Delineate My Life as in a Picture

A Memory of my Father on the 29th Anniversary of His Death

2011-12-09T05:44:00.000-08:00

Between Flights. My Father is center.

The real attack was along the file my rook controlled after a queen side castle. The file was clogged now but that would change quickly. The forking attack with my knight was part of that in a way, but it was a decoy.
My Father had been a tournament player when he was in the Army, and he had respect for me as a player, but he always said I relied too much on tactical play. I could beat most players with my ruthless application of combinations of forks and skewers. Use these tactics against lesser players and eventually they will make a mistake that costs them a piece and then two and then you just mop up. But a Strategic player will accept these attacks and just trade wood with you while they slowly develop their position and then just take you down in the end game. I had kept a book carefully noting each move in every game with my father. In the hundred pages or more you could see my progress as more and more games reached the magical 40+ move mark. But each page ended with white resigns, Dad always gave me the first move and my resignation had always been the last. He had given me his copy of "The Fireside book of Chess" "Study these games son and you will learn strategy; how these masters win by thinking one more move ahead than their opponent." We read the book together . We set the chess board and followed these the games, move by move, together.
When my father made a quick move to accept what was on its surface a piece for piece swap, the trap was sprung. When instead I took the bishop that "protected" my knight and moved it to attack the pawn in front of my Father's queen that was the target along the rooks soon to be open file. The room got very quiet. He lit his pipe. He folded his hands on the table with purpose as he moved the pieces in his mind. I could see it written in his face, the sixth move would be a choice. He could give up his queen or face check mate. He lifted his hand , picked up his king and laid it softly on the board. "Good Game Son" he said in a matter of fact way as he reached across the board to shake my hand. He lit his pipe again as I wrote in my notebook for the very first time. "Black Resigns". And then he started to laugh. And the laughter grew and was like thunder.

Growth

2011-11-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

My Daughter no longer needs these training wheels.

Through Us

2011-10-08T06:27:00.000-07:00

“Without it our Galaxies would not exist. We cannot see it. It is beyond our senses."I said "It passes through us, constantly. Dark Matter is at the edge of our ability to perceive, yet it holds our Universe together.” Rowena had been worried about me, and so had Ella, and I struggled to explain what had been on my mind. Rowena was driving me home after a long day at work. It is good to sit and collect and share my thoughts with her and Ella. “Tell me, Angel,” I asked my daughter in the back seat. “Does this sound crazy to you?” “No DaDa" She replied. “It’s like ghosts.”

***

Something formless yet complete,

existing before heaven and earth.

Silent and limitless,

it stands alone and does not change.

Reaching everywhere, it does not tire.

Perhaps it is the Mother

of all things under heaven.

I do not know its name so I call it "Tao."

Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

Circa 350 BC

***

My friend David Nickell told me so many years ago, “Thoughts have their own form and texture. They can be beautiful to hold.” The sheer beauty of this thought, the leap of faith it takes to grasp it, had been an epiphany. I try not to mix concepts of science and spirituality, but if I had ended my roughly paraphrased definition of Dark Matter “This is the spirit that flows in the universe; the love of God,” the biggest difference would be that more people would believe it. War has raged between Religion and Science since "On the Origin of Species" was published. Meanwhile Science is growing and our Universe grows with it. Every time we add a sense to the five we were given, like the ability to see beyond the visible spectrum, the universe gets broader and older, and my sense of holy awe grows. For me what I know about Science and God are very similar, I have read books about them, I have felt and seen their creations, and they fill me with Wonder. I have been walking this Earth for half a century and at times I can see - Everything is just one thing. It is a beautiful thought even if it is hard to hold.

***

“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle. “ Albert Einstein

***

It was like that second between the moment your toddler falls and the crying begins, the long intake of air and then a moment of silence. As I pulled down the plywood panel of the attic ladder a desiccated mummy of a frog fell from the ceiling and skittered to a stop at Ella’s feet. She screamed a long heartfelt howl. Questions poured through her tears. “How did it get up there? What happened to it? Why did it have to die?” Her mother and I had no answers; this is the first time either of us had seen a dead amphibian plummet from a ceiling. Because there were no answers she repeated the questions, her eyes imploring us for the solace knowing might bring. “All we can do now is give it a proper Frog burial,” I said, wrapping the nearly weightless shell in a small piece of tissue paper. While Ella held her mother's hand beside our water garden, I gently placed it in the soft mud by the roots to the lily I lovingly call “Legs”. Light fell from the stars as we stood together wishing the little creature farewell.

A week later I brushed aside the lily pads anxiously looking for the first flower. I had been waiting and hoping for weeks and there it was, not two inches from the burial site, a tiny bud barely the size of a robin’s egg. Also there, clumps of gelatin globules with tiny black dots in the center. As the bud grew so did tadpoles. The flowers of water lilies open with the sun and close at dusk and as they do they rise and fall in the water. Their long stems are red unlike the yellow green stems that flow from the roots to the pads. They are alive, they move and grow. Lilies are born in water like the frogs and breathe air as well; both draw life from the same source. As I sit beside them in silence I see how little difference there is in everything that lives. Life flows into the garden, and life flows out. Life flows through everything.

***
“If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” Buddha

***

Froedrich Frog jumps back into the water with a delightful tiny splat as I drink the last drop of coffee from my cup. The water garden is just outside the bedroom window and I heard Ella call for her mommy twenty minutes ago. I hear laughter, snippets of morning exclamations of wonder and it is time for me to join them. Ella rests in Rowena’s arms like her mother is a living arm chair and as I come around the foot of the bed they playfully roll over on their side to face me. Sunlight through the window behind me lights their faces with gold. They both seem to glow from within, but in the deep brown of their eyes concern for me lingers. Perhaps I should be smiling, or laughing, but what is the appropriate expression for the living when they stand before the gates of Heaven? This moment has been waiting for me since the expansion of the universe and I am grateful to finally arrive. I am grateful for the stars whose explosive demise created the materials that formed the vessels for this Family’s soul. I am grateful for all the beauty and glory that creates the pretext for what we share. I stand here in awe of all those that have given their breath to the knowledge that is the basis of my thanksgiving, because of them I know; the most powerful force in all of creation exists at the edge of our ability to perceive, holds our Universe together, and passes through us constantly.

For My 5000th Pageviewer

2011-10-02T05:53:00.000-07:00

I write because I believe each souls experience is valuable. Please share yours freely and without fear. I want to reprise "To Witness" for this milestone. I feel the witness inside Ella growing stronger and I am proud of both of us for it.

***

It was gray Mid-Winter when I stepped into my back yard and a flock of 20 or so sparrows burst from the ground and formed into a tight formation at full speed. As they came to the Maple they spread without collision to pass through the barren tree without touching a single branch. On the other side they formed into a flight not much larger than myself and disappeared into the cold landscape beyond the fence. As I watched all these beautiful souls pass through another beautiful soul I felt a familiar presence.

***

I want to thank organized religion for three gifts. First I would like to thank the Catholic Church and specifically Pope Urban VIII for the persecution of Galileo Galilei. Scientific matters aside, it was the motivation for Rene' Descartes writing of Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting One's Reason and of Seeking Truth in the Sciences. Millions have created their intellectual structures on the foundations made possible by this treatise, exclusive of the Holy Roman Church's designs. Thanks to Urban VII I have only one possession - my own consciousness as the creation of dialog between the world and my own existence. My life is: what I see, what I hear, what I think, what I choose.

I would like to thank the Deacons of the Baptist Church my family attended when I was a child. When they discovered that wine was consumed at dinners with our family and the Pastor they fired him. I loved the Reverend. I enjoyed the conversations between him and my Father. I knew it was a great injustice and it severed my attachment to religious institutions permanently. He was then free to become President of a local university and I was free to look for God on my own.

The most profound gift I received from a church, however, came during Sunday School just before our exile from the Baptist Church. The lesson was about the Creation and I was moved by the idea that God had desires. There was something that seemed strange about God needing something more than what he is so I asked the teacher" Why did He make us?" Her name is lost to me but her answer is not: "Perhaps he was lonely. He wanted someone to share with all the beautiful things he had made. God needs us. He sees the world through us. We are his eyes and his ears on Earth." The meaning of the moment was amplified perhaps because it is where my conversation left off with religious institutions. But it was the way she said it. She spoke directly to me. Her voice soft. Her words were complete the way a subtle gesture is complete.

Adults become conditioned to loneliness, but survival has instilled a special discomfort for this feeling in children. Lonely. A child understands another child's grief in solitude. A child would create the universe to not be lonely anymore. In my child's mind God was a child like me. One that loves to make things and to tell stories. He was inviting me to play with him. My life, the act of living, was part of Him. My seeing. My hearing. The tasting of fresh milk and my Grandmother's Pie, the feeling of my fifth grade girlfriend's hand in mine. All of these things an essential part of God's knowing and dreaming. And in the moments that I was conscious of the connection I wanted God to see the best of me.

