I was mildly freaked out when Ian told me on Thanksgiving that he ordered “The Forger” based on my recommendation at this site. I hope he’s not disappointed. One never knows if another will have a response to a work of fiction similar to one’s own. I think he may find interesting the parallel between a young man living alone in Paris and his own solitary travel to an unfamiliar city.
But Halifax had it easy. He only had to deal with the Gestapo.
— Month of November workout totals: Swim-7; Bike-0; Run-3; Lift-0; Yoga-0
— If I keep up this exercise pattern, I won’t be able to call myself a triathlete any more. It’s interesting that during these weeks of low-grade anxiety and stress, I’ve fallen back primarily on what was my “boyhood sport.” Since those days of backyard family fun and our frigid plunges at Dunn’s pool, swimming has always been my favorite physical activity. (Don’t tell anybody on the Bicycle Commission!) More than that, being a lifeguard enabled me to escape unpleasant fast-food and grocery jobs, providing a foundation of employment during my youth until I developed entry-level creative skills. Truthfully, I never understood why a young guy would want to work all day when he could build a nice tan while observing pretty girls in bikinis.
— Dana and I were badly in need of some soul nourishment, so we visited the Indianapolis Museum of Art this morning before our stop at the hospital. The special exhibition we “accidentally” found out about and then had to see—International Arts and Crafts—was even more astonishing than we’d hoped for. It was so phenomenally well-done, I have to think back to the famous Tutankhamen or Impressionist exhibitions, or my experiences at the Van Gogh, Rodin, or Tate galleries in Europe, to find any parallels. This one will stick with me for a long, long time and open up many new areas of personal investigation. The
Speed Museum was still open when we came through Louisville tonight, so we caught about an hour of Mary Ann Currier. Fortunately, her stunning work can be appreciated purely at the sensory level, because the show at the IMA had thoroughly exhausted my capacity for intellectual delight.
— I can’t get over the costs involved in maintaining Bruce‘s extraordinary care. Prior to his recent surgery I saw him get a 1-ml intramuscular injection that carried a $1,000 price tag. That’s a million dollars a liter, for cryin’ out loud! The night before we came home, the lab prepared a bag of custom-mixed IV nutrition that was worth $1,500, but for some unknown reason Bruce refused to take it. Certain people were not very happy about that. I’m beginning to think his months-long iron will is morphing into a bored, laid-back stubbornness. He needs to get out of the frickin’ hospital.
Bruce is out of surgery, doing well, and will go directly back to the fifth-floor renal unit rather than into critical care, and that’s the best news of the day. The surgeon said he broke up and removed a pool of pus around the spleen the size of a “small dinner plate.” He irrigated the area and put in a “rubber-band drain.” When I asked him if he had to remove the spleen (something they warned might be necessary), he said, “No.” It looks to me like he tried to get the most benefit from the shortest procedure and smallest incision, since Bruce can’t handle much time under anaesthesia until he gets stronger. This postpones for another operation the intestinal reconnection and a minor pocket of infection around his nonfunctional, transplanted kidney, which could disappear on its own, if all goes well after today.
Pam said she was told that Bruce is only the second patient in the history of the medical center to survive this long after such a severe case of pancreatitis.
Ave, Ave, Ave, Maria.
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.
Bruce‘s surgery is scheduled for Wednesday, so we plan to head out Tuesday evening. In order to keep the operation as short as possible, they plan to deal with the most troublesome pockets of infection by operating through his back.
I see I haven’t been very talkative in my recent entries, but I can’t explain it. Everything that’s going on right now evades my verbal capacities.
“When the mind is actively and vitally at work, for its own creative uses, it has no time for word-building: words are too clumsy: you have no time to select and group them. Hence you must think in terms of images, pictures, of states of feeling, of rhythm… Writing is but the slow, snail-like creeping of words, climbing laboriously over a little structure that resembles the thought: meanwhile the mind has gone on and on, here and yonder and back and out and back again.”
—Louis H. Sullivan, 1934
Our trip to Indy is on hold until we learn more about the surgeon’s outlook.
It looks like Bruce will find out on Monday how soon he’ll be having surgery, so I’ll be returning to Indianapolis with Dana tomorrow.
Inspired by David’s 103rd Psalm, I share this in the spirit of the early pilgrims, who used five kernals of corn as a symbol of their gratitude.
