Bike-12; Run-1; Lift-5; Yoga-2
— All the other training took a back seat to my cycling this month, as I push to regain the conditioning I lost during 2005. The Tour started in France today without Armstrong, who, at age 35, is preparing to run the New York City Marathon. At age 36, Agassi played his final match at Wimbledon today. With all the talk of aging, legendary athletes, it’s interesting to note that both men are still in the acknowledged target zone for an endurance event like the triathlon. I don’t expect Agassi to do more than settle into his role as a retired tennis superstar after his U.S. Open appearance in New York, but I think Lance might be a very different story. If he demonstrates the ability to run an impressive 26.2-miler in his own New York performance a month later, just watch—and you read it here—for him to set his sights on the
Iron Man competition. How much time could he spot his opponents in the water before devastating the field on a bicycle and then finish strong with a marathon run? It’s interesting to contemplate. He won’t do it for sport. He’ll do it as a cancer fighter, and what better way to keep his cause before a world audience?
— As I continue to look for my next major novel, my bedtime reading jumps back and forth between Isaac Asimov and Ernest Hemingway. If you don’t think that’s a bit strange, you should try it some time. They do have one thing in common, however. When I’m reading either one, I’m struck by how profound an influence they appear to have had on succeeding generations of writers. Every creative person is influenced by those who come before, but few of us can push beyond the derivative and craft something new for others to emulate.
— I completed a proof of my “Bridget” comic this afternoon. I had a hard time convincing myself that it was finished, so I stopped and compared notes with Brendan. I was able to achieve the rough, sketchy look I desired, but some areas of the artwork still need refinement. Once I got past the storyboarding phase, which was genuinely challenging for me, I found deep satisfaction executing the drawing itself. No doubt I could get rather good at this if I tried it more that once or twice a year. I don’t expect to be getting urgent calls from Kazu Kibuishi any time soon, but I was very happy to learn that Brendan thought my effort looked “fantastic.”
I’m creating an illustrated version of Bridget this evening—as I promised… with a deadline glancing over my shoulder—as I hoped to avoid. My artwork needs to do justice to the story, and I know I’m fully capable of that.
Suddenly, cartooning is much more difficult for me than I remember it.
My mom and sister stopped by today to say hi and chat. All of us agreed that we need to take a vacation together, so we can just talk. I found out that Mombo has writings on her desktop that she hasn’t gotten around to posting. We need those MEMORIES!
• He overcame his childhood learning challenges to become the most highly educated and professionally accomplished member of the family—a Clan Treasure.
• Compassionate, open-minded, tireless, inquisitive—all the qualities one would hope for in a physician.
• More than a superb clinician, he’s truly earned the descriptive term of healer.
• Many call him friend—I’ve never seen a person more naturally comfortable in the role—and a generous one he is.
• He selected his mate as carefully as he picked his vocation. He chose both wisely. And now he investigates the responsibility of fatherhood with the same sincere, prayerful, conscientious approach.
• He could have given up. He could have carried hatred. He forgave instead, and unlocked the door to a lifetime of victories.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my “kid” brother. I love you, forever…
The pro-cycling community action group I helped organize raised its profile with a front-page story in Danville’s Advocate Messenger. In the print edition they used a quotation box with my cropped face. Dana thinks the expression looks “sour.” It wasn’t something over which I had much control, but I probably need to learn to smile more.
Most of what’s happening to make Kentucky more bicycle friendly is gaining momentum in the major metropolitan areas. It’s driven by municipal leaders and professional coordinators. That’s not true elsewhere in the state, and there needs to be a mechanism for harnessing the enthusiasm of local volunteers to promote shared byways and stimulate the planning, funding, and creation of bikeways, bike lanes, and multi-use trails.
B.I.K.E. | Boyle County may prove to be an effective model for smaller population centers and rural counties, but first we need to achieve something significant here at home.
Such a full yesterday resulted in a slow start today. Nic stopped by with a (god)Father’s Day gift—a bright orange Auburn University College of Veterinary Medicine t-shirt.
I had high hopes that by this evening I could achieve a breakthrough and get past my computer woes, but no luck so far. I can understand hurdles when trying to do something complicated, but failure after failure when trying to do the simplest kinds of setup installations has me totally confounded.
I’ll keep trying…
Rotary Club was unusually interesting today. I was called upon to make an spontaneous appeal in support of The Salvation Army Summer Camp program. Then we heard from a hometown gal who’s taking Pioneer Playhouse by storm this summer, and that got me thinking about my young chum Andrew. Holly Henson, daughter of the Playhouse founder, gave her pitch about next year’s Raintree County 50th Anniversary Festival. She made us realize that in 1956, it was the most expensive domestic motion picture ever made, and that 40% of it was shot in and around Danville/Boyle County. She made what I thought was an amusing remark— “What if 50 years later everyone had forgotten that the movie Titanic was filmed at Herrington Lake?” Later in the afternoon, I had coffee with a rookie staff writer for the local newspaper to promote the “Share the Road Rally” in Frankfort next Saturday. I’m also in the process of raising the profile of the bicycling advocacy group that a few of us local cyclists have organized this year. We have some lofty goals, and decided it was time to “go public.” We’re committed to a long-term effort and agree it’s too late to put on the brakes now. We’ll press on and see what happens. After that, Dana and I cruised to Lexington for the Gallery Hop, grabbed dinner and a glass of wine at Alfalfa’s downtown eatery, and settled in for an Altman picture at the State Theatre. What a day!
