“I have been told often enough that I have a sense of humor that makes strong men faint and women reach for weapons.”
— Gene Wolfe
If you enjoy a highly imaginative, superbly written short story, please don’t overlook Gene Wolfe. Best recommendation Bruce ever made to me.
Out of the blue — a rare eagle-eye view!
Recently I had the great fortune to enjoy a flight in a small plane with a pilot who is a fellow bicyclist. Earlier in the summer he mentioned that I should go up with him, but I forgot about it until I received his invitation by email. I was excited to join him, and I was prepared to share whatever he wanted to do. Unexpectedly, as soon as we departed the airport vicinity above Junction City, he asked me what I wanted to see. And so I happily guided him to a destination in the Casey County knobs — for any red-blooded member of the Dixon Clan, it was unquestionably the “place to go.”
This is the part of the story where clearly I should provide some kind of apt description of just how magnificent that experience proved to be. Instead, I hope that a few pictures will capture the perspective better than anything I might write. I hadn’t been in a position to do any aerial photography for at least 15 years or more. At that time, I had borrowed superior camera equipment and was in an aircraft which enabled me to hang out an open window with Dana clutching my belt. Because I was on the clock for a client that day, the idea of heading toward Blue Bank Road wasn’t in the cards. This time around, I only had our inadequate digital, and the plane windows were picking up a lot of glare, so I did my best to grab some decent angles in the time available, falling short of the desired “full coverage.”
There was also a significant degree of turbulence that morning, and when my friend offered me the controls, I declined, believing that the constant bumpiness would deprive me of any true “feel” for whatever modest adjustments I would be brave enough to make. Nevertheless, one can’t ascend in a small craft without being gripped by the wonder of flight. We were soaring with the land, just as pioneering aviators had done. As we circled through Marion County, past Forkland and into the Boyle County I had crisscrossed on a bike for nearly 20 years, my “sense of place” shifted abruptly from a ground-based familiarity to an eagle-eye awareness. I was struck with the thought of my father leaving behind his life as a pilot, giving up flying after he had known these same awesome perceptions far more profoundly than me. Why? Was it the unpleasant “baggage” from too many wartime hours in the air? Was it the power of youth’s love for field, river bottom, and the woodland creatures of a surface world? Or was it something else entirely?
For John Edward, there must surely have been times during that first decade after the Pacific tour when he faced an opportunity to reclaim the sky. A different vision must have taken hold not long after he came home—a vision of family and fatherhood that had no meaningful role for skills he had learned, taught, and then relied upon to survive a hazardous duty. Perhaps he had read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the famous French writer and pioneer of flight who was lost over the Mediterranean in 1944. Of Saint-Exupéry, David McCullough says it best for me:
Central to all he wrote was the theme of responsibility. In The Little Prince, it is the fox, finally, that tells the Little Prince what really matters in life, by reminding him of the flower, the single rose, he had cared for at home… “Men have forgotten this truth,” says the fox. “But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose.” Writing of his friend Guillaumet, an intrepid mail pilot, in Wind, Sand and Stars, Saint-Exupéry said that moral greatness derives more from a sense of responsibility than from courage or honesty. “To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible.”
Responsibility. Any of us would be challenged to find another word that better fit the man we knew as Grandy-bo, Dadbo, Eddie … that handsome young man of the open sky who would return to earth and become the founder of our Clan.
Aerials taken on Sunday morning, November 6, 2011.
Click photos to enlarge.
This is Clan Valley — the place to go . . .
The heartland of our Clan, the vision of a man . . .
The Blue Bank Farm and family cemetery . . .
The “Heartyard” and home to our Clan mother . . .
The Realm of Greystone includes Knob End . . .
The former Cabinhood recently changed hands . . .
The Shire — newest addition to Clan holdings . . .