Kentucky Thanksgiving Prayer
Father, I see the first kernal and know Your forgiveness is complete.
Thank You for being a God
Who absolves my sins
when I pledge in my heart to move forward with my life and trespass no more.
Father, I see the second kernal and know all healing comes from You.
Thank You for being a God
Who provides complete wholeness
and grants me the trusting heart to accept that I may never comprehend Your divine wisdom
—whether to restore a body with Your grace, or bestow perfection with heaven’s embrace.
Father, I see the third kernal and know the redemption of Christ.
Thank You for being a God
Who would offer Your only Son
to be a living mediator and the true path to Your everlasting kingdom.
Father, I see the fourth kernal and know Your love and compassion is without qualification.
Thank You for being a God
Who invites me into Your heart
each time I accept the opportunity to serve Your children instead of thinking only of myself.
Father, I see the fifth kernal and know the blessings You provide will never end.
Thank You for being a God
Who is eternally giving
and finds me worthy of Your unfailing gifts, if I can only remember to stop and ask.
Father, You are so magnificent.
Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU, Thank YOU.
Amen.
I was successful in getting some publicity for the cause—thanks to Liz—but with everything going on with Bruce, it’s hard to get very excited about it today. Seeing KK’s cheerful face with her English friend warms me.
When I saw huge crows crisscrossing above me, settling noisily into the tallest tree at McDowell Park, I knew that there was more than crisp November in the air.
…three, four, FIVE—the numerological indicator of change.
I found out Dana had called 9-1-1 so Bruce could be rushed to Methodist Hospital, and later I learned from Mombo that he was back in the critical care unit.
My prayer request is for stability and the resumption of his steady improvement.
Yesterday I went to church at the Salvation Army, which inspired me to write a Thanksgiving prayer, so I treated myself to a sandwich at my neighborhood hang and wrote it out. I saw Tim and Jo Ann, learning that they’d been able to buy the infamous “Banker’s House” on Perryville Road and were in the midst of moving. They said that if they didn’t do it before the holiday, they might be too busy until January (Jo Ann) or April (Tim). Yep, that sounds about right for those two. I wondered how far into seven digits the sticker price climbed. They asked me how Bruce was doing. Given Tim’s long, long recovery from his accident, these are two people who understand the meaning of “slow progress.”
Afterwards I puttered around at home, taped plastic around the air conditioner in the mud room, and managed to fit in a nice cross-country run on Mack‘s Trails with Milton and Jim before joining the Strocks for an evening of relaxation. Terie invited me to share a delicious birthday dinner for Marty—venison chili with cornbread and salad, followed by cake and ice cream (mounds of it!), plus a DVD thriller with Kathryn Morris.
Later on, Marty and I both realized we were still in front of the tube watching, for no reason, a Will Ferrell movie with Mike Ditka that stunk to high heaven—because we politely assumed the other wanted to—so we promptly re-adjourned in front of the PS2, enabling the Galactic Empire to capture Hoth, the ice planet, and closed our night with a burst of energy.
Moral of the story— If you’re going to eat two bowls of chili, birthday cake and Breyers, be sure to run hills for five miles first.
Or maybe eight.
I left Danville too late, so most of the steam was out of the “Hop” by the time I hit the streets of the city. The wine boxes were empty and the finger food looked too picked over. The crowds of hipsters had clearly shifted their collective focus to discussing whatever late-night enticements lay in store for them after the galleries closed.
I was there to see art while I could; it was worth the trip.
• Jeff Rogers is always up to something new and interesting.
• D.B. Westerfield, a prospective Layerist, has switched from ceramics to multi-media canvases, and I like her smaller collages—bright, loose, and full of gaity. I was going to add, “just like the artist,” but how would I know? (I shouldn’t be so rude. I just met her and she’s a very sweet person.)
• Going from the Ann Tower Gallery to the poster art show
at the ArtsPlace building was moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, but that’s what this event is all about (and I liked discovering the work of Mark Daly).
I’m glad I had the impulse to drive up. I was alone and there wasn’t anything else I felt like doing on a Friday night. I saw a few pieces that inspired me, but nothing I encountered in Lexington compares with Sheldon‘s exhibit at the Community Arts Center, only a block from our studio.