Dana and I spent some time this afternoon having coffee with Beth, a good friend of my sister. She just finished writing a book and was celebrating with a big piece of chocolate cake when we arrived. I don’t know Beth that well, but sometimes you don’t need to know a person that well to realize she or he is observant, thoughtful, compassionate, and imaginative. It was nice to have such a respectful listener—someone sincerely interested in what we’ve learned from life’s experiences.
It’s refreshing to have a good conversation with a creative individual who can open herself to huge ideas and still be totally grounded in reality at the same time.
I hope I get to talk to her again.
Spent most of the day reconfiguring computer setups in the studio, and it was not fun…
So we took Marty to see “Cars,” and it was FUN!
The people at Pixar must know how to have fun with computers. Why haven’t I figured it out yet?
Let’s just give all our money to Pixar and get it over with. Somebody has to take over the world and it might as well be them instead of Wal-Mart or Microsoft.
It was our 17th Great American Brass Band Festival, and maybe the best yet for us. It will certainly be one of the most memorable.
— This year I composed the second poster in a commemorative series which will continue to highlight local artists, working closely with Phnomphone “Paul” Sirimongkhon, a popular painter in town. He’s a native of Laos and a graduate of Berea College. He works for Centre College as a graphic artist. I designed the souvenir pin and t-shirt with images derived from his featured artwork. The pin sold out halfway through the Festival, which has never happened before. The shirts, produced at the 10th Planet, sold well, too. (Oh yes… I found out that I’m to be the Featured Artist in 2007, so I get to play with myself—I mean, collaborate with myself.)
— We had a double table at last night’s picnic celebration, and our theme was a fitting tribute to South African guests Roger and Marcia Ingel, visiting from Durban. A maximum effort was made by all, including Janet and Jerome, and (sonofagun!) we earned the table competition’s “Best of Show.” I don’t think the picture does justice to how cool an impression it made, to tell the truth. Guess you had to be there. There were so many ingredients to the overall effect— the flowers, the place settings, the decorations, the food, the wardrobe, the signage. I created the graphics, and I hope it was an effective promotion for Dixon Design. In any case, although I was resistant at first to the idea of going all the way with our preparations, it turned out to be a lot of fun. I suppose we just love this aspect of the Festival as much as any.
There’s a particular stairwell connecting the upper and lower levels of the fitness center at Centre College that has a smell which takes me back to the old McKinley School, where I attended fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. You know what I mean; it’s one of those odor-triggered responses that has deep emotional characteristics. For me, it evokes the final years of pre-adolescence in my first hometown of West Milton, before our family moved to Tipp City, and the resulting psychological disorientation that came with being “the new kid,” just as puberty struck with a vengeance. I was twelve. It wasn’t an easy transition. Life deals many different kinds, of course. On a scale of ten it doesn’t come close to what others in my Clan have endured. I just happened to lose my best friends at the diciest time in a young man’s coming of age. In some unexplainable way I also lost my original identity. Honestly, I still have no idea how it actually affected my personality and my relationship to others. I just know it did, and that’s all that probably needs to be said about it. Fortunately, the summer of our disruption was fashioned into
an adventure of memorable proportions, with our transitional accommodations in the upstairs apartment of a downtown building perched ridiculously close to the major rail line. It must have been inexpensive, and only a boy could have loved it, although I understood how absurdly small it was for a nine-member family. We survived a hot summer without air conditioning by spending most of our time at the pool. It left me with a lifelong attachment to swimming, the most sensual of fitness activities, and further solidified a bond of five brothers, thrown more tightly together with our sudden isolation. I remember the day Mombo gave me hell because I walked three-year-old Jay to our developing home-site two miles out of town, indicating the age gap of the Brothers Dixon in those days. Side-by-side, we navigated a mutually unfamiliar universe of lifeguards, construction workers, shopkeepers, and strange neighbors. Thank God for the summer of ’64. As cohorts in adaptation, we had to make it uniquely our own world, and perhaps, to some degree, it also prepared me for the arrival of September, the end of childhood, and a school with new and different smells…
I made mention last month that we’d watched “Out of Africa,” but didn’t say that it was primarily to conduct thematic research in preparation for this coming Saturday night. I admit it. I love The Great American Brass Band Festival. We moved to Kentucky the summer it began, and June in Danville has always been about the Festival for us. Nevertheless, I’m not a big fan of trying to orchestrate a picnic table concept, as much as I thrill to the atmosphere on Saturday night. There’s nothing like being close to the stage during what’s clearly the high point of the weekend, but all the preparations and distractions of making the table into a spectacle has never seemed to be worth the bother. Having said that, I can report that Dana has me completely caught up in getting ready for our African repast, including designing graphics for the table sign, and I’m starting to get excited about how it’s coming together. We’re sharing our table with David and Lee and their guests from Durban, South Africa. The competitive juices are pumping. Look out. I’m gonna kick down every other table like Jesus on a bad day!