No major outings today, since the B’bach family is settling into Thanksgiving mode, but we did have a good lunch with Lauren and Kellie at the Dos Coyotes border restaurant here in Davis. I continued to correspond with JMM, who is in LA for the holiday (both of us in the same state, but so far away). He responded to my curiosity about the California light with these wonderful words, “Oh yes, my friend, the light is different out here. When the early 19th Century painters took their stuff back east, people exclaimed that light simply does not do what it they showed it to do in the West. Imagine Half Dome or El Capitan revealed from a mile or two, but without air to blur and soften. Can’t be done, they said. From there, we seem to love our American West very much for its revealing Air (Spiritus) and the inspiring of it (Inspiritus). The freedom from the well-worn assumptions of the American East (which is hardly ever capitalized) is necessary for the likes of us that need a new perspective now and then. Your ideas are more likely to be met graciously out West.” Mike is doing fine, but he misses his late father, of course. Oh, I know how it feels. It’s nice to see Dana so relaxed and full of smiles during the lead-up to this holiday. I suppose that part of this adventure is meant as a distraction for us, as we observe our first Thanksgiving without Bruce. It is good for her to be with her family. For me, too, and it’s also a mini-sabbatical, as I spend valuable time with books about key Bay-area painters. Looking at reproductions of Thiebaud’s pie paintings while the house is filled with the fragrance of actual pies baking was almost beyond my endurance. When the young generations left tonight, Bill and I made dinner together. The four of us had a great evening of food, wine, and conversation. It was fun to hear all the old stories of the Breidenbach heritage and lore.
Lay in bed this morning, waiting for the sun to come up, so I guess my body still hasn’t adjusted itself to the time difference. On another level, I couldn’t wait for the day to begin — and what a day it has been! After preparing more revised documents for the Community Trails Committee back home (I’m all set up for online work in the Breidenbach office), we made an outing to the Crocker Art Museum in downtown Sacramento. I got to see my first Thiebaud and Kondos originals, in addition to many other stimulating artworks. I was stunned by a large Rockwell Kent (he painted the site in Greenland after reaching it by dogsled) and stumbled upon one of the most masterful watercolors I’ve seen in person: “California Oak and Carmel Mission” by Francis McComas. How could I have never realized that the capital of this unique state would have such extraordinary art to experience? Is the light different here? Something about the sun on the autumn trees across from the Crocker seemed especially unusual.
We grabbed a table in the lounge car for an early breakfast. That first sip of hot coffee tasted good after my miserable night. I had shifted from one spot to another, trying to find a minimum level of comfort, including a stint on the floor at the back of our coach car, where the attendant usually stows the vacuum cleaner. For some reason I still can’t stay reclined in my seat for very long. The ugly scrub east of Reno gave way to an increasingly beautiful climb into California. Now I must read the late Eckert’s account of the Gold Rush to fully appreciate this majestic country. Today I shall just soak it all in visually. I keep my camera handy, but most of the cloudy views are for the fleeting eye only. On the long, slow ascent up the Truckee River Canyon, each snow-topped pile of rock or dusted pine was its own quiet work of art. On through the “big hole” to top the crest of the Sierra Nevada range past Donner Lake, and we now begin our descent to the anticipated destination. It’s intriguing to contemplate reversing this entire journey in another ten days or so. How will I be thinking and feeling differently when that departure time arrives?
†
Allan W Eckert
1 9 3 1 – 2 0 1 1
He told the
story of America.
R I P
One of the highlights of each year has become my participation in the traditional British Single-Shot Sporting Rifle Match held at Simpson Range. In the busy lead-up to this annual event, I clearly lost interest in a daily log entry for the March Exercise, so now I’ll just focus on applying for the rest of the month my regimen for self discovery, putting aside the blogging ritual. The combination of friendship, hospitality, competition, precision activity, history, fine food, and the joy of life make for a unique weekend that holds a place in my heart to rival September in the Les Cheneaux and our quarterly Clan gatherings. I am a privileged man to have gained access to touchstones of authenticity such as these. John O’Donohue said that “the duty of privilege is absolute integrity.” There’s my food for today’s thought.
Bruce liked animals, games, martial arts, music, entertainment, and public policy, but he was first and foremost a voracious reader — went cover to cover through the Holy Bible at the age of nine, and figured he had read through it again at least ten more times. Beginning as a child, he consumed three to five books a week through much of his life. It was only natural that he would devote himself to writing. Keeping in mind his great love for dogs, here is something penned by his alter ego, Elbo C. Buckminster:
“I agree with whiners, of the last few generations at least, that life is a bitch. But I’m not whining when I say it. Maybe the first person to utter that phrase was misunderstood, maybe wasn’t whining either, maybe, as I, realized that the spark of physical in this plane is protected by Nature, the bitch-goddess, sharp-toothed and warm-teated. And, like any bitch, when her offspring are threatened, Nature doesn’t retreat. She bare her teeth, she threatens, she snarls — and she bites. She won’t give up, no matter how overmatched, until the threat leaves or until she is torn to bloody shreds. So count on Life, your bitch-mother, for she’ll not abandon you easily. But respect her. If you misbehave, she may snap your little puppy head off.”
