The Next Step

I signed the papers to put the house on the market. It won't actually be listed until right after Christmas, but the decision has been made, the price has been set and I am going to do it. Finally. I have taken the next step in moving forward.

The plan as it stands right now is this: I unload tons of my junk; the clutter that I have collected through the ages, the objects, the things, the little pieces of paper with strange little marks on them that I have saved from years gone by. I reduce my belongings to that which will fit in the back of a truck. Then, I sell the house and use the money I make to buy that truck to put my shit in. I pay off loans and credit cards and rent a small apartment where Max and I can stay until I've saved up more money - at least $5000 to move on. Then Max and I go.

Go where?

Well, that's a good question. I would like to find a place where I can afford my medications, where I can be with or meet someone to spend my life with, somewhere that has access to culture, nature and prospects for growth.

I need to ask an important question here. Am I running away from something? Maybe I am. I am running from a place where I feel stagnant. I am running from a trap that was fine to linger in for a while, but now, in this particular time, I find that the level of poison in my system is too much. I can feel it seeping into parts of my being that I don't want tainted.

There is one major thing that bothers me and that is my desire to maintain a close physical connection with my parents. I know that I don't have to be around to take care of them, but a large part of me still wants to stick around. I want to be there for them, but I also need to get moving on my own life and, from what I'm feeling now, the two situations don't share a similar space. I can only trust that this and other intrusive thoughts are addressed as they need to be through the passage of time.

So there it is. I consolidate, sell, regroup and hit the road with Max, the intrepid Beagle and bestest of friends, and I pray for the best.

I don't know what is next. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. I don't know. I just don't know. But, isn't that the fun part? Not knowing?

I've started thinking about trucks. I've started thinking about going on camping trips with Max. I've started thinking about driving across country with Max, my camera, my computer and a tent and a fishin' pole.... my, how the imagination begins to fly when someone even mentions opening the door to the cage...

Engineering A Life

I live in Missouri. It is a beautiful place at times, with rolling hills, creeks, streams and rivers that cut through the fertile soil. There are flowering, fragrant trees and flora of myriad scents and shapes; elegant deer prancing through hardwood forests and wondrous natural features like caves, fields of huge granite boulders and broad, sky-domed prairies that yield to the wild and adventure laden West. There is history here, too. Lewis and Clark, Jesse James, the Pony Express, the World's Fair. Yes, it's beautiful, it's interesting, it's nice. There are even pockets of culture and broad, progressive thinking. Intellectuals. Writers, musicians, artists and thinkers exist in the cities and small towns alike. But it's hell living here. I feel so alone and isolated here and I want to get out.

How do I do that? How do I dissolve the ties that bind me to this place and move - move forward, or even take a step or two to the side, just to initiate some action? Sure. Just sell the house, sell all that you do not need, pack your bags and go. All fine and good, but I need to make sure that I can get my meds. They're damned expensive and without them I'm dead. I mean really dead. So, I need to make sure that I have money or a job that pays or insures, or move to a state that has adequate health care.

That thins out the possibilities a bit.

And then there is the family issue. My mom and dad are here. I pride myself on doing my best to take care of them. They have taken care of me for so long, don't I owe it to them? Or is there really a point where I can think of myself without feeling guilty?

I wonder if having any control of my own life is an illusion or not. Is will power and perseverance all that is necessary to craft a desirable living situation, a job, a lifestyle that makes me happy? Or am I bound by situations beyond my control?

I can do my best to do the necessary tasks, to make the calls, do the footwork, initiate processes, follow the rules and play the game, but I have no control over how others ultimately behave. And the final outcome of so many essential things ends up in their, not my, hands. If the results are not to my liking then I pick myself up, dust myself off and start again.

A lifetime can be spent doing that.

So, how does one engineer a life, craft an existence, manipulate the materials of being into a comfortable lair?

That is not a rhetorical question.

a smattering of thought

I was thinking about my friend, Sheila, who died on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Josh, the guy that was doing the lion's share of the care giving, and some other friends have begun going through her belongings. Sheila had requested that I take whatever from her CD collection that I wanted, and she also designated some strange and wonderful things that she wanted me to have: a collection of masks, an ancient kimono, some dusty, smoky parasols that used to hang in her house.