***

"Yes, I'll sit by you. I love you too, I love you with all my heart. I am so proud of you. Be careful climbing that. AAAAAaaare you OK? Your knee? Yes, I'll blow that part a kiss. Great daddy take down. Sure, let's watch Ratatouille again. No I didn't know that Painted Lady Butterflies had ten thousand eyes. They migrate a thousand miles! Read that for me again. I'll read one for you too. Again?!? Great ballet jump. I love to see you dance!"

She wants a witness, and until she finds the one inside her I will witness everything she has to offer. In my adult’s mind God, a child like her, is the vessel that contains all of her experiences. Within God is the culmination- the full measure of everything she has seen, heard, tasted, felt, thought, feared and loved. My wife's years before we knew each other are there. The perfect life of the child, unborn, we mourned but I never met. We are there together - along with the singular, complete experience of every living thing there has ever been in the expanse of space and time. The flight of every bird, the stretching of their muscle and the flowing of wind across feather. The breathing of trees and the sense of what it means to flower. The sight from ten thousand Painted Lady Butterfly eyes on a thousand mile journey.

Now that I am constantly aware of the connection I want God to see the best of me; for us to see the best of each other. "Yes God, I will sit with you. I like to paint flowers too. What a beautiful story. My friends tell stories - I need to take Ella to hear them. Great sunset! Remember the one I did for Little Shop? OK I'll keep trying. Yes, very proud of her. I love you too. With all my heart. I love to see you dance!"

Visions of Time

2011-09-25T15:18:00.000-07:00

I believe that every moment is eternal. Time does not pass. Consciousnesses persists as we flow from one existence to the next in a nearly infinite progression. We experience this as change as we move through space and we call that Time. Everything that has ever existed still exists and everything that can exist has always existed. I am bound to a past and a future, not by memory or potential but by matter and space. I believe the linear Arrow of Time is a creation of Biology, not Physics and each individual Life's Narrative is a creation, like our vision, stitched together and inverted internally in our minds to help create a consistent model of the world around us. I believe that Time is how we are made capable of knowing ourselves and the other incarnations of consciousness swirling through the Universe together. I have struggled for two decades to be able to distill my thoughts about Time into this single paragraph and the effort has come with some cost. To believe fervently in your own experience and intuition, and to come to a conclusion diametrically opposed to what is accepted as humanity's experience of reality can be very disturbing.

My estimation of my sanity got a needed boost while I was watching an episode of “Through the Worm Hole” about time and I was introduced to a physicist that believes many of things I do but he has done the math that helps prove them. Julian Barbour is, among other things, the Author of “The End of Time” He describes existence as a series of “Nows” each a separate Universe in itself. I do not expect Mr. Barbour to become a house hold name anytime soon. His ideas have not been readily accepted by everyone in the theoretical physics community. But he has given a great gift; the ability to more freely accept and explore the consequence and artifacts of my perception.

***

The sensation of time is difficult to control. However, there are times in most of our lives when the sensation can become so muted the time seems to hover, warp and nearly stop. These events are usually the great transitions of our lives: marriages, deaths, births, ceremonies marking rites of passage. During these moments you are present in its true meaning. The event is an essential component of your existence, of your passing through place. You have nothing else to do but take part by adding your action and witness. You have no doubts, no discordant voices to pull you consciousness in another direction. These moments mark an epiphany, your manifestation in this plane.

It was the first Summer of our lives together for Rowena and I. She was sleeping beside me on a hot Summer afternoon. A gentle rain was falling, even as sun streamed into the room through 3 small gaps in the curtains. I watched a small thread of dust twist slowly in the beam. As a laid transfixed by it's motion the sound of Rowena's breathing and the sound of rain joined and hushed to silence and then the thread hung in the ether, motionless. At this moment I could feel the past. It was not a memory, I could feel my body stretch into it, connected to everyone I had touched and loved as if I was still beside them, holding them. I knew I had come to the place I was supposed to be, when I was meant to be there. The woman beside me was the person I was to spend eternity with and eternity was there with us. And then the future crashed upon me, the sparkling river of a young girls laughter from the other side of the window. I knew what I heard was the voice of someone waiting for me to join her life. Then the thread began to spin out of the sunbeam. Rowena turned and with her head on my shoulder, still asleep, joined in the laughter from deep within her dream. It was from that moment on, I was aware of my destiny, and I was glad for it.

***

Now that I believe in my forever, to whatever extent I can create my world, I try to craft it gently. I try, as best I can, to create moments that are worthy of living in, present with the those I love. I want to feel Peace. I want Rowena and Ella to know me and I want to know them. I want us to share laughter, to hear it Echo across all of our experiences. I want our silence to be the deep, abiding silence of comfort. I want to hold them as if the thought of time itself can pass away and turn to dust. It is often difficult not to be bitter and jealous of all the Nows I spend in their absence until I realize, that pain is eternal also. To create pain, and worse yet, to share that needlessly with others is a sin that crosses ages. Instead I try to feel the act of being flow through me, to feel space itself connect us. I put my trust in the infinite futures before us. I know the perfect Loving moment is the Heaven of all our longings, and where we dwell forever.

If Ayn Rand Wrote for Gamer Magazine

2011-09-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

All across America there are adult children that still live with their parents. But when their parents ask these adult children to pay the Cable TV Bill it's a big problem. These children read a great article in Gamer Magazine about how smart video gamers are and how valuable gamers are to an ungrateful world and how you can buy 2 video games a month for what you pay for cable TV and what's up with all those channels that nobody in their right mind would watch anyway. Well the adult child pays the cable bill, because it's the cable modem that lets him game with his buds on the west coast and if he moves out who would cook for him and do his laundry, but night and day the injustice of the $89.95 and all those channels eats at him. " You know why the cable bills so high OPRAH WINFREY thats right OPRAH WINFREY She makes the local cable company pay way too much for Oxygen and OWN and Lifetime and Hallmark and it's just not fair, those channels suck." So he rips the article out of gamer magazine and uses his favorite magnet to place it on the refrigerator, right at Mom's eye level where she can't miss it. He emails the article to his Dad. He reads it out loud at the dinner table but both Mom and Dad excuse them selves and go out "for a walk" before he can get to the good parts. After a while he gives up because its obvious they are incapable of understanding Gamers Magazine's magnificent prose. But the Ache never goes away. Effing Oprah Winfrey, Bitch. He decides on a course of action!! He will NOT pay the cable bill until all traces of Oprah Winfrey have been removed from from any all cable TV channels! He wears anti Oprah T shirts he bought from Zazzle. He starts his own anti Oprah web site. He organizes a protest march that will culminate in a public burning of VHS copies of “Beloved” and “The Color Purple” that he bought at McKay's just for this purpose. A local News producer hears about the march and although only 4 other non-cable-payers-until-Oprah-is-erased..ers show up cleverly framed shots do not show this. The video goes viral because it makes Moms and Dads laugh to see that they are not the only ones with Oprah haters that drink directly from the milk jug still living at home. But it also resonates with all the non-cable-payers-until-Oprah-is-erased..ers. Soon a movement is born. A manifesto is written, heavily paraphrasing the original Gamer Magazine article. ESPN thinking that on the Venn diagram of cable watchers there is barely a tangent between OWN viewers and theirs decide to bank roll a non-cable-payers-until-Oprah-is-eraseder protest in Washington DC! ESPN really doesn't give a rats a$$ about Oprah or the movement but wants to squeeze more money from cable outlets for THEIR content. With ESPN's support the movement grows until the cable companies agree to ESPN's price as long as the shut the eff up about Oprah because the are still making a bunch of money off her. Moms like Oprah, and Mom buys the food. Eventually, without ESPN's underwriting, the movement fades into history. And the original non-cable-payers-until-Oprah-is-eraseder's book about the evil of the Oprah Winfrey Network is never published. The Ache however never dies.

Still Like Water

2011-07-16T06:02:00.000-07:00

Space flows
like water
Time waits
waits in warm
soft furry coils
laying in the sun
for us to return
home.

In the Garden 2: Frogs

2011-06-22T17:57:00.000-07:00

My inspiration to create my water garden was Ella's gift of a "Grow Your Own Lily Pad" kit. She told me that Frogs would come to sit on them. That's where frogs sit, lily pads. I thought that since the garden would be 5 feet above ground and a mile or more from any permanent body of water that it was highly unlikely frogs would come to visit. I stand corrected.

In the Garden

2011-05-29T06:08:00.000-07:00

It was Wife and Daughter that inspired me to create my own Water Garden!

Having the lilies in their own ecosystem where I can be at eye level has taught me about the lives of these creatures and how our distinctions between plants and animal and everything else that lives are purely subjective.

The Blessings

2011-02-28T06:11:00.000-08:00

I had passed it every day on my way home, at the entrance ramp at the beginning of Ellington Parkway just North of downtown Nashville, a simple cross made of a perforated steel channel, ubiquitous in construction, known as unistrut. It is on the public right of way adjacent to one of Nashville low cost housing projects and conjures many images juxtaposed as it is against the poorly maintained apartment buildings that have sheltered people suffering from despair and sickness for decades. This is just one of hundreds of such monuments to highway deaths I have seen on roads here in the South. I try to take a moment to realize the meaning of loss these crosses represent and honor the public, if anonymous, display of grief.