As most of you know, Bruce lost his solitary kidney in his mid 20s and spent 71 months on hemodialysis before gaining a transplanted organ, which would serve him for eight years, until he lost it while battling the devastating inflammation of his pancreas that left him gravely ill, hospitalized, and clinging to life for nearly a year, during much of which he could take no food or water by mouth. By his own account, “I died a few times — three or four, I don’t know — and at least once they were ready to call the time of my death, but one of the ICU nurses refused to give up on me; I guess she felt I still has some fight in me, and she was right.”
Indeed. When he was finally released to tenuous home care, we were told that he was only the second patient in the 100-plus-year history of that Indianapolis medical center to survive such a severe pancreatic hemorrhage. We never learned anything about that other person, but we came to know a Kentucky man named Nathaniel who defied similar odds at UK Medical Center well below one percent, and he helped us preserve hope during Bruce’s darkest days. That was 2005. But even more significant to us than Nathaniel’s kindness — and, of course, the support and encouragement of so many friends and family — was Bruce’s own valiant, grinding effort to meet daily challenges more daunting than it seemed any human being should have to face.
Later (this was 2006, April), to a standing-room-only group of us who met on Sundays to share silence, in perhaps the most awesome extemporaneous public commentary I’ve heard — one of those powerfully unique, you-had-to-be-there moments — Bruce told us that he made it through those grueling months by virtue of what might be understood, as he put it, “lying fallow,” a spontaneous, involuntary suppression of normal cognitive and emotional activity, and I have no reason to doubt it, since he retained only a partial memory of the ordeal. There were times he was so fragile that the doctors could give him no pain medication, even after major surgery. Dana and I will always remember that during the worst of his pain, he told us that he was able to endure it by reminding himself that Christ had suffered even more. Any faith in the future we managed to keep was inspired by this, Bruce’s own profound inner focus and his refusal to quit. Bruce wrote:
“Perhaps this is what Jesus meant when he said, ‘if you but had the faith of a mustard seed’—not belief, but faith. Faith doesn’t require belief, but a deeper knowledge, an intuitive awareness of possibility, even a denial of reality. Faith flies in the face of truth. So while I feel in my bones the existence of a being we, in our ignorance, call God, and the existence of an energy level beyond this lowly one of rock, flesh, and death, I refuse to qualify, quantify, or classify it, because to do so takes me further from the truth, not nearer.”
At long last, he was discharged to confront what he knew to be a difficult three-to-five-year recovery at best, with more surgeries and a relentless cycle of dialysis. Family and friends— that was five years ago. In fact, he went home after that first long hospitalization on Christmas Eve, and that was exactly five years ago this past Christmas Eve. Bruce had completed that journey of recovery, had made a transition, with his mother’s help, to a new, less debilitating method of in-home care, and was optimistic about his chances for another transplant, with a return to school to fulfill his original goal of becoming an English teacher. And then, after all that, the earthly saga of Bruce Joel Willoughby came to a close — when his soul abruptly flew from a physical organism compromised by so many years of precarious health.
We are here to comfort each other in sorrow, but more importantly, to celebrate Bruce’s life, to be inspired by it, as I have been, and to accept that some things can never be understood on this side of the curtain. It brings us once again to the words of Cockburn, who Bruce admired most as a musician and songwriter (and it went well beyond their sharing the name of Bruce):
An elegant song won’t hold up long
When the palace falls and the parlor’s gone.
We all must leave, but it’s not the end.
We’ll meet again at the festival of friends.Smiles and laughter and pleasant times—
There’s love in the world, but it’s hard to find.
I’m so glad I found you; I’d just like to extend
An invitation to the festival of friends.Some of us live and some of us die.
Someday God’s going to tell us why.