I still have not cried. I am thinking that I might not. Our main topic of conversation from the time that she was diagnosed with cancer through our final conversation was death and the cast and hue of the world through the eyes of one who is ill, one who has been told that they are dying. In a sense, I have been crying since the first day that she told me.

I was offered a chance to speak at a memorial that they are holding for her. I declined, though an extemporaneous burst may still occur. Yet, I was reading from my own writings and realized that a verse that I had penned and which is posted on the Scented Shadows blog, is most appropriate.

The Day the Gingko Leaves Fell

I recall that brisk and bracing day:
Yellow golden fans edged in green
Whipping, swirling 'mid Sol's heatless ray
And drifting down to lay between
The stalks of grass with random pose
To make mosaics on the lawn
A single day the gods have chose
The gingko's cloak to mandate gone.
I remember, I think, that chilly day
The skirt shaped leaves upon me lay
As 'neath the branches I lightly sleep
And life's clear moments Time's burglar reaps;
He takes away, I seem to recall,
The fleeting scent of the leaves of Fall
And then the painting behind my eyes,
The light around and within dies.
I recall it, I swear, I know I remember
That bracing wind of late November.
The day the gingko leaves laid down
To rest like me...

©2004-2005 Stuart Dummit


....My friend from San Francisco is set to arrive on Friday. I got a message from him today that simply said that he was excited about meeting me.

That caused a warm rush through my system. Let the Universe and Creation do as it will. For what it is and for what it has been, I am thankful. For what it may be or might become, I can only stand hopefully by without judgment, without preconception but with healthy and more than just lustful anticipation.

I should note, however, that the coupling of endings and beginnings in this cluster of time has not gone unnoticed. Is there some sort of cosmic meaning here? Or do events merely unfold randomly without any rhyme or reason...

And what about that coatless button laying just outside the back door....

I'm Here

I haven't gone away. I'm here. Stuck on the ground, my head in the clouds, wandering through the thicket and briars, tripping over scattered junk and wires, breathing irregularly and with a fair amount of effort.

* * *

My best friend died last week. It wasn't unexpected. In fact, I have been preparing for this for the last two and a half years. Still, it hurts. It hurts but I haven't had a good cry over it yet. Instead, it is festering in me and I don't know how to release it. I know that it is impacting my general behavior. Probably not for the better.

I also have been involved in a long distance obsession. A guy on the West Coast, by the look of his pictures and the sound of his voice, handsome, desirable, available...but there is physical distance. And there are still no guidelines for dealing with blossoming relationships through data ports and over phone lines. On paper and through words we seem to be compatible; both looking for the same thing embodied in someone like the other. The panic of insecurity and fear of stupid things constantly falling out of my mouth belies the inappropriate attachment that I have allowed to develop. He is scheduled to visit me in a week, yet I have not heard from him since night before last. Have I done or said something? Has he changed his mind? Is it me? Am I paranoid?

Most certainly.

I am going to sell my house. I have to trash all of the junk that I've collected over the years. I have to clean and repair and tidy and plan. I have to escape. This isn't an easy job.

Speaking of jobs - the one that brings in the most money is still getting me down. I can honestly say that I hate my job. I'm not alone. So many people do. Why, then, do I feel alone.

Many old friends are coming into town for my friends memorial service. My friend from the West Coast is scheduled to be here that weekend. What a program for getting to know someone that you might want to fall in love with. "Hi. Let's make out, go for brunch, then attend a funeral for someone that you do not know."

Escape? Me?

Yes.

I want to run away. I want to be free. But, I want to belong. I want to be wanted and needed. I want to be desired but I still want to be free. Is this the koan of my existence? Of everyone's existence?