I nearly sideswiped the car beside me. As tried to merge onto Ellington I found the gray cross now completely covered in purple, red, and pink silk flowers. For years I had no evidence that it had ever been touched by human hands. The dour specter now seemed to be singing, brought to life by this human kindness. But the song faded. As the weeks went by the flowers tuned to white from the Sun. As the Months passed they turned as gray as the steel. And as Winter came and went the flowers fell away. Last year's flood washed away the cross bar where once hung memory and solace. I wonder, were the flowers a commemoration of the passing of the soul this cross represented. Where they in honor of the person who had left it there years before, now gone to be with the one they so loved. Did the memories of the one they lost fade away, or did they become to painful to bare any longer. I will never know. The Cross is silent.

***

It is a blessing, that the dead are always faithful. Their deeds now recounted and numbered and relived by those that still have dreams and needs of their own. The living search that past for the kindness they need today and with what they find they embody the souls of the absent and form a cradle for their remembrance. It is a blessing for the dead that their lives now flow not with the revolutions of our Earth but the revelations of our hearts.

It is a blessing for the living to always be faithful. To guard your thoughts and words and deeds as you would eternity. To always act in the best interest of those that love you. My Father told me, when I was a child, that if something is so important to you that so foremost in your mind that you can say it when you see a falling star that that wish will come true. I will try to say “ I will earn my daughters faith in me.” before the light can die.

A Mistake

2011-01-07T05:46:00.000-08:00

I was working in the studio trying desperately to fix something I felt was a blunder. I ran from the room to get a rag and some water and in the moment when I collected myself before resuming I saw the beauty that had been created on it's own, perhaps on it's own. I guess sometimes the correction is the mistake.

Painted Ponies

2010-12-26T17:51:00.000-08:00

I had watched them for several years and didn’t think much of it; a boy riding a paint pony with his father walking besides the two holding the lead line of the halter. I just thought the Father was a little over protective since the child was nearly my age judging from his height. It wasn’t until the rider’s feet hung half way between the pony’s belly and the ground that I became concerned. At first I thought my parents were angry when I asked if the teenager was too big to be riding him. “You just don’t need to worry yourself about that pony. We should all be so well taken care of.” It was a double team. “They don’t go that far. It’s barely a mile to the lake from their place. Besides he barely weighs a hundred pounds!” It wasn’t anger though; it was more like fear, more like dread. There was something else, something they wouldn’t tell, or couldn’t tell me. It got quiet at the dinner table after that. They didn’t look at me. They didn't look at each other.

Now they had a element of mystery for me. I stationed myself in the boat at the north end of our lake where they passed by every Saturday and Sunday and I could observe. On Sunday they were like clockwork, one PM, after church. The Father and Son dressed alike -matching actually - khakis, work boots, flannel shirts and St. Louis Cardinals baseball caps. They had the same sandy brown hair. They wore matching eyeglasses. But the Boy’s clothes fit differently. His shirt was untucked and oversized and his neck and wrists swam in their openings. He was emaciated. His head wobbled as the pony walked and he leaned to one side. But they smiled, always, Father and Son the same smile. The paint was fat and slick and spotless, and if ponies could smile I am sure he would have too.

***

My half Arabian gelding, Banner, knew what was about to happen. The pavement dead ended into a long abandoned coal company road and the gravel that would harm his hooves had long ago washed away. I shortened the stirrups on the old hunt seat English saddle to nearly Jockey length and gathered the reins in either hand short and tight as he strained in anticipation. My barely audible verbal click was the downbeat. He coiled into a half rear and leapt down the road. A hundred yards flashed by before I could catch my next breath and this was punctuated by the impact of landing as he jumped a mud puddle. Then we came to the stretch where he always turned on that extra gear he had. Standing in a tight crouch with my head beside Banners neck I was fixed in the space we shared except for my hands, now in front of me, moved forward and back as each stride lengthed. His mane whipped my face and the world was a swirl of light and early autumn’s first falling leaves. Four beats and silence. Four beats and silence. In the silence, when all four hooves were off the ground, we were flying.
Banner pranced in a hard trot for half the trip home. He was never one to bolt for the barn, but the weather was cool and it took him a while to relax after all the excitement. He finally slowed to a walk as we turned down Parklane which would take us home. This is where I always saw the happy trio, as I had come to think of them and I realize I had not seen them in weeks. I had never spoken to them but we always waved . It was too cold to spray Banner with the hose , which he loved when it was warm, so I took extra time to walk him until all the sweat had dryed where the saddle pad had been. His winter coat was already coming in and brushing out the salt and the mud that had splashed all over him from our run worked up a sweat of my own. I turned him loose to rejoin his pasture mates and immediately he laid down and rolled in his usual spot in the middle of the pasture. All the brushing was erased in an instant but that's part of the bargain, brushing your horse after a ride is not optional. I kissed my Mom on the cheek and grabbed a fried chicken leg and a tall glass of milk from the refrigerator. We sat at the kitchen table as I talked about my ride, and school, and college the next fall. "you know mom I haven't seen those two and that little paint lately, have you?" She turned white, visibly shaken. She took my glass and plate and turned to rinse them in the sink. She looked out the window as she methodically wiped the plate dry. “He died two nights ago. I was working in the emergency room when they brought him in. He.." She couldn't finish the sentence. "You never get used to seeing the children go, especially like that. It's just not right."

***

Horses are spiritual beings. They are the substance of dreams. You can learn a lot about justice by spending time in their company as well. Foremost, don't expect too much from it, at least not all at once. The same type of noble beast would carry the boy and I down the same path for just a little while. These horses bound us to our families in joy and sorrow and gave us dreams of our own. He would leave his horse with the living and I would leave mine to go to college. I would get to drive cars. I would learn to make beautiful things. I would kiss girls.

It wasn’t until my own little girl was born that I learned my Mother had taken thalidomide during pregnancy. For her, to have healthy children was it’s own spiritual burden. When you are standing in the warmth and sunshine it is easy to see the grace of God to be as wide as an ocean. But when you see the pain of others you realize that grace has a border as hard and clear as the edge of a razor. You know what side of the line you are on today. You know the line will be drawn anew tomorrow. So In the morning I will kiss my perfect, healthy daughter awake. I will try to be a good father, and pay my debt to painted ponies.

New Collage November #2 Progress - Continued on my new site One Child's Icon

2010-11-22T05:13:00.000-08:00

Day 2 Morning

Petals for underwater section

Day 3 Morning

Day 4 Morning

Day 6 Morning

Day 4 detail

Day 6 Detail

One Hundred

2010-11-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

The grizzled old Nashville song writer chastised the audience “You’ll never be a songwriter by writing two songs a year.” It was one of those events I was paid to be a technical baby sitter. My job was to be there in case something went wrong. We were in a cozy hotel ballroom and chances of disaster at the “Song Writers Symposium” were remote in the extreme. Being devoted to my paycheck, however, I sat behind the lighting console reading a book until this guy in his 2 pack a day gravel baritone started talking. “You want to write the perfect song, but if the song don’t flow when you’re writing it, it won’t flow when someone’s singing it.” He had my attention. “I set my sights on writing one hundred songs. The first few dozen were junk, but I got better and I didn’t give up. I got better and faster at the same time. Number ninety eight got recorded. Number ninety nine made it to the top forty on the Country charts which at the time meant I could afford to buy a new car. Number one hundred made it to number five on the charts and after that I quit my job to write songs full time. It took me a little short of three years. You have to let go of a song sometime. Once someone sings it on a record it ain’t yours no more anyway”. I’m sure the lawyers that had the stage later that day would have argued that last point. I was reading intently by then and never heard a word they had to say.

When a friend told me that something in one of my posts helped her at a time she really needed help, I was taken a little aback. I write for myself. In many ways it is purgative. It is like placing troubles on a leaf and letting them float down the river. The Songwriter’s words came back to me, however, when I noticed I had passed 40 posts. My writing was getting better. At the same time, I was posting more often. It hurts now to go back and look at my early things. I had wanted to write about things important to me, but my thoughts, while clear in my head, where incoherent on the page. There are so many things I want to say but I still lack the ability. Perhaps after 50 more posts the words will flow, perhaps sing.

The confidence my progression as a writer has given me has inspired me to again follow the path I set out on when I was 17. I will be an Artist. I have decided to produce 100 Water Lilly Icons. I will not dally. I have set a goal of producing one every two weeks. It is enough time to be creative but not enough to ponder. I must paint, not think. I must trust my instincts, accept accidents and use them in my composition. It has become a great lesson in loving life, as it flows.

90 Left

2010-10-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

The finished Collage from the post One Child's Icon.

Grief

2010-10-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

I'm not OK.

It's been two months since my Mother died. I can walk around without falling because after the miscarriage I learned how to pretend there was solid earth beneath my feet. I learned to work through the sensation of plummeting down the pit. It is an act. It is a conceit. I try to time and confine the worst despair to the rare moments I can be alone. I fail often at this. It still comes at random moments. Those are the easy times. Knowing what brings it on is the scary thing. It was the "O" word that got me. Orphan; the word folded me up like a cheap lawn chair. I am a Parent. I know about bottomless love, the unquenchable pride. The people who felt that way about me are dead.

I miss being a son.