Open your heart and grow with what life sends.
That’s your ticket to the festival of friends.Like an imitation of a good thing past,
These days of darkness surely will not last.
Jesus was here, and he’s coming again
To lead us to his festival of friends.
Bruce was troubled in body, but strong in spirit. One didn’t have the sense that he was in decline, but quietly fighting toward a crest, ever determined, never in retreat, but slowly gaining ground, inch-by-inch against insurmountable odds. Always the chess player, he would find a way to extend the end game one more move, one more cunning evasion against near-certain checkmate, yet unafraid of passing, if a stalemate was declared. I doubt if there was anyone except his mother who really understood how hard he tried, including me, but I never lost sight of how incredibly remarkable he was among everyone I’ve ever known. There were times when it seemed he held intact his presence here by sheer force of will. For me, he always will be the true “Impossible Missions Force of Nature.”
It is fitting that we close with Bruce’s re-creation of his summation from those memorable words he delivered in April of 2006, which he titled, “HAH! MISSED ME AGAIN.”
“I leave you with this thought: If you have unfinished business in your life, get to it. Be it mending relationships, expressing yourself creatively, getting involved in community service, going for your dream job, returning to school, or losing weight — get to it. You may not be rewarded with a better economic life, or a longer life, or a happier life, but I guarantee you will be rewarded with a worthwhile life, a satisfactory life, whether it end tomorrow or ninety years hence.”
I do not write regularly in my journal… I see no reason why I should. I see no reason why any one should have the slightest sense of duty in such a matter.
—Occupant of The Hall Bedroom
— Year of 2010 workout totals: Swim-35; Bike-40; Powerwalk-3; Run-0; Lift-0; Pilates-0; Lupus Drills-0
— There is no good justification for having any of these annual numbers come in under 48. I managed to preserve some level of basic fitness this year, thanks only to continued pool access and my fondness for being on a bicycle, but I can’t kid myself—if I don’t reverse this slow decline in vigorous activity, I shall pay a price over time, and it will be a price I can’t afford. My hope for 2011: a new momentum of exercise that will result in a more balanced routine, with 7-10 pounds of weight loss by my birthday.
— The best exhibitions I’ve experienced this year? The ones that occur to me now are the Surrealism show at the Cincinnati Art Museum, the California Impressionists show at the Dayton Art Institute, and the Collage show at Northern Kentucky University. I shall not soon forget seeing my first original Schwitters collage or Cornell box. I am challenged to learn more about Louise Nevelson, Hannah Höch, Alfred Mitchell, William Wendt, Percy Gray, Matthew Rose, David Wallace, Cecil Touchon Janet Jones, Dennis Parlante, and Stephanie Dalton Cowan.
— One of these days I’ll start to fully comprehend what mobile technologies portend for my creative work style. Believe it or not, I still don’t know what to make of these changes in communications. They seem to be touching everything, even my annual experience at Barefoot’s Resort. Being able to have a MacBook Pro and access to a wireless broadband connection changes everything about staying on top of project priorities while out of the studio. Bullets showed me his Kindle and I liked it. I didn’t expect to. Everybody around me seems to have an iPhone. How can I stay abreast? How can I hope to remain a communication designer amid all these transformations?
— Dana’s blunder with the non-existent gas line sent me into a bit of a tailspin, until I realized that tearing apart my work space in the basement would probably result in a better situation after the dust settled. Lesson: disruptions can be opportunities. I need to embrace change more, as I used to do. Look at how Dana has taken on a new discipline with Bruce’s in-home dialysis. We all tend to make room for what we consider the most important things, and that includes procrastination.
— Very well . . . here I am at the close of another year. I can’t change a single thing about the past. In hindsight, the preceding weeks look like some type of malaise. Not that there haven’t been a few highlights, such as the Safariland Doe with my solo harvest at Blue Bank Farm, or the recent push to restore our conference room, but overall it has been a dismal quarter. Enough with the negative. I have the new-year opportunity to shake off the “humbug” and get it together. There’s always the historically strong motivator of Resolutions, to reboot my priorities and catalyze a new momentum that would carry me toward my 60th birthday in 16 months. Time to plot a systematic, gradient escalation to full engagement— physically and mentally —to balance professional, financial, and artistic activity. Reclaim it!