My brother Jerome and his wife Janet stopped by today after attending a local picnic for parents with adopted children from other countries. They’re moving ahead with plans to acquire one or two babies from Central America. I think most of my family knew they were considering this, but I just recently found out. I’m very happy for both of them. Dana and I thought seriously about the same course of action when we first came to Danville, but we lost the drive to follow through with it after Marty was born and we became grandparents. Things tend to work out the way they’re supposed to…
I need not stand in my family cemetery today to have an overwhelming sense of gratitude for those who have put on a uniform to serve our nation. They performed the duty, often dangerous, at times fraught with extreme peril. There are those in every generation who meet the necessity. I owe them too much, even when they changed their minds after returning home. Some of them did not make it home, and I join with those who offer this day as an inadequate memorial to the magnitude of their sacrifice.
† God bless their souls.
The discipline of aikido is known as a “soft” martial art, but during my period of training it became clear that the defensive moves were ineffective if executed without a certain vigor. On the other hand, an application of too much energy was counterproductive, impeding the ability to flow with the attack. The practitioner was at risk if he became the aggressor. However, by contrast, the dispatch with which one hopes to end an encounter is clearly not the finality of becoming a victim, and that necessitates learning how to find the proper way to redirect incoming force. There are times when you must step directly into the face of an assault to protect yourself. Much of my emphasis during that time of study was overcoming a natural inhibition to act, but with just the right amount of decisiveness. It didn’t come easy. It required focus, relaxation, timing, and fearlessness.
An even less competitive practice is yoga. If one seeks to “win” yoga, it immediately becomes something else. Nevertheless, most, if not all, yoga postures lose their essential value if one “wimps out.” But what’s the difference between pushing too hard and “surrendering” into the pose? Where is that elusive intermediate ground that exists between mere athleticism and withdrawing from the challenge.
People are surprised to learn that I haven’t cut my grass with a gas-engine mower for two or three years. I guess it’s been since my Uncle Art died. He gave me his Craftsman rotary push mower when he moved away from his house on Fernwood. He’d gotten away from relying on it when he wasn’t physically up to it anymore. I didn’t dedicate myself to using it until after he died. I don’t know how old the darn thing is, but I think he used it for a long time. Because I considered myself a “townie” like Uncle Art, and our yards were about the same size, I figured I would give it a try—as a quiet way to honor his memory.
Some things are easier than they look. Using Uncle Art’s lawn mower is not one of them. It’s tough. Or I should say it’s tough to use it well—in other words, to cut grass. It’s easy to push it very slow, but nothing much happens, and it’s not difficult to push it very fast, but the blades spin too rapidly to cut. I’ve learned that I have to find just the right inertia to get it to “bite.” The challenge is that this proper biting speed requires the most stamina. You don’t have to understand mechanics to know it must have something to to with the physics of “work.” Now I know one of the ways Uncle Art stayed trim and avoided the Seitz roundbelly. Undoubtedly, I need to sharpen the blades, but I know that same “middle way” phenomenon is there to experience in human-powered lawn mowing, too.
And the more I look around me or examine my personal challenges, the “middle way” and its mysteries keep perplexing me. How do people master it? How does the Indy-car driver learn the margin between being passed and hitting the wall or blowing an engine? How does the salesman find the sweet spot between an off-putting overconfidence and the telltale signs of desperation? Would my son Bruce have lost his life last year if he hadn’t achieved the rare zone between fighting and giving up? I once had a young cyclist observe the way I was hitting my brakes on a downhill curve, and he said later, “Just remember—speed is your friend.” Hmm. The way I’d heard it, “Speed kills.”
Eager or patient? Audacious or cautious? Assertive or receptive?
Seize the day, by God.
— or —
Let go and let God?
Somewhere in between, lad. Somewhere in between.
It really hit me hard the other day that it’s been over four years since Dana asked people to kindly submit their collections of my hand-crafted greeting cards for the birthday retrospective at Grayson’s Tavern. Inexcusable! I promptly decided to finish my delinquent documentation effort and return every card to its rightful owner.
While we’re on the subject of a ton of bricks, the Boyle County Library took possession of the church across the street and immediately put up a chain-link fence. Members of the congregation had been picking apart the facade all month, perched precariously on aluminum ladders. It was a bit scary to watch. The Library folks obviously wanted to put a stop to any makeshift salvage operation that might continue, semi-authorized or otherwise.
Remind me sometime to fully describe the phenomenon of “scrounge madness,” related in its deviant nature to “movin’ madness.”
I’m waiting to see if our standing request yields a formal result. The expansion committee was thrown a curve the other day when Fiscal Court magistrates declined their appeal for financial support, voting instead to use County employees to haul off debris. Sadly, that may knock out of contention my brilliant idea for a recycled driveway, but at the same time curtail any similar display of “scrounge madness” on our side of West Broadway.