Do I sound angry? I am. But if you sit with me a while I will only be sad soon. After that I may be happy for a brief time that my mother is no longer imprisoned a body that tormented her. After that I will be very quiet; when I realize again what that means and curse myself for it. I will be quiet for a long time.

Don't tell me it will get better. My Father died nearly three decades ago and I miss him every day. It gets worse because I understand more about my loss. I can add up all the things that should have been.

If there is one thing all the living can share it is grief. The feeling is exactly the same for the poorest child or the richest man. Know this. When you look into the eyes of stranger, behind whatever expression the eyes can veil, there is loss, infinite longing for someone they still love. If there isn't, there will be. If knowing this is not enough for you to treat each and every person with all the compassion you can muster, then Hell cannot damn you. You are damned as you walk this Earth.

Please forgive my anger, it will fade. In a little while I will smile, then I will be quiet.

One Child's Icon

2010-10-17T09:36:00.000-07:00

It was my wife Rowena that taught me. The bread in the Priest’s hands is not a symbol of the body of Christ. It is the body of Christ. The wine is the blood of Christ. An icon offers the same chance for communion. The young girl at the Gates of Dawn in Vilnius does more than view an artifact. She becomes part of its history, the history of the church that kept this image for centuries and the community that has protected the church. She participates in the embodiment of a young Palestinian girl in fear for her life and the life of her newborn child fleeing a great evil. She becomes part of an ongoing act of creation; the ethereal eternal life of the meaning of Faith.

Whether it is the story of the Last Supper, the Ghost Dance of the First Nations, the Sufi Sama or the Silver Madonna each culture offers communion. A transcendent and epiphanic experience that embodies a larger understanding. But it is always a work of art that is the point of contact, the navel from which Vishnu’s lotus springs. In Eastern cultures the Lotus represents many important concepts and appears in countless images and sculptures. One image pervasive to Hinduism is Vishnu in repose, Lakshmi at his feet, as he dreams the Universe. A lotus grows from his navel and within the lotus is Brahma, the creator. Everywhere the Buddha steps a lotus flower blooms. The opening petals embody the expansion of the soul. It embodies the ascension of the spirit from the earthly depths to the light of Heaven, the spirit that cannot be blemished.

It was the holy book “Outdoor Life Magazine” that led me. “Lunker Largemouth Lurk Beneath the Lily Pads” proclaimed the cover that featured a Bass with a feathered jig in its mouth soaring above a water lily. It looked just like the five pounder that hung on my friend's wall, and if there was anything my twelve-year-old self wanted it was a stuffed fish I could call my own. I knew just where to go. The east shore of City Lake was covered with Lily pads, completely covered. There was not an opening for my cast much larger than a truck tire and it was nearly impossible to reel in the lure without snagging the pads' long underwater stems. I decided to try the old standby of bait and bobber. But as it turns out the promised bass were not fond of this combo and I would spend many fishless hours watching the red and white plastic orb float motionlessly. Eventually I left the rod and reel at home and spent the days at the water’s edge amongst the enormous purple, pink and white flowers in solitude

This was my first Aesthetic experience. Something I chose for myself that had no desired outcome save its own existence. It is here that I learned about the bond of beauty and silence. I came because those two things dwelled there. I told no one, not even my family, of this. I didn’t know how. In college I tried. Our Eastern Art class spent a couple of days on the symbolism of the lotus. I found it quite exciting that half the world found significance in the same thing I did. But my understanding of the lotus was very different from the text and since my ideas wouldn’t be on the test they were greeted with a profound blank stare by the circle of friends that study grouped Art History 205.

As an artist I don’t just want to make pretty pictures; I want to give. And if I were to give you anything it would be the experience of being a young boy learning how beautiful the world is. How beautiful he is. We would follow the Tao down to the low places that most avoid and although we would walk through mud to get there, we would not be blemished. We would be there to witness the expansion of his soul. We would travel Vishnu’s universe together. We would never leave this place.

Until I can offer this experience, I will offer you its familiar. I will take paper and ink and paint and whatever else helps me find the image that I have held dear for four decades. I will bind all these things together. I will offer you One Child’s Icon.

Family Icon

2010-10-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

Icon 2

2010-10-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

Why the scent of turpentine summons the spirit of my Father

2010-08-06T16:43:00.000-07:00

Hanging on the wall in the part of our kitchen that is now Ella's one room school house is a painting of my Father's. It is one of my most prized possessions. Not because it is a great painting. It is not my Father's best, however we were together when he made it. He set up our easels side by side at Scales Lake State Park by one of the small lakes just off the road that circles the main lake on a warm Fall Saturday. He painted with oils. I had finger paints. He had just returned from his third war and now the art lessons that had begun two years before could begin in earnest again. He painted trees by the water. I painted "baby trees" just Autumn colors with no trunks or branches, swirls of yellow and red and green. I was just seven, but I remember the feel of the plastic paint between my fingers and the paper and the scent of my Father's turpentine.

Ella was asleep on our bed when Rowena presented me a page of her day's homework and shattered my illusion of control over what the future shall be. The exercise was to diagram the "hidden lines" in the painting Bathers at Asnières by Seurat. On the page were two lines that not only perfectly illustrated the internal composition but recreated visual impact of the original through their weight and sensitivity. My daughter has the eyes of an artist. The hands of an artist. She has an artists soul. Until I saw these lines on the page something inside me had hoped this was not true. For a year Ella has told everyone that she was going to going to be a Veterinarian. Yes, please, I thought to myself; be a Vet and your life will be easier than mine has been.
"This is my Son. He's an artist." There was never any equivocation when my Father said this. No parent has ever introduced their Daughter the investment banker or Son the engineer with any more pride. In the decades since his death I told myself that he just didn't know how hard it is to be an artist. He didn't know about the doubt and derision. I wondered, how the oldest Son of a coal miner that quit school after sixth grade to labor plowing the fields behind the family mule would want me to work through the poverty and struggle to scrape up money for paint? Now I know. Two lines on a sheet of paper later I know. My Father wanted many things for me, but my Father knew me. My life was never going to be easy. I am too deeply in love with struggle and I do not readily accept the things I cannot change.

Ella has a finely tuned sense of Justice. She lives an honest, truthful, loving way and I know that because of this her life will be difficult. There is nothing I can do to ease her way, short of changing the world. So I will do what I can do. I will show her beautiful ways to see the world. I will give her ways to show the world what is inside her. I will set up our easels side by side in a quiet place, and together we will paint the world around us.

To Witness: Prologue

2010-07-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

To Witness

2010-07-09T17:19:00.000-07:00

***

Hard to Mow the Grass

2010-05-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

It's is Sunday morning and the grass is well past ankle deep and shaggy as Ella and I play "Pitch and Catch" in the front yard. But it is hard to mow the grass now that I'm a Dad, especially early in the spring. The backyard is covered in little flowers. Violets identical to the ones on the dress she is wearing. The tiny blooms that as a two year old she gathered in tiny hand fulls. She cupped them to her nose to sigh in rapture. Buttercups that proclaimed her sweetness when held beneath her chin. Tall spindly flowers she calls Daisies whose blossoms are smaller than a dime with white petals as fine as her eye lashes. To my child the back yard is a Garden graced with all that word can offer.

And then there are dandelions and the hummingbirds. At a lecture about being good friends of hummingbirds we learned dandelion seed tufts are an important to the construction of their nests. They help hold the other materials together. We know now that they fly thousands of miles a year and always remember where they have been, who was kind with bottles of syrup and soft trumpet shaped flowers. They will return every year. I would love for them to each become a regular visitor so it seems I should work to promote a supply of natural nesting materials. Ella will help in this effort, seeding the world one puffball at a time. The tufts float through the air like the animated musical notes whistled from pursed lips.

On my way to the storage shed I pass our honeysuckle bush. There was one in the back yard of my child hood home. The boughs swept into the lawn like the crest of a wave leaving a curved hollow cave just boy sized. I loved to hide there and pull the flowers inner string to release the sweet drop of nectar within. I fill the mower with gas with little enthusiasm. It had quit running at the end of last years mowing season, but I hoped It would just work long enough to keep the neighbors from revolting in reaction to my sloth. To my chagrin it roars to life. Perhaps it was just tired in October. I let the self propelled front wheel drive help drag the machine towards the front yard where I traditionally start this effort. When I reach the deck I turn to look behind me and stop in my tracks. Laughing out loud. The mower has merely temporarily pushed the "Daisies" over and they stand tall once more. The violets have only been topped and countless purple and blue flowers lay in the swath where I have just passed. It seems that a 250 pound man with a 6 horsepower rotary knife can only claim limited dominion over the beautiful things that yield and persist.

I am so Happy.