I highly recommend this Kingsley “trifecta” for your viewing pleasure:
1) House of Sand and Fog with Jennifer Connelly
2) Elegy with Penélope Cruz
3) You Kill Me with Téa Leoni
Teachers and school boards should embrace comic books and graphic novels as a “gateway” literature, helping children transition towards more complex narratives and helping boys catch up with girls in reading achievement, according to a new study.
—Giuseppe Valiante, Postmedia News
I was thinking it might be about time to add another entry about “The Legend” to this neglected series, but then Joan passed along a link from the Vancouver Sun that forced me to ask a question: Were comics a key aspect of my own progress toward literacy?
It’s gettin’ kinda hazy, but I recall being heavily into the Hardy Boys as a pre-teen, and comic books were a treat, like the Saturday morning “Treasure Chest.” (Remember Chuck White, or This Godless Communism?“) As readers, we used to add little summary cards to our handmade “books pocket” —until junior high years and the move to Tipp City, and then the comics craze struck with a vengeance. We even managed to scrounge funds for subscriptions! (Jimmy Olsen? What were we thinking?) I recall few youthful activities as pleasurable as absconding with an “80-Page Giant” of Bob Kane Batman stories after school (on a day that I’d made a midday trip to “Jointer’s” lunch counter). DC reigned supreme, but we still liked Casper, Wendy, and Hot Stuff, too. We couldn’t get our fill, so we hunkered down with Superman whenever we made a visit to Pam and Lottie’s. “Superman Red and Superman Blue” was the pinnacle experience. Sadly, for me, everything was downhill from there. And when someone let that litter of kittens make a stink of our comics box, the era came to a ignominious close. I moved on to Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne, and Raphael Sabatini.
Should I be marked down as a statistic?
March Exercise V —day twenty-three— Sometimes a book will accidentally get shoved behind the others on a shelf, and that’s what happened to my copy of “High Performance Health” by John Yiamouyiannis. Thinking it was long lost, I discovered it was only hidden. After a bit of skimming, it didn’t take me much time to remember that he’d outlined one of the best, most practical anti-cancer regimens I’d ever read. Ironically, “Dr. Y” died of cancer in 2000, and he was about my age. I’d lost touch with him in the 90s and, needless to say, I was stunned at the news of his demise. I can only conclude that he became so tirelessly devoted to his crusade that he neglected his own program. The other possibility is that he was covertly murdered, which wouldn’t be impossible for me to comprehend, given the powerful enemies he made over decades of bitter lawsuits and uncompromising activism. I can’t help but wonder what he’d think of the sweeping federal legislation just signed.
Today’s sight bite— The initial shock of the garish turf —c-l-i-c-k— as I first set my eyes on Centre’s all-synthetic football surface.
Previously on M-Ex— The Muse comes through for me. (3/23/06)
Tomorrow— Local cyclists gather for a group ride…
†
Peter Graves
1 9 2 6 – 2 0 1 0
a great talent
a personal icon
R
I
P
March Exercise V —day eight— The clock ruled the day, and it was 7 pm by the time I finished the photo-retouching for the next newspaper ad in the Jacob series. I’m astonished with how much I’ve broadened the exploration of music advantageous to my studio work, now that I have a Macintosh powerful enough to handle iTunes and Pandora.com while running intensive graphic applications. The ability to follow with minimal impediments one’s own evolving musical tastes is yet another fantastic benefit of the rapid advances in content delivery. For the first time in my life, I’m genuinely enjoying the output of great female vocalists, and have been drawn lately to the classic Portuguese samba and bossa nova tunes as a perfect adjunct to many of my typical daily tasks as a graphic designer. And, my goodness, no other ladies possess “that sweet beat” quite like Maria Rita, Gal Costa, Roberta Sa, Vanessa Da Mata, Carol Saboya, Rosa Passos, Nara Leão, Bebel Gilberto, and so many others. Maybe it’s that early infusion of Lalo Schifrin that predisposed me, but, damn, it sure took me long enough to come full circle and discover Cal Tjader, Bebo Valdés, Tito Puente, and all the others.
Today’s sight bite— The familiar smile of my “bay-bo brother” —c-l-i-c-k— making a diagnosis on two different ailing vehicles within a dozen minutes.