And through it all, Max, the beagle, still wants his noon time walk, he still wants to visit his friends in the bookstore, he still wants his belly rubbed and he still wants to curl up next to me in bed. And with this, I am content.

talk talk talk

I need some advice from my faithful readers...all three of you. I'm a 47 year old boy with illusions of perpetual youth but, in this particular poker game the cards are permanently stacked against me. Recently, as you all know if you've read my blog, I've made great strides in reversing the ravages of disease and time and I think I really DO look and feel better. The diet is hard to maintain but I'm doing my best, and going to the gym is still one of my favorite things to do...and I've got the sore (yet bigger) muscles to show for it! I even can fit into my size 34 slacks! (Okay...it's a bit of a squeeze, but I can do it! Next stop, size 33!!!!)

Another factor is that stress is taking its toll. And the cause of this stress is a 3 letter word: J - O - B. (More later on my theory of 3 letter words.) Aside from the built in stress of working at a computer help desk for a hospital where doctors, nurses and assorted medical technicians and support persons, all with either inflated egos or an inbred inability to follow instructions (all to often, both,) who constantly call with a chip the size of Texas on their shoulder, there is the fact that I am forced to dress uncomfortably in my work. If I were going out on the town or in the public eye, wearing the whole shirt and tie thing wouldn't be so bad. Given the budget, I'd love to have some nice suits and could pull off the look pretty easily. That usually translates into comments like, "You clean up real good!" And actually, I shower daily. But, I sit in an office cubicle. The only time I'm seen is when arriving or departing the workplace, when I go to the lounge area for coffee (or tea) and when I go to the bathroom. Otherwise, I'm at a desk with a phone headset surgically attached to one ear. Why to I have to dress up? So, I'm stressed (underpaid/overworked/unhappy) and uncomfortable. I don't want to live the rest of my life like this!

My house is getting completely out of control. I'm rapidly getting behind in repairs and I'm afraid that there will be so much damage in the near future that the cost of just getting it into saleable shape will be astronomical. It may already be there. I've decided to sell the monster, but that puts me in a position of having to do more prep work, both financial, which is bad enough, and physical, getting the place presentable and unloading the mass of stuff I have collected.

Once free of that load I would have gained a certain amount of freedom again, though any hope of a nestegg would be gone. I have no savings to speak of and don't make enough money to put some away and pay necessary bills. Of course, the biggest chunk aside from mortgage payments is medication. Starting in January, my med bill will be increasing by about 5% - may not seem like a lot, but considering the size of the bill NOW, it actually IS a lot of money. Mortgage (or Rent) + Meds + Basic Needs > Income.

Ideally, I would find a high paying job that allows me to dress casually and has a great medical insurance package - and it would be local. That isn't going to happen. And that's trying to be realistic. Yet, and this is a central point, I have long been a believer in the concept that we make our own reality and following one's dreams is a realistic thing to do - "follow your bliss...." But letting go of so much security (such as medical insurance) is overwhelmingly frightening and actually quite dangerous. So, what do I do?

My "bliss" is writing and painting. Am I good enough to make it in that highly competitive and sparsely populated world? Is it possible? That would be for the public to decide.

I do understand that it would require me to get out and "push the product." How do I do that? Should I relocate? Should I try to do this? Do I know what this really means?

I feel inadequate and insecure.

Paintings

I was able to get the paintings done for installation at Boone County Hospital. The pictures are good. I'm not sure how much farther I can go with the landscape idea that has been filling canvases lately, but I know that there are still plenty of paintings of one type or another inside me.

The work involved with the transport of the paintings and their hanging is kind of a drag for me. It would be easier if I had a truck or at least a larger vehicle than a Toyota sedan to move them in, but once the pictures were on the wall, people started commenting on them. I was being asked the standard questions: "Are you the artist?" "How long have you been painting?" "What's your inspiration?" "Do you sell any of your paintings?"

Oddly enough, I love talking to the people about my pictures. I suppose because it is talking about myself. Like a good self centered artist, I love talking about myself.