My Mother is Dying

2010-04-20T04:37:00.000-07:00

People who do not believe in demons have never seen a disease remove someone they love. Not kill them, but take them away slowly by destroying their ability to love the world around them. Arthritis has tormented my Mother for decades. The comfort everywhere within her where bone meets bone has dissolved. Joints that were once straight are now jarring angles. As her ability to walk in this world fades, as her ability to hold it in her hands fades her attachment to this world fades. There is little left of her consciousness but need, and fragments of dreams. When I sit beside her I can feel it coming; the world that does not contain her pride, the world without her love for her children, for animals, for the taste of sweet things. It is coming as sure as the earth is turning.
The only sudden thing in this process was my realization that there would no reckoning of the child's accounts of all the wrongs she had ever committed. I had carried them with me until it was to late for atonement. Too late for her even to say "I'm sorry". An accidental act of mercy. I have carried this ledger long enough to fear my own transgressions towards my child. To fear all the good I can do will be shattered by the wrong word an undeserved or ill considered comment, by doing nothing when something was needed. So on the pages where I have listed the debits to her character I will add ; She created children who love God and God's creations. A caring spirit is a rare and special thing and the formation of one is no accident. If you have this as as a possession there a debt is owed to those who love you. I will use this ledger now to light the pyre for all the things that never should never have come between us. To cleanse this world. To clear the way for her passage.
A child knows what mother says is truth. It is their definition of the absolute that cannot be questioned. As you find yourself this is lost. But it is no easier to find the truth within yourself than it is to find your way in this world alone.Mother is the only objective truth you will ever know. Truth is in the dark months in the womb where there is only her. Truth that all the world is only one thing.

One and a Half Miles

2010-02-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

It is the middle of November 1972. My Father and I leave this home on South 7th Street in Boonville Indiana for our thrice weekly mile and a half jog. Well, it is a mile and a half of walking and jogging for me. When I cannot go with him he runs for three miles. You can take the man out of the Rangers but the Ranger never leaves the man. He loves to run, loved leading PT as a Drill Instructor. On a trip to see my Mom's family in Louisville he and I drove to Fort Knox to see one of his old friends, a Major who had flown helicopters with him. He pulled off the road to watch some soldiers do drills with what looked like half of a telephone pole. He watched them in silence. I could feel the weight of the heavy beam in his memories as we sat together on the bench seat of our 68 Chevy Biscayne. He was very pleased in their efforts. "That's the way it's done Son. That's how you learn to work together and trust each other."

The first 150 yards are always easy down the gentle slope of the street. Just where it levels off the the vacant lot where all the local boys play football. This is not touch football. The teenagers rule the field. Injuries to the smaller kids are always accompanied by insults, and laughter. But if you play without fear you get your own shots in. Without fear the game is worth playing. We go Fifty yards more yards and we pass over the railroad tracks, the finish line for our bike races. Eight and nine year olds racing hell bent for leather towards heavy machinery. Our parents knew about this, and thought little if anything of it. It was the time when in small towns mothers would hold the door open and state without equivocation "You are going outside to play" The only safety guideline we had to honor; " Be home before dark!"
The tracks are where I always slowed to a walk. "Walking is as good for you as running as long as you walk like you have somewhere to go" My Father always said. It was a way to make me feel better, as well as the truth, but I noticed he would always run. A misty rain had began to fall, cooling me down, and I kept jogging. "Two counts" he said as we reached the bottom of a short but steep hill. It was a breath control trick he had taught me. You exhale in rhythmic puffs in tempo with your strides. Never more than four counts. If you were struggling on two counts it is time to ease the pace or walk. The shot of oxygenation helps and we keep going past the crest, down the rest of seventh street, take right were the streets Ts and start down the long hill that leads to City Lake. By the time we reach the lake I am puffing on four counts again.

I spent countless days of my childhood at this park. The swimming area was where I learned to blow bubbles in the water, to dog paddle, the backstroke and the Australian crawl. The right to go to the high dive was earned by swimming the width of the pool and back without stopping under the watchful eye of the superintendent and the life guards. My first jump from the 15 foot height was a disaster that knocked the wind out of me. But by the next Summer I was could manage a reasonably good swan dive and if I entered just right I could touch the muddy bottom.
We jog past the swimming area down the steep hill to Third Street and turned left following the levee that is the western border of the park. My Father asks me questions about chess strategy. He knows what I am trying to do. We are at the half way mark and coming to another hill. If I can talk I can keep going, if not we will walk. We pass the hill and turn left on Lake Shore. On the left is the spot I caught my first fish. I was using my Gramps' cane pole with a red and white bobber and a worm from Nanny's garden. Gramps and my Father chuckled when I declared the four inch blue gill to be "a keeper" My Grandfather took the fish off the hook and lowered it back into the lake."We'll let him grow grow a little more cowboy" One of the tough things about being a kid is triumph and despair so closely follow one another.
The rain grows heavier as we continued down the winding lane to the road on the eastern border. I had read in one of my Outdoor Life Magazines that "Lunker Largemouth Lurk Beneath Lily Pads" This side of the lake is very shallow and covered by water lilies with enormous maroon and white flowers. I will spend many hours here and never catch anything. It is here I learn the bond between silence and beauty.
"Can you keep going?" My Father asks. When I say "Yes" things change. Before there where two sets of footfalls. Now there is one. His breathing syncs to mine. It feels like I am half of a powerful machine. I am drawing not just from my father's strength but his instincts. There are none of the normal small stumbles in my strides. I am running with confidence and purpose. We are doing this together. We glide past the railroad tracks and up the hill towards home. The last half mile is passed without a word between us, but we have never been so completely connected. His hand clasps my shoulder and squeezes at the base of my neck."Good work Son"
Now that I am a Father myself there are many times I stumble. There are many times I feel I do not know the way forward, but as my confidence grows and I overcome my fears I can feel the connection. My Father is beside me; step for step and breath for breath.

Visions of Anger and Sorrow

2009-12-13T06:57:00.000-08:00

I think I'm having a miscarriage. Please come home" So began of one of the darkest periods of my life. Many people tried to tell me why it happened, chromosomal damage and other pointless facts. My truth was that I should have been able to keep it from happening. I should have done something differently. I should have been a better person and then I would have been worthy. The only thing I heard from anyone that made a difference was "It happened to us too"
With the passage of time I gained some control over the inexplicable sensation of falling, the seemingly random opening of the earth beneath my feet. I had even begun to venture on to the golf course, one of the few places where I could successfully focus on something completely external. It was not unusual for me to have the course to myself, or at least a big chunk of it. I have never been part of a regular foursome and I like to play late in the day when others don't. At this time in my life that was handy because I was incapable of the small talk.The Sixth hole of my "Home" course is a par three with the tee shot over water to an uphill green. The lake is heart shaped, from the Southern tip by the tee to the North shore bordering the green it measures no more than hundred yards. Cattails line the Eastern shore, but it is the Northwest corner that had become one of my favorite places. A garden of Weeping Willows has sprung from a single ancestor claimed by the tornado that ravaged downtown Nashville and the East side years before. It was the home of a pair of Red Wing Blackbirds. They were loud and proud of their flowing green home and if I passed by without seeing them I felt lonely. One day I hit a flush 8 iron that landed just above the hole and rolled back to a nice up hill leave of about 10 feet. I was pleased with myself as I put my club back in the bag and turned to take one more look at the green to see if the ball had remained on the steeply banked lower portion of the green. A large black bird emerged from the willows flying straight for me. A moment later it was followed by the Redwings.
I had watched them defend their territory from threats large and small and real and imagined but never with such fury. They closed the gap in an instant, clutching, tearing at the crow. Screeching, I will carry to my grave the voice of their terror, and with it the image of their nestling in the crows beak, feathers half formed and sparse. It was alive and struggling. As they flew overhead my voice joined theirs. For a moment I was out of my body flying with them, twisting, diving, but, I fell behind. Then I was back within myself on my knees weeping without sound, impotent in my desire for violence, watching them fly over the trees and disappear in the valley beyond.

Omens are supposed to come before the peril. Their protection is in foreshadow, our ability to understand what we have seen and believe in what we see. Instead, I am given this cruel visage of the incarnation of my agony, too late to save myself. I have carried these images with me now for nearly a decade and thought perhaps too much about their meaning. Perhaps the omen was a warning about anger. Within my experience that day was crystalline fury. I wanted to kill, to kill for the killings sake. If I had been an angel I could have destroyed the entire world in the pursuit. I could have done it knowing the destruction of my beloved. I could have done it knowing the consequence, of the death of innocents. In that moment was the essence of Satan's fall.

To a man with a hammer everything looks like a nail, and anger was my hammer. I was so wounded. I was so harmed, and I had this blunt weapon for protection. Anger keeps people away. It makes those that stay with you keep reacting to you, and thus channeled and predictable. For my soul, it was what I had to tear at the dark wall between all that could have been and all that has been taken from me.

* * *

It seemed that Lewis did not want to be a house cat. We had erected a bird bath in memorial to Simba a Siamese we had rescued from the hallways of the high rise we live in on 5th Ave in Downtown Nashville. Lewis came several times a day to drink. We noticed he had a problem with one of his eyes, but we could not get close to him. But as summer bloomed I started grilling out and the fragrance of roast chicken got his attention. He started getting closer and we noticed he had a hideous infection. It took weeks of gentle coaxing with bits of chicken and pork tenderloin to get him close enough to touch. It took another week to arrange our plan. We got him used to a morning treat and one day grabbed him. Stuffed him in our cat carrier and it was off to the Vet. They treated him. We needed to keep him inside for a couple of weeks however, and that was a difficult proposition. He was not happy with us. Apparently he was quite attached to a couple of things the Vet had removed, and took our imposition personally. One day I kneeled down to get a look at him under the table in our guest bedroom and he flew at me wrapped his front legs around my arm and using his claws to get a purchase sunk his teeth as deep into my flesh as he could manage.