— I reconfigured the screen saver on the Mac G4 Mini to display a sequence of abstractions by Kurt Schwitters. I can’t say why, but, as far as motivating me to make art, nothing of late has been more inspirational to me than the rule-shattering creations of this early 20-century master. One could say he basically invented the medium we know as collage (he certainly was the first to perfect it), and it won’t hurt if I can subconsciously absorb a wee bit of his genius. Did KK really go to Newcastle? My God, that’s the repository of the Schwitters “Merzbarn,” one of the most genuinely innovative artistic concepts of the last hundred years! I may never get to see it myself… Go back there, Caitlan; it’s in the Hatton Gallery at the University of Newcastle!
— Don’t know any details, but it seems as though conditions are imploding at the school where my sister Joan has worked for many years. I feel bad for her because I think I know what she’s going through. Dana and I still refer to the “Golden Age” at Wright State University Communications (where we first met) before that department went into a nose dive. Things were never the same. Some of our coworkers saw it coming early and escaped most of the madness. Dana and I saw the handwriting on the wall before many in our group, but we still had to endure six months of collapse until we made the leap and started our partnership and studio. Several of our friends tried to make the best of it and had to experience a lot of nastiness before what was left of our creative “dream team” had been totally dismantled. A few of us from those years started our own companies and continued to work with each other sporadically, and we keep in touch as friends to this day. Since then I’ve learned that good working relationships and situations can rarely be sustained indefinitely. Everything always changes. Undesirable situations can improve, but, unfortunately, great situations inevitably decline, or even crash and burn. There’s been quite an ebb and flow in our clientele since those days (26 years ago). It’s not that existing relationships will sour, but it’s more often a matter of the natural, dynamic flux in any organization’s personnel equation. Never underestimate the wake of change that can occur when outstanding people move on with their lives. It can cause a “brief, shining moment” to fade into personal mythology. The silver lining for me—I still have my “partner in all things” and my Clan, and that’s as close to permanent as I’ll ever know.
— Today Dana told me that Bruce had a bad night, but pulled through without having to go back to the hospital. He gets into vicious cycles of fever, nausea, low red cell count, weakness, low blood pressure, and then sometimes passes out when he tries to stand up, if he has the energy to move at all. I don’t know the actual sequence of it, but he manages to will himself forward, or he relies on his mother or Pam for the encouragement to ride it out when this happens. It apparently has something to do with dialysis, or the lingering infections, or another factor I’m not aware of. He told Dana this past week how much he wants to feel good again, and that he’s not giving up. Dana will stay with him until he improves enough that she can turn her role over to someone else. Until then, she must be there while Pam is at work. Meanwhile, I continue at the home-front and make my effort to get work, be productive, juggle the volunteer commitments that have a momentum I can’t control, and resist the kind of distractions I’ve always invited to avoid facing—right now—the full emotional impact of bearing life’s load (for example, making overly long blog entries).
They’re still earning z-i-l-l-i-o-n-s, even though they’re dead,
and every one of them was——
an ARTIST!
Most of them took a lot of drugs, too. Hmm…
Did I mention that they’re dead?
If you happen to be following Brendan’s scoop war about Sony’s blunder, you’ll be interested in knowing that anyone who gives piracy a bad name will face the grim certainty of dealing with YOU KNOW WHO.
“List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your Livejournal along with your seven songs. Then tag (at least) seven other people to see what they’re listening to.”
1. Sibelius: Violin Concerto, Op. 47 — Jascha Heifetz and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra
2. Tchaikovsky: Manfred Symphony, Op. 58 — Riccardo Chailly and the Concertgebouw Orchestra
3. Fauré: Requiem — Charles Dutoit and the Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal
4. Grieg: Sigurd Jorsalfar, Op. 22— Neeme Järvi and the Göteborgs Symfoniken
5. Romances for Saxophone — Branford Marsalis and the English Chamber Orchestra
6. Best of Mission: Impossible, Then and Now — Original TV Soundtracks by Lalo Schifrin and John E. Davis
7. That’s All There Is — Eric Copeland (Cooler)
I actually doubt if there are seven people who read this Weblog (and most of those who do have already been tagged), but, regardless of that, I’d like to know what music these clansfolk and friends are currently enjoying…
• Marty S
• Seth D
• Nic D
• Kristi H
• Josh D
• Holly H
• Rita D
• Lee S
• Andrew W
• Alyx D
• Jerome D
• First excellency — Bruce gets released from the hospital today. Let’s hope and pray that it sticks this time. Dana has responded with another trip to Indianapolis. What a mom!