Regarding the AIDS benefit that I was to participate in, well, that was a bust. I think it is indicative of the administrative skills of the people in charge of the distribution of Federal and State funds for HIV infected persons in Central Missouri that were at the center of the problem. I requested information on donating a painting for the auction and how I would be able to help. About a week before the date I had been told was the auction and exhibition, I finally receive an email asking for a Bio and a picture of the painting I was going to donate. I emailed back for more information and then got an emailed invitation to the event - the day that the exhibition began. So, no painting donated, no paintings exhibited. And I thought they would JUMP at the chance to have "one of their own" on display!

The Visitor

I met someone online who, after just a few days tentative chatting disclosed that he was preparing to move across the country back to where his family lived. It took very little to convince him to make a stop here. The conversations were lucid, endearing and we both wondered out loud if it meant anything in particular.

After an eventful roadtrip, he arrived near penniless (because of repair costs) and tired. More handsome than I had anticipated and I, for my part, felt a connection. I knew quickly, though, that the feeling was not mutual. I didn't seem to click for him.

I did my best to be the best host I knew how, he was the perfect guest, and our short visit was accepted for what it was like two mature beings. No magic, no fireworks, just two guys that had experienced enough of the workings of the heat, the head and the heart to appreciate the ways of the universe.

After he left, I did feel a bit sad, and Max had taken a special liking to him. I received word from him just the other day that his health has taken a bad turn. My caretaker instinct wanted to kick in, but I knew that he was in the warm and caring hands of his family.

Apologies

There are plenty of reasons for my laps in posting, but I'll spare you the list. Instead, let me present you with some quick posts that will fill you in on the events that kept me from my keyboard.

Of course, these will show up in reverse order...good god...how confusing. The chronicle will read like Merlin's backward life ala The Once and Future King.

And the World Keeps On Spinning

It has now been a week since the break in and I'm still reluctant to leave my house. Of course, I have to - I have to go to work, I have to walk Max, I have to go to the store, I have to go to the gym. (That last one might seem odd to those who don't understand my total commitment to my workout regime, but, yes, it is necessary!)

I've heard nothing from the police about the case and, I suspect that even though I was able to present them with a traceable piece of evidence in the form of a dropped pager, I doubt if the lead was followed up on. It makes too much sense.

So, in the meantime, I make sure all of my doors are always locked and I've taken to hiding certain objects in unlikely places...just in case.

Of course, I had to spend quite a bit of time away from the house this weekend because it was the Columbia Festival of the Arts and the Boone County Art Show - the Big Event of Columbia cultural life. The festival itself is your basic tents and pavilions with mass produced "art by the yard" and pottery stands and open mike poetry readings and funnel cakes and sidewalk drawing, etc. and etc and etc. The Boone County Art Show, on the other hand is a two day exhibition of up to two works by local artists, both professional and amateur. There is usually quite a variety of work on display in the bank where the exhibition is held. And that was certainly the case this time around.

I entered an acrylic painting (photo to be added to my website soon) and an ink drawing. Neither work garnered any remarks to my knowledge. The top prize was taken by a worthy piece (a woman's corset made completely of glass) yet, many works that received prizes and the nebulous "Honorable Mention" seemed poorly executed and conceptually trite. Sour grapes? Maybe. But there were many, many works that I would have chosen over mine to have received recognition that got none. To me it seems a case of the politics of aesthetics.

But, there's no rest for the wicked. I have three paintings to finish by this coming Thursday and I must take down the show at the Columbia Realtors Association offices and install eight works at the Boone County Hospital. And then I have to have three more works done by the next weekend for an AIDS benefit.

So, by virtue of the fact that my life continues in spite of last week's violation, I leave my house regularly. I leave my home basically defenseless to the ravages of people that care only for themselves and do not see the emotional damage that they do by raping someone else's property. The world continues to spin and my mind and its perceptions continue to develop. Soon, perhaps, I will look back at a recent event in my life and wonder "who was that man, that boy, that experienced that? Why did he react that way? Is there hope for him?"