After that we became the best of friends. We could not push him out the door. He was a "By God" house cat. He slept beside me. Just far enough down that my hand fit naturally on the nape of his neck where he liked to be scratched. We had 9 years together, we were tight. In some ways we still are.

Lewis developed a form of feline intestinal malady that made it difficult for him to digest his food. The end was hard, it took months. His suffering ended 49 years after the day I was born.

The Morning was dark grey windy rainy and Lewis could barely lift his head. He was stumbling. It was time to to take him to the Vet and end his suffering. We all went together. Rowena, Ella and I were with him when he passed. When we left the windowless room the Sun had come out. The rain was gone. The air was still and birds sang. Rowena and I noted the drastic change, but even when you know you had done everything possible to prolong life, and that going on was cruel, it was hard to accept such a poetic Technicolor transformation seemingly on cue.

We drove home in silence. When we got home the ritual of going through the heavy gate of the privacy fence as a family unit was made a little more difficult by my attempt to be reverential as I carried Lewis' remains in the cat carrier. As we closed the gate we were confronted by an huge black and yellow butterfly hovering in front of us. Time seemed to hang as he fluttered there. He then made two tight circles around us and confronted us again. He flew to the spot where Lewis had laid during our walks together, landed and lingered for a moment. He danced back into the air, passing through the fence and into the back yard. Then, he was gone.

We buried Lewis under the Dogwood tree, which was a memorial to the Father of the family that lived here before us. He lies there with Simba, Fable, Fritz, and Sheen.
As the Sun set Rowena and I took our accustomed in front of our lap tops across from one another at the dining room Table. The looking over the edge of monitors Rowena looked at me and said both our words in her voice. "The butterfly was Lewis come to tell us that everything is all right. He is no longer in pain. We don't have to be sad any more. We can go on."

As those Words floated in the air between us I went to the Nashville Humane Society's web site and on the first page was a picture of a 9 month old black tomcat named Lewis. The caption said that all he needed was a place where he could sit and look out the window of his new forever home. He is a very happy cat now. We are happy too and proud to claim another rescue pet for our family. As I write this he is laying beside me in his box on the table. We watch the sun come out in the world just beyond our window, together.

* * *

Ella and Rowena are laying in bed beside me. Sleep is not easy for in these days after Lewis' passing. The house is quiet and dark. As I close my eyes I am still awake when I find myself on a dirt road on a plain of wheat. Before me is the Pre Raphealite vision of two spirits. I know them. They have walked with me since I was very young. Sorrow is pale, her features diffused by a soft internal glow. Anger's skin also pale white but has chiseled dark eyes and raven hair. Sorrow's finger tips trace the wounds across my heart, Anger the ones across my eyes, the scars of our communion. They have come to say farewell. They will be near, but they will no longer lead me. They have been my guides since my fifteenth year, when my father in his long dying illness told me he believed I wanted him to die. It was the day my struggle against thoughts of nothingness began. As they turn and walk into the distance I feel barren. I feel lost. I begin down the road alone, but as the vision fades I feel the warmth of hands joining mine.

* * *

My child's life joins these images together. Her life may not have been possible at all without the miscarriage. Some doctors believe the cells from children lost in this way help heal their mothers. We had given up hope of having a child before this unborn spirit's passing. Ella's birth is a miracle. All life is. Life cannot be stopped, you can only join with it. Now I know I can protect her only as I protect myself and weapons like anger destroy those that wield them.

As a Parent my way through life will be fashioned in the way I treat and what I teach my child. My map of the world will be seen in the life our family. The clearest evidence of this was in Ella's efforts to console me about Lewis. Be prepared. Your child believes what you tell them and will continue to as long as you make your own words true. If your child tells you a departed soul has gone to a better place, you must know in your heart that that he lives now in paradise. If you teach her to love life and be open to all it has to offer you must be ready to open your heart to wonder. These lessons are no longer for your child's sake only, they are for your own.

Visions: Prologue

2009-10-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

In a study about the belief in "Luck" participants were asked whether they consider themselves to be either Lucky or Unlucky. In one part of the experiment they were asked to walk a course on the college campus. Along the course was placed $20 bills where they would not blow away but could easily be seen. The participants that considered themselves to be Lucky almost always saw and picked up the bills. Those that considered themselves to be Unlucky did not. It is not that the Unluckyists keep their heads down in their maudlin stupor, their world does not include the possibility of random beneficial events, so no $20 to be seen. The Luckyists believe in fortune, in positive happenstance, and therefore $20 bills are manifested. Both present themselves with that in the world they are looking for: what they desire and what they need.
Vision is a complex process.
I have lived through my eyes. The visual experience is a personal artifact, one in which I have been willing to place a profound significance. Between the world and the seeing of it, vision and the experience of it, the experience and the meaning with which I endow it, my universe resides. When I see what I define for myself as an Omen; it is a gift from my own better angels. And when my mind is quiet, after focusing on an image, visions come to me. They are the life I have been unable to express through my own living. They are my soul's familiar.
I want to offer those that will bear witness my testimony; some of what has passed before my mind's eyes. If after these three posts you consider me to be insane, assuming you do not already, that would be altogether appropriate in today's world. I find my life to be equal measure of absurdity and meaning. I fear neither and embrace both with fervor. In fact I find no reason to separate them and little enough reason to find their borders. If this defines madness, so be it.

Transcendent

2009-10-11T18:10:00.000-07:00

We are greater than any one moment flowing past the here and now. We are infinite beasts that can only be grasped by the surface. All our yesterdays are here. Every sunrise to come is here. I am forever a child in my mother’s arms, my father’s heart. My hand grows still as I feel my passing from my daughter’s waking dream. I lay beside my lover, soul in soul, in excess of creation. All this is alive, nothing that can exist will ever fade.

Goals

2009-09-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

I have three goals.
To raise a child that smiles easily.
To live a faithful life devoted to my family.
To create a home where god exists as a vessel with the potential to contain the ocean. The ocean filled with life. The ocean that we have not fathomed. The depth of wonder. A home where what can be known is numbered like the stars in the skies. The sky that wraps around all the mountains of the earth and the moon. I want to live in a home where the very timbers still carry spirits of the trees from which they were hewn. Where everything that has a voice is heard. Where respect and joy share the same source. The source from which all souls flow; from god's infinite vessel. To do this I must live a faithful life devoted to my family. And Ella will have reason to smile.

Family

2009-09-11T17:39:00.000-07:00

I would hope that people would treat their American Brothers and Sisters the way they treat their Brothers and Sisters. Perhaps they do. I have known a Brother that killed his Brother.I have seen people trade their Family's best interest and their faith for a supply of cash that will last them half a year. I am sure it happens for less. I have seen people lavish their Families with insults and degradation. I have seen people turn their backs on those that love them most and forsake the love of generations. I am watching this within my Nation today with no less horror.
My American Brothers and Sisters I offer you what I offer my own. When you suffer I will be with you. When you need I will provide for you. When you are in danger I will protect you. When you fail I will fail. We are here together and every tribulation we will face together.
When you strive we will grow together. When you learn we will become greater. When you achieve we will rejoice as one. You are my Family.

Silence

2009-09-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Rowena can hear the voices of the silent. And I listen to hers. A few months ago our one eyed black tomcat, Lewis, was little more than a ragged piece of fur placed loosely over bone. He had been wasting away for weeks; unable to digest his food. At one point he was unable to hold his head up. He leaned his head against the side of water dish to drink. I had come to terms and was ready to take him one last time to the vet. Rowena had spent many hours sitting beside him through his suffering, the way a Christian does, and although she had come to terms with his end as well she said that he was asking her not to give up. He wanted to live. He was trying. Since then Lewis has put on a full cat's weight. He has bad days when the suffering continues. But like all of us he is still trying to live.

One difficulty we had in during his recovery was a sudden desire, on his part, to go outside. After we first took him in, rescuing him from a grizzly death, he shunned the outer world. He run away from an open door to hide in small spaces in his new home. But now he tried to escape every time we let the dogs out. We were afraid he wanted to find a place to be alone to die and we would not let him go. But our faith in his actions has renewed along with his health. This morning he and I went outside together.

We have fenced our entire yard so he is safe. His big tomcat head is too big to fit through the fence and it is too tall for him to jump over at this stage in his return. He walked around the perimeter by the street and our neighbors driveway while I sat on the porch with my coffee, but when he headed for the back yard I decided to go with him just in case there was a place in the sub fence that divides front from back that he could squeeze through. We moved very slowly together past the Hydrangeas and Day Lilies then the Dogwood until we came to the Crepe Myrtle that blossoms over the fence, softening what had once been a sharp edge. Under the Myrtle he sat, crossed his legs neatly under himself in warm dirt of the constant shade.