Previously on M-Ex— The momentum is placed in service to some of my finest works of collage. (3/8/07)
Tomorrow— Vision Therapy session number eight…
March Exercise V —day seven— I completed most of the items on my checklist, including treating the lawn with about a hundred pounds of pulverized limestone that I got from the library construction site when they drilled bedrock for the geothermal system. After that, I spread a bag of grass seed, counting on it to rain before the birds get to picking away at the yard. As usual, the day went by too fast, and I found myself settling down to watch the Academy Awards show. I hadn’t found it watchable since John Stewart played host a few years back. I was disappointed when Plummer lost, but I liked it when UP got the Oscar for best original score—that theme had me emotionally hooked within the first five minutes. I also dug the dance number used to exhibit the soundtrack nominees. Clearly the best outcome of the night was the statuette for Jeff Bridges, one of my favorite guys since The Last Picture Show. I was a big fan of his dad, and it was so cool when he mentioned the Sea Hunt series, which probably influenced my lifelong desire to spend time in the water. His remarks giving credit to his parents were an uncanny parallel to Mombo’s sentiments of Friday evening. Indeed, personal achievements are an extension of our mother’s and father’s character, but especially if they have admirably performed their roles.
Today’s sight bite— A craftsman holds high his token of recognition —c-l-i-c-k— and demonstates true sincerity in a shrine to false humility.
Previously on M-Ex— I balance real progress with out-of-reach ambitions. (3/7/07)
Tomorrow— Back to the weekday regimen…
March Exercise V —day four— Sometimes I think that on any given day, there is one primary lesson that the universe is trying to drive home with me. At breakfast I was flipping through Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit, searching for her discussion about generating ideas. She explains her adherence to “the unshakable rule that you don’t have a really good idea until you combine two little ideas,” and goes on to say, “That is why you scratch for little ideas. Without the little ideas, there are no big ideas.” Later, during our typical tray lunch watching Charlie Rose, General David Patraeus said, “I wish that great ideas dropped from a tree like Newton’s apple, but it doesn’t work that way for me. We have to bang around a lot of small ideas to come up with the big idea.” So there you have it. It’s all about the grind.
Today’s sight bite— The dark-suited undertaker carefully placing a quilt on the rear seat —c-l-i-c-k— as a chill wind gusts from out of the north.
Previously on M-Ex— I am unexpectedly “in the pit” as Bruce regains some of his equilibrium. (3/4/09)
Tomorrow— A celebration for Grammo…
There have been years in the past when I couldn’t have told you the teams competing in the Super Bowl, even if the fate of my eternal soul had depended on it. Fast forward to today, when I awaited the big game with immense anticipation. What changed? First of all, I spent enough time with a great football-watching friend to understand that NFL players are the most amazing athletes in the world. 
And then, when Bruce was gravely ill and we spent a good portion of a year hanging out around Indianapolis, I began to favor the Colts. The clincher took place last year, when I worked professionally with local star Jacob T, a second-year back-up tight end and special team starter for the team, following his brilliant career at the University of Kentucky. After that I was hooked on Indy, deriving much pleasure from watching their “almost-perfect” season and playoff success. Nevertheless, despite my desire to see Jacob be part of a Super Bowl victory, I’m not sad that the Colts fell short against the Saints tonight, because my heart is with Kristi and the Hornsby family as they enjoy a wonderful celebration in New Orleans.
Our conventional and limited view of adult neuronal plasticity derives in part from the specific ways that scientists and physicians have designed laboratory experiments and clinical therapies. We cannot understand neuronal plasticity by studying brain circuits in isolation from the whole person. Only by considering a person’s adaptations and response to her condition can we really explore the amazing plasticity of the human brain to rewire itself throughout life in order to recover from injury, learn new skills, improve perception, and even gain new qualia.
— Susan R. Barry, Fixing my Gaze
Susan Barry’s book is certainly not for everyone, but like many works that explain a long misunderstood aspect of human health, reading it has been invaluable to someone who must personally face the unknown, accept a daunting challenge, and believe that one’s own body has the capacity to respond positively to a holistic, self-corrective discipline. I’m thankful that the book was recommended and glad that I read it before undergoing my first therapy session tomorrow morning at the Vision and Learning Center. I feel fully committed and as prepared as possible for 30 weeks of treatment. I’ve placed my confidence in people who might be dismissed as charlatans by some medical specialists, but that’s nothing new for me. I even heard a top expert on the Charlie Rose Brain Series recently insist that there is a “critical period” during childhood that governs the development of visual perception, which makes it impossible to correct some eye disorders later in life, a misinterpretation of research that Barry says has been long discredited by scientists and vision therapists. Well, I’m about to conduct my own experiment, under the guidance of individuals I consider to be knowledgeable, trustworthy professionals, and I’m eager to get started. Enough preliminaries! I’m fortunate to have the Center within a reasonable driving distance. Sure, I wish it wasn’t so dang expensive, but isn’t that why The Guy in the Sky grew plenty of oak trees on my knobs? Onward…
A 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.
I’ve made entries before that allude to my progressive vision problem, but I’ve only now decided to formally record some of my experiences during this new year, when I undertake a therapeutic course of action. While learning about this disorder—a form of misalignment generally known as strabismus—I may need to correct some of the information conveyed, as I gain greater or more specific knowledge. At first, I recall noticing an odd head position and disturbing look in my eyes when I closely examined photos of myself. Initially I could dismiss it as an aberration, or comfortably deny that anything meaningful was indicated. Eventually, I came to accept it as my “pirate eye,” and began to avoid looking at others with a leftward glance, which seemed to bring the misalignment into play. Joan mentioned her optometrist to me, but I wasn’t prepared to seriously tackle the situation. By and by, more realizations that the condition was getting worse convinced me I could no longer put off the idea of professional intervention. Dr. Graebe turned out to be a highly capable diagnostician and engaging clinician. He said that I had already lost 60% of my depth perception, with a deficient ability to process uncoordinated binocular movements. Every symptom I described seemed to just reinforce the obvious for him, and I was mildly surprised that I didn’t have some unique or difficult to define condition. And so he prescribed “vision therapy,” based on the awareness that my root problem is not muscular, but involves the brain’s ability to make sense of neurological input from two organs—our source of three-dimensional vision. In addition to setting up an appointment with the Vision and Learning Center, he urged me to read Susan Barry’s Fixing My Gaze. I’m sure it’s not unusual for a person with a health challenge to discover that his or her malady has been ably explained by an author who has faced the same situation in life. Although I still don’t understand the full implications of taking on the discipline of vision therapy, starting the book has triggered numerous memories and personal observations about my sensory experiences since childhood. Dr. G had been particularly struck by my statement that I knew from an early age I was a two-dimensional thinker, preferring the flat surface over volumetric or architectural forms. It caused me to think about whether I have ever possessed “normal” depth perception. For the longest time, foreshortening has bedeviled me as an artist. I’ve always been a slow reader, never been a good driver, nor been favorably inclined to certain eye-hand motor skills, even though it’s clear I had a natural manual dexterity from the beginning. As a marksman, I excel at single-eye target shooting, but ask me to hit something on the move with a shotgun and the results prove embarrassing. 
Saddest of all is when I realized that the awe of star-gazing had slipped away, as my ability to perceive the dimensionality of the night heavens declined. The optimistic hope for improvement, given the functional plasticity of brain neurons, is emphasized by both Susan Barry, Dr. G., and Debra (my therapist). I accept that, in spite of having no comprehension of the difficulties that lie ahead, or how “one must learn to align the eyes and fuse their images, while unlearning the unconscious habit of suppressing vision, which has been occurring perhaps for decades,” or how therapy “requires high motivation and self-awareness, as well as enormous perseverance, practice, and determination.”
We shall see…
This is the last image I created in a partially successful effort to provide “cartoons to the editor,” in partnership with my pal, Rick. It’s from 2003, when several improbable events converged: Kentucky elected the first Republican governor in a generation, Saddam was captured in Iraq, Boyle County and Danville football teams concurrently won state championships for the third time, and local voters passed a liquor-by-the-drink ballot measure. The cartoon was rejected for unknown reasons. In retrospect, it does seen to violate one of the basic rules of editorial drawing— focus on a single, easy-to-grasp idea. Oh well, I still like that style, but it was too much work to continue for free.