A Violation

I discovered it last evening when I was looking for my gym bag so I could go work out. My daily ritual at Gold's has turned into a great stress reliever and I look forward to either lifting those weights or tackling the treadmill with my favorite workout music being pumped into my ears with my handy-dandy portable CD player. (The current favorite is "Relayer" by YES.) And I suppose I should have been tipped off when I noticed an old book bag laying on the floor in the living room that had previously been upstairs, or by the fact that the back door was slightly ajar. I passed it off thinking that Max had gotten into the closed room upstairs and pulled out the bag and the back door has never been super secure. But, when I realized that my gym bag was nowhere to be found I checked the trunk of the car and then ran back into the house, knowing that it HAD to be somewhere in plain sight. I mean, I use it every day!

Then it struck me. I glanced around the room. All of my DVDs were gone. I ran upstairs. My change bucket was gone as were a few pairs of pants (nice ones - they still don't fit, but I had just laundered them in anticipation of being able to fit into them again in a few weeks if I worked real hard.) Someone had rifled through my stuff. My house had been broken into and I had been robbed. I had been burgled.

For those of you to whom this has happened, you know the sequence of feelings: the hot flash of realization, the momentary fear of something un-nameable, the oddly placed anger and frustration, then a flood of paranoia: what else did they get? What personal things did they find, did they take - what personal information did they get? Are there any credit card receipts laying around?

At first, I couldn't find my camera but then realized that it was still on the tripod in the corner. The laptop computer was still there. A favorite pair of boots were still in the middle of the room and a few choice electronic gizmos were still laying around, seemingly untouched.

I went out and announced the situation to my neighbors, all of whom were outside doing chores. No one had seen or heard anything and they all claimed to have been around all day. Together we looked around the house for evidence of the intruder's entry. They had to have gotten in the back door, but to get to it they would have had to climbed the back deck fence. Difficult, but not impossible. And then, there, on the ground, my neighbor found a pager. Right near where it would have fallen had it been dropped by the burglar.

I called the police and within 30 minutes an officer was there. He was courteous and efficient. He took notes, photographed the crime scene and made a list of what had been taken. All told it was about $1000 worth of stuff. The officer then told me that he would fill out a report and it would go on a stack of other cases.

Do I feel any safer? No.

Then it began to rain. And it poured. And the skies roared with thunder, wind and an onslaught of sheets of late summer warmed water. The clouds were deep bluish - greenish grey and it seemed almost night time. I sat on my couch, the empty DVD rack in plain sight, feeling the sticky air around me and listening to the atmospheric battle outside. I was feeling exposed and violated.

At the apex of the storm I found the courage to walk calmly outside, lock the door, walk to the car and drive to the gym. I could barely concentrate on the workout. I was wondering how safe the house was during my absence. No one would try to break in during such a gully-washing of a storm. But, then, I realized that my own sense of reason did not apply to whomever had robbed me. So, I finished quickly and went home.

By then the clouds had finished crying and the sky was becoming lighter and the air, still thick with moisture, was blowing impotently across the debris that had been washed down and deposited in the streets by the deluge. Everything was different. My house was a mess and I felt vulnerable and unhappy and the desire to escape was edging up toward the forefront of my mind.

Excuses

Okay. I have tried to start this entry five times now, each time with a different sentence and none of them have been satisfactory. The problem has been what it is that I want to say in that opening sentence. Do I want to grab the reader with a bold revelation? Do I want to slide into an interesting little anecdote without the reader realizing it? Do I want to apologize for not having made a post in so many days?

Yes.

I'm sorry that I haven't been writing much lately. There are a ton of excuses: Working too hard, out of town, complex events requiring my attention, laziness.

Amid all of the excitement that is my life I have found that, as soon as I stopped worrying about the painting that I'm trying to birth the process became much easier. It isn't finished yet, but I can see a direction. It hasn't stopped fighting back but it at least it is allowing me to get a punch in from time to time. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, it was about the time that the paint started allowing me to push it around effectively that I was informed that I had to have two extra paintings ready for an exhibition starting at the end of this month. With the painting I have to replace because it was sold and the one that I have to have ready for the Boone County Art Show, that brings me up to 4 paintings that need to be completed in the next few weeks. And then there is a drawing that I have to finish as well.

Swooooosh!

And, as they say, "When it rains, it pours." Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell...hell - there hasn't been any kissing involved! But, in the last few weeks I've gotten more responses to my online dating attempts than ever before! And what's more, some of the respondents have even been local - and they're (for the most part) nice, normal people! Wooo hooo!

In other news:

I haven't been able to work out since last Saturday. I'm feeling flabby again. Today - right after work I'm there.

I've finally started the process of getting the house refinanced. With luck I'll have it all wrapped up by the end of the month and maybe even have some extra cash to, well, buy some new clothes that fit!

I got my hair cut.

Growling at the Painting

I've been painting.

It hasn't been easy. In fact, it's been hard. Hard to concentrate, hard to see, hard to get the paint to move where I want it.

Thinking back on the moment that I first put the brush to canvas I knew that this would be a struggle. It's like the picture is fighting back, like it doesn't want to be born. And with each show of resistance I push all the harder.

Poor Max is confused by the whole affair. I've taken to "talking" to the paint and the canvas while I'm working and Max thinks I'm talking to him. But, because I'm not using words that he's familiar with like "walk," "treat" or "attack" he's not sure how to respond. So, he ends up sitting to my right in his side-saddle manner, his ever watchful nose pointed in the air and his tail ready to wag if I should say his name, look in his direction or use one of those key words mentioned above. I'm sure that the gnashing of my teeth, my growling at the paint and my fencing-like jabs at the canvas with brush and palette knife wreak havoc with the perceptions of his beagle brain.

I'm not sure what the problem actually is and, if Max knows (he's been the only one that has witnessed me working on this particular project, the only one besides me who's seen how it's working out) he's keeping it a secret.

I wonder whether or not the end product will contain any telling information about the struggle it's been to give birth to this thing. Will it seem forced or strained? Will there be scars from our slashing at one another? Bruises from our mutual pummeling?

Only time will tell.

Making Life a Better Place To Be

Maintaining a positive outlook on life can be a difficult chore for some. I even find that people with cheery dispositions often irritate me to no end. The person with a constant smile on their face, the person for whom the glass is always not only "half full" but also "half full of wholesome goodness," the person for whom a Shirley Temple pout is the ultimate expression of unhappiness or disdain - these are the ones that exacerbate my own feelings of gloom and doom. How very "yin-yang."

My own outlook on life would be much better if I didn't constantly reinforce my pessimistic view by repeating negative affirmations and dark-side mantras. If we indeed create our own reality, perhaps this practice is at the root of the situation.

One of the oldest of these sayings is "Life sucks and then you die." There are, of course, many permutations of this one but, my favorite is quite extended: "Life sucks and when you try to die they put you on life support, then charge you for it. And then, when you can't pay the bill you're made to feel like more of a worthless shit than you did when you tried to check out in the first place."

One of my other oft used litanies is based on what an old college buddy of mine used to say. "The world is filled with stupid people and there are more of them than there are of us." Over the years this has proved to be a quite flexible invective, one that can be endlessly customized to the situation.

"The world is filled with stupid people and there are more of them than there are of us and they impact our lives daily."

"The world is filled with stupid people and there are are more of them than there are of us and someone gave them all driver's licenses."

"...there are more of them than there are of us and somehow they all became a) doctors b) lawyers c) political commentators d) *fill in the blank*.

So, if I stop repeating these affirmations and replace them with positive, happy, cute and fuzzy sayings, will my life transform into a better place to be? Well, maybe it would, that is, until someone punched me out for being so glib.

In the words of one of my favorite bumper stickers: "If you're not outraged you're not paying attention."

It's Working!

Tomorrow will be the three week anniversary of my having begun my physical transformation by going to the gym and working out. Every day except Friday I dutifully go to the gym and perform my ritual. I do a cardio workout every day by spending either 20 or 30 minutes on a treadmill. On the 20 minute days I precede the time in the "cardio theater" with a series of exercises in the weight room. At the end of most of my workouts I spend about 10 to 15 minutes in the sauna. The copious amounts of sweat that I squeeze out of my pores is the topic of another posting. I take Friday off and like to spend the extra time with Max. God I love that dog. And, in the three weeks that I have been doing this I have only missed one regularly scheduled day: it was a Sunday that I had gone to visit my folks and by the time Max and I got back I was way too tired to work out. Missing one work out is not going to be catastrophic.