I swear in the wind I heard "this is the spot" It was not a spot I would have chosen. No place for me to sit. But Lewis has his own point of view about perfection, so I sat my cup down on the fence post and took a good lean against the gate to take in the welcome mutual silence that can only be appreciated with a good friend.

Four young squirrels played in the Pignut Hickories; eight of them tower above the quarter acre expanse within the 6 foot red cedar privacy enclosure behind the house. Each has nurtured and sheltered dozens of generations of grey squirrels. After all their leaves fall their nests can be seen in the highest limbs forty feet above the ground. But on this early September morning the long limbs are a playground and the young are chasing each other with sheer abandon jumping from branch to branch in a race that would claim a mile if on the ground. After sampling each tree's playful possibilities the game moves on to our neighbor's yard and then the next until the hummingbird's drone drowned out the sound of their antics. We have a feeder on the deck and the little birds dive from the shelter of the Huckleberry tree to sip. It seems like there are a dozen of them but perhaps only two busily taking turns. Only after they have their fill do I notice the huge brown spider spinning it's web. It's a Garden Orb Weaver and in the 20 minutes I watched it create a masterpiece 5 feet in diameter. When I was younger, but not much, I held a great antipathy towards spiders and I would have quickly dispatched both web and weaver. But Rowena and Buddhist Monks have convinced me that I can live in peace with them - so I take and the last sip of coffee and consider that one day a spider may have something to tell me; if I can share its silence.

When I turn to look at my feline friend, he winks (could be a blink but since he only has one eye it can be taken either way) as if to acknowledge what we just shared. It's about time for my family to be waking up so I sweep Lewis into my arms. He purrs in heavy draughts as we walk to the front door and the sleepy Sunday morning waiting for us to share with our family.

The world has never asked me to be silent, but it rewards me when I am.

Listen

2009-08-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

"Listening, not imitation, may be the sincerest form of flattery. "

Dr. Joyce Brothers

Everyone thinks they listen. We rarely do. We hear. We pose while our mind wanders. We make a decision three words into a sentence where that person is going and plan our reply. Listening is an act of commitment; an act of faith.

To get get a feel for listening try overt action in a low pressure, temporary relationship. For example. The next time you go shopping in a store that employs service people and the employee comes to ask you if they can be of assistance turn to face them, look them in the eye as they speak. Wait for them to finish and let the sound of their words resonate in the air. Be honest with them. Let them do what they are paid to do. Ask them a question about why they chose a particular item over another. Keep eye contact with them. Do not rush and do not interrupt. If they do not have what you need or like ; thank them for their time and leave. You have risked nothing and you will learn much about your ability to be patient and accept the thoughts of others if for no other reason than the idea that those thoughts exist.Eventually this will seep into the relationships that matter to you.

Rowena talked for years against the public school system and for home schooling but I did not really listen. I heard only enough to make a decision about why this was important too her. I was wrong. Wrong to discount huge blocks of her arguments. Wrong about what was important to her. She had made clear, thoughtful, well researched, conclusions and I had been unwilling to step outside my preconceptions. The act of listening and accepting her thoughts, her good will, and her wisdom has rewarded me with a peaceful home filled with beauty and potential. Ella loves to learn and Rowena is a Teacher in the most wonderful ways. My life is better. Better because of simple acts of Commitment and Faith.

Service

2009-05-24T08:47:00.000-07:00

Standing beside the helicopter is my Father, James Edwin Aldridge. He served in two branches of the military. The Navy, which he joined when he was underage, and the Army from which he retired as a Warrant Officer. His service spanned three decades and as many wars.

During WWII he took advantage of the boredom of duty on Saipan to get the education he was denied as the oldest son of a subsistence farmer and coal miner in Kentucky. He always praised the military for this. The Armed Forces gave him freedom from poverty and ignorance; as it has for countless young men and women.

Korea seemed to define his military career for him. He was in a Ranger unit, from the 505th Airborne, when the Chinese joined the conflict. He always said that his greatest accomplishment in the military was never losing a man while he was on the line with his unit. He cursed the time he was in a field hospital, he never watched MASH, I think more for the fact that some of his men died without him as much as the pain of recovering from a grenade blast. He carried shrapnel from that attack until his death, along with the pain and guilt over his fallen friends.

He never talked much about his time in Indochina from 66-67. He said it was the only time he had ever been truly afraid. I never pressed after he said that, if it was worse than Korea I didn't want to know.

My Father never claimed that he joined the military out of love of country; he joined as a matter of survival. But the act of serving, his duty, changed him. In the early sixties we were stationed in Washington, DC. One of his duties there was to evacuate the constitution in case of Soviet attack. Although he never had to fulfill this plan, he got to see the document. It became personal to him. He could read it to me from memory. He carried a copy of it everywhere in the years just prior to his death. It was like a shield. It was like a picture of his family.

It wasn't until Ella came into my life that I began to understand. I loved my wife, and I would have given my life for her without hesitation. But, I would kill for my family, with or without remorse, whether the act saves my life or costs my mortal soul.

On Memorial Day we should remember the other great sacrifice our soldiers offer; separation from the people they love, often years at a time. This is the great tangible loss suffered by nearly everyone that puts on the uniform. We should honor the living for what they give a chance to sleep in safety, in our own beds. I have never been one to pray, but I am when I am away from my family. I pray for one thing - another day with Ella and Rowena. It is the only thing I want and so far the answer has always been yes. And perhaps if my Father's vision of heaven is real he and I will spend another day together, in a large vegetable garden. We will hoe. We will sweat. We will eat the sweet corn right off the stalk in neat, well tended rows of paradise.

Marriage

2009-05-17T09:52:00.000-07:00

Rowena and I were married in the same Church by the same Priest that baptized Ella. For one religious rite the government claims dominion. For one of these religious rites the government claims it proper place. There are places in the world where my daughter's baptism in the Catholic Church would be her key to a better life. There are places in this world where it would be her death warrant. When governments get involved in the Sanctity business injustice and evil follow.

Except for branding experiences promulgated by major political parties our government is not interested in matters of holiness. Our government is occupied almost entirely in matters of property rights. And that is it's role in civil law pertaining to marriage. Who gets what. Who inherits what. And what is Uncle Sam's cut.

In America when it comes to money we have established one egalitarian rule. Everyone gets a shot a the gold ring without discrimination towards the shape, color, or extracurricular activities you have for your plumbing. So here in the land of the depleted 401K the question is not who gets to play. The question is do we heterosexuals want to keep the ALL the benefits that go with Marriage? Including the conceit that when two people stand before god and proclaim their love and devotion, we stand behind them.

Searching

2009-04-10T10:42:00.000-07:00

I am still searching for

my relationship to

the images I create.

Dance

2009-04-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

Exult in the Joy of Being Alive and You Will Feel the Earth Dancing Around You

Possession

2009-03-28T07:27:00.000-07:00

This is my wedding ring. It is the only thing I own that matters to me.

In the fifteen years I have worn it not only has my love and commitment to Rowena grown but also my capacity to cherish, to hold dear, everything and everyone in my life. What it symbolizes has become my connection - the new beginning of my attachment to the world to which I am born and through which I travel hand in hand with my beloved.

Constant

2009-03-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

It has been ten months since I have posted. Someday I will write about the many things that have transpired. There have been some big changes. But for the next six posts I want to tell you about the things that have not and will not change.

A+

2008-05-26T14:57:00.000-07:00

I failed miserably in my promise to post about my my class, but I aced the class itself. I scored 100% on my paper and presentation. I missed a total of three questions on my tests and quizzes. My percentage for the class was 98.37. The class was however "Itroduction to Technology" so as a Technical Director.... perhaps I had an edge.

Bumper Sticker Wisdom

2008-01-16T05:06:00.001-08:00

"Don't Believe Everything You Think"
Rear Bumper '97 Ford Escort

Degrees

2008-01-16T04:08:00.000-08:00

There was another hold on registration that required me to meet with an advisor. The degree program Dean suggested would require an additional 15 hours over the mandatory 128. So I went to the Art Department to see about dropping from a BFA program, that would require a lot of mileage on our 98 Dodge Stratus on which I just rolled the 100K mark, with a BA in Visual Studies. Rowena and Ella went with me to meet Brent Oglesbee the art department head. He was very generous, and very patient. He agreed to accept an earlier design course no longer part of the curriculum. He will also substitute the portfolio class he felt was not germane to the goals of the degree program in my case with a upper level studio class. This will give me the BA with only 2 more classes. I will have to pick up a minor ,such as the Theater Departments Performing Arts Management, or a second BA in philosophy. Or something else. I have a year to decide.

Admission

2008-01-15T17:34:00.000-08:00

The part of that got me was“The Admissions Committee has carefully reviewed your file and is confident WKU will benefit from your addition to our community. We also feel you will benefit from the rich history and tradition of our university.” I should be too old to be touched by sentiments expressed by from letter. Later when I went register for my first class, however, there was a hold on my account. Apparently I had left a $15 dollar fee unpaid since 1982. I guess they didn't check my file too closely. I am just glad they didn't add interest.

One Thing

2007-12-23T10:04:00.000-08:00

Everything is one thing until one thing is one thing. Then everything is everything. Or as Lao Tzu puts it:

The Tao is nameless.
What can be named is not eternal.