• Second excellency — I got a called from Liz the Advocate-Messenger reporter, and she wants to meet with me soon to discuss the issues and concerns I raised at the open meeting last week. This could be taking shape nicely—after sensitizing elected officials, work with the media to boost public awareness.
• Third excellency — During a long conversation with Dr. Williams about his brand identities and our ongoing professional relationship, he assigned to me an extraordinarily good design project—create a new image for Burkmann’s premium equine nutrition that will stand toe-to-toe with any other product in the competitive environment.
Not a bad day.
I broke away from the Knobs so as not to miss a meeting at Kathleen‘s about the Society of Layerists in Multi–Media (SLMM). I recently joined as an associate member and hope to boost my involvement with the organization as they gear up for a major gathering in Lexington during the autumn of 2006. My goal is to complete enough larger collage pieces by next summer to submit an application for full membership to the Society’s jury. It’s my hope to qualify to participate in the exhibitions connected with the month-long series of art events.
It was a very pleasant, interesting gathering of artists who share a similar orientation to their work, including a few friends from Danville, but mostly a group of people I’d never met. We each had an opportunity to introduce ourselves, show some examples of our work, and talk about our approach. I got to explain how the hundreds of greeting cards I’ve made over the years as a creative contrast to the needs of my commercial practice has enabled me to develop a miniaturist style that I yearn to apply to larger concepts. I told them that, although the aesthetics of my spontaneous compositions are rooted in early 20th-century design and modern art (like the masterful Merz experiments of Kurt Schwitters), I reject the nihilism and pessimism of Dada, and that my process and intent is more in keeping with the uplifting, holistic principles of Layerism.
After the Gallery Hop in downtown Danville on Friday night, I went to David’s cabin to prepare for the 2005 deer hunt. Before sunrise on Saturday morning, Greg and I crouched below the rocky outcrop and saw a doe move around the point. I thought the visibility was too dim for a clean shot and was comfortable watching her move on. Not long after that, David shot a doe at the front tree-stand with his antique double rifle. That position proved the place to be throughout the opening weekend of rifle season. Stuart took his eight-pointer there Sunday evening, but that’s a whole story in itself.
My favorite time of the weekend was Saturday evening, before the weather changed. I watched two squirrels frolic for over an hour among the dry leaves until they retired to tree-top clusters, each of my senses acutely aware of the woodland environment in all its minute detail. Venus pierced the gloaming as a fiery sun finished painting the autumn colors a more vibrant shade of orange. I saw no deer, but it didn’t seem to matter.
On Sunday morning, sitting in the rain at the rear stand, I saw two does heading away from the knob-top clover field, no closer than 50-60 yards. Since I held a lever-action carbine with no telescope, it wasn’t a good shot for me (for the second time in as many days). Later, David was observing the area from the same stand at dusk, without a rifle. Firing his .45 revolver into the hillside, he attempted to spook a big buck moving on the same trail I saw my does. He was hoping to push him toward Stuart’s position at the front of the knob. It worked. As a result, enough meat became available that Dana and I filled our freezer and more, even though I had no personal kill this year.
When I was back in town someone wanted to know if I’d “shot Bambi,” and I sensed more clearly than ever the gulf between people who hunt and those who disdain it.
I went for decades without going on a traditional hunt, after putting it aside in my twenties when I chose to give up eating meat, but I never lost a respect for the tradition gained from Dadbo. Eventually I reintroduced flesh to my diet and became a fisherman. A profound reconnection with the natural world and an evolving appreciation of the shooting sports opened my mind to the idea of harvesting meat firsthand in the woods.
I honor the philosophical purity of strict vegetarianism, but anyone who consumes meat consents at some level to the killing of animals to sustain their life. Participating in the act with full consciousness, attuning the senses to a wild environment, experiencing the synchronicity of engaging a particular creature, and valuing it as a gift of nourishment from the Great Spirit is an activity that puts me directly in touch with ancestors—my hunting namesake, his Appalachian frontier forefathers, medieval Slovaks, first-millennium Norsemen, tribal Neolithics…
There’s no way to explain all that to someone who was never vouchsafed the hunting tradition. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life trying to understand it myself.
It’s that time of the year when I join friends who appreciate the Kentucky Knobs at daybreak, the code of the hunt, and the taste of venison. And it’s about a lot more than ammo and camo…
‡ SQUID LIVES ‡