I feel good after my workouts. I even feel "high." I stand a little taller, it is easier to keep my gut "sucked in" when I'm not blobbing out on the couch, I hold my shoulders back a bit more and I am far more aware of my muscles than ever before in my life. I still can't fit into my favorite pair of jeans, but I have faith that I will soon enough.

Now, I've said in these posts that I'm looking at this process as a type of art project. I tend to think of art as an exercise in awareness. The making of art is not only the practice of awareness but also the documentation of that awareness. As I proceed with this art project of mine I find that I am becoming more aware of myself as a physical being. By exercising I am practicing and the documentation of this practice is manifest in the visible and ultimately in the measurable changes in my own body. So, does this make my corporeal self the artwork?

The fact that I feel better makes the sacrifice of time and effort worthwhile, but what is really desired are those visible changes. And the first two unsolicited observations of the changes in my body have come my way. Saturday, while walking Max out along one of the local nature trails I ran into a woman that Max and I often meet out there as she walks her two dogs. Max and Haley, a small, somewhat homely looking female beagle, are pals and the human often makes comments on how good Max looks. She commented this time on the fact that he looks to be losing some weight. She then looked up and said to me, "You look like you've lost some weight, too!"

Sweet.

Then, the same day and, ironically, no more than an hour after my workout (which included work in the weight room) I ran into a friend of mine while, again, walking Max. As a taunt he inquired with his usual gusto, "Where you hiding the muscle?" So I flexed an arm for him. His eyes popped, "How long you been working out?"

"Not quite three weeks."

"And you did that in less than three weeks?"

Sweet enough to cause tooth decay.

Déjà Vu

I was on my way from the locker room to the weight room the other day when I passed a guy on the stairs who, by the look of him, muscles pumped, sweat beaded on his forehead and a far away glassiness in his eyes, had just finished an intense workout. There was a singular attention to his presence; he seemed intent but not necessarily focused, hyper aware of his environment but on auto-pilot nonetheless. Not an uncommon appearance among those who have just finished a session of hard physical activity.

Continuing up to the weight room, I found myself ridding my mind of everything except the processes of the tasks at hand - the order of my exercises, the settings on the machines, the loads, the reps, the sets. And then there was the focus on the muscle groups being worked: the isolation of the sensation of the muscles engaging as the load resists the movement, the exertion of energy at what seems to be the top or peak of the repetition, the tempo of the set and the rhythm of my breathing.

As I neared the end of the routine I found my mind leaving the room before my body did. I was wiping the sweat off of the seat and back of the "hammer," the apparatus on which I do the "lat lift" exercise, when I realized that my mind was already gathering my back pack, water bottle and towel and was headed out the door and up the stairs to the cardio workout room. I tried to call myself back to myself but I found that, in my head, the only words that seemed to mean anything were the numbers of a set count, "one - two - three - four, two - two - three - four, three - two - three - four...," as though I were counting off rests in a piece of music.

I physically rushed to gather my belongings and headed out, following what seemed to be a part of my consciousness, toward the next floor up where the bikes and treadmills were housed. I seemed to catch up with myself as I stood on the scale and registered the weight: 196.2 lbs.

There was a lightness to my sensations. My breathing was deep but slow and controlled. My mind was cleared of so many bits of brick-a-brack and the muscles that I had just worked were feeling firm and alive that the setting of the treadmill machine for a 30 minute brisk walk on a gentle incline was completed with little thought and with a smoothness that my mind wordlessly admired. I was oblivious to the bank of television screens set to different channels with the sound turned down and closed captioning turned on that stretched along the wall in front of me. It was just me, my legs and my breathing.

There was an effort to complete the 30 minute distance-less trek but when it came to an end and I dismounted the machine I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and I could feel the blood surging through my body.

I wiped the sweat from my face and neck, stretched out my muscles and, as before, I followed a bit of my consciousness that was several paces