The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth.
The name is the mother of the ten thousand things.

“The Heavens” separates the universe from our world then “sky” cleaves from “earth”. The definition “tree” divides it from the earth from which it springs. “Wood” kills the tree and “Plank” carves it up.

This is the intellectual path by which the thing we are part of becomes the things we can use.

Face Lift

2007-12-15T16:51:00.000-08:00

Friday I drove to WKU to drop in on my contact with WKU Finish. He wasn't in and I ended up speaking with Dean(name not title) Kahler, Vice President for Academic Affairs/Enrollment Management, who graciously accepted me barging in without an appointment. We reviewed my transcript. At the very bottom of the page was the F I received for the psychology class I failed to drop in time by the appropriate date. In '82 I thought little of it, I would just take the class the next semester and the F would be removed from my transcript. F... for failure., It was the perfect closing statement on the official record of by early experience. Irony can be so ironic. I will remove this mark from my past.
I feel like I am preparing for cosmetic surgery. I am going to pay thousands of dollars and invest a chunk of pain in an effort that will have dubious effect on the reality of my life. The hope is to heal the scar that has caused anguish and embarrassment and festered for a quarter of a century.

Starting

2007-12-10T08:13:00.000-08:00

This morning I took the first step to finishing my bachelor's degree after a 25 year hiatus. I found program at Western Kentucky University designed just for this purpose. I was so excited this morning at prospect I could not keep from crying as I drove Ella to Playing School. I plan on posting about every new step along the way.
Rudi

Dancing

2007-11-12T05:06:00.000-08:00

There is a difference between serious and solemn for which David Schnaufer provided a beautiful example. He taught here at Blair School of Music and was as serious about the making of music as anyone of our fantastically dedicated faculty. At the same time, he exuded an infectious joy that always left me smiling for hours after spending just a moment with him, except once.

His Office was across the hall from where the Blair String Quartet rehearses and he came out one day to discover Ella and me eaves dropping on one of their sessions. “Does she like the Music?” he asked. “She loves the music, but I had to tell her it wasn't dancing music” I replied. His whole demeanor changed and he squared up on me, like a fighter in a ring. “All music is for Dancing” He looked at me like a Baptist Preacher demanding a sinner to repent. After I nodded my acceptance his smile returned. He reached down patted Ella on the back,“Don't let him forget!”, turned and went his way down the hall.

David, I will never forget.

None

2007-11-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

I have devoted my entire life to Art by learning, teaching, and creating. I will gladly lovingly devote my life's remainder. Having said this, I will say this:

Art has no purpose.
Art has no value.

Of these two things you will only find in art what you hope to find within yourself.

Overheard

2007-10-27T05:41:00.000-07:00

My 4 year old could do that!
In addition to photography my 4 year old does several paintings or drawings every day. She makes up songs. She dances. She is a budding playwright, but what she would really like to do is direct. Since her life is not troubled by the four essentials in my aesthetic thesis her life consumes and exudes art. This will continue as long as there is some ease in her life and the bitter impoverished souls fail to convince her that creation is unworthy or wasteful.

"There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children."
Nelson Mandela

Instamatic

2007-10-26T18:46:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that all the links from my previous post are images on Flickr. On their welcome page under the title and header/image is the number of images that have been uploaded to this one photo sharing service in the last minute. Usually around 4000. Now say Flickr is wildly popular and 1/10^th of one percent of all the pictures taken in the world are uploaded there. This would mean 5 billion 760 million photos are taken every day . Nearly one for every being on earth- every day. Click the blue the last minute link and you will see twenty of those 4000. These have value to someone. Someone picked up their camera, made a decision and set that small instant apart from everything else in the universe. Even my daughter Ella has gotten into the act.

ART

2007-10-02T17:02:00.000-07:00

I believe any Philosophy of art should be as broad as possible:

Art is the creation or participation in an experience that does not directly serve the four essentials (shelter, security, sustenance, sex).
Art is an intrinsic part of life as a human that only be controlled by some sort of tyranny, including definition, explanation, or criticism.

If you wonder what I mean by the Tyranny of Definition, I can guarantee the first part of my thesis of what art is would anger architects, martial artists, chefs and adult entertainers- all of whose efforts I value with varying levels of enthusiasm.

Intro To -

2007-07-15T17:45:00.000-07:00

Universities deliver adequate training in the course of major study. Although I have never supported myself in the field for which I studied, what I learned there and how I learned it gave me an enormous advantage and nuanced understanding of the field in which I have prospered. The great opportunity lost at university is in the quality and approach of the numerous “intro to” elective classes that are part of general education. Many are taught by graduate students who seem to feel that if idiots would just stop signing up for these ridiculous classes financial aid would eliminate the requirement for this service and they could get back to finishing their thesis. One of my friends told the story of one such Physics offering in which the teacher began each days class with a demonstration of angular momentum. He sat in a swivel chair with a small weight in each out stretched hand while two volunteers spun him round. He would then draw his hands closer and closer forcing the chair to turn faster and faster. This ended only after he was dizzy enough to loose his balance and crash to the floor.

There were several elective classes that were designed specifically for art students. One was “Light Color and Vision”. This was the only class I had in college that directly related to my eventual career as a theatrical lighting designer. It was taught by a very serious middle aged man that took this mission seriously. He treated the long haired scruffy tie dyed reeking of last night's party assemblage of disaffected young artists with patience doubled by the subtle gravitas he gave the subject.

And then there was Aesthetics.

I am sure the responsibility for teaching us was distasteful for someone that had devoted his life to the logic and method of philosophy. Perhaps he had lost a bet. Perhaps he could not remember the names of the department head's children. He was not happy. He made it quite clear that none of us would ever be able to understand anything that he was talking about. We were not worthy of understanding. We would not profit by attending. We debased the intellectual pursuit that he was proud of. Or so it seemed to many of us at the time

Three years later, I had latched on to a keep your rent paid JoeJob on a state highway department as a member of a survey team. Apparently they felt the same about my sense of irony that the people of my home town and soon I had been exiled to a concrete plant, by myself, running a slump test every 2 hours and not asking too many questions about the 100 year old black man that wore plaid suits with a check pork pie hat. There was a snub nose thirty eight visible on his belt and he wrote the men's numbers down on small pieces of plain paper five days a week. I had a lot of time on my hands and I felt it best to look like I wasn't paying attention to many other things I saw happening there. So I brought all the text books I had been unable to sell back to the bookstore. This kept the conversation that kept followed what'ya readin' to a minimum and somehow softened the sting of the student loans by offering some proof of the value of my shortened college education if by no other evidence but mass.

One of them was John Hosper's anthology on aesthetics- the text book used in our class. It seemed like I was reading it for the first time. This was not crap. Some of it was even interesting. Some of it was actually moving. None of it had any chance of burning through the haze of ten hours a day in a studio. But I had been away from that womb for two years and the distance could now find a companion in the separation of the experience of what art is and the study of what it can be. I had not been the victim of condescending professor. He was teaching an introduction to an esoteric branch of a greater discipline. I was on fire. He was discussing thermodynamics. Any philosophy that is not born of and borne through, the act of living is irrelevant to those in the fully immersed in act of it's everyday creation.

one thing

2007-05-31T16:06:00.000-07:00

Memory objects as Jewels:
Rowena and I had spent several evenings together. One night when I dropped her off at her home, we said our goodbyes in our obfuscatory friendly way. I was getting ready to start my Truck when the passenger door opened. In one seamless motion she leaned in across the seat and kissed me "full upon the lips". Her gaze holding me captive as she withdrew, closing the door again.
I can hold this moment. It keeps me connected to everything her and I have been.

It depends on your definition of the word “IS “

2007-05-31T15:46:00.000-07:00

One positive outcome of seeing my consciousness as an object is the place events in my life have taken as a things that exist. They are objects, that have permanence. The sense of the passage of time within the experience is only a way our biology facilitates understanding the potential within our existence.

value added

2007-05-30T04:17:00.000-07:00

Making such a grand and sweeping statement about the value of my consciousness begs the question...who gives a rats ass?? What difference does it make in the way I live? Does it make my life easier... happier? Does it bring me closer to those around me? What has Rene' Descartes done for me lately? The fact that I cannot doubt my own existence is little comfort if I doubt the love of those I cherish.

Value

2007-05-28T07:55:00.000-07:00

"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?"
"Hamlet, Act 2 scene 2"

Or in other words "My Internal Dialog". And many others or Shakespeare's words would not be resonating centuries later. Unsaid in this however is that our view of humanity is our view of our selves. The glory and wonder of our existence is our hope for ourselves. Bleak and wretched is our fear of our selves. The ebbing and flowing tide of the evaluation is the power that drives us into many of our life's bitter battles. The search for God. Our preening quest for the desire of others. The need to have the people we share this time with acknowledge the uniqueness and correctness of our thoughts.
I think the question "Does My life and all of the experiences the make it's composition have any value, any meaning?" is a simple one. If all silk in the east were yours or all the gold of the Aztecs fell into your hands; the only thing you will ever really touch is the texture of your own thoughts. The object that represents the entirety of your experience is the singularity of existence. Anything of which there is only one of has infinite value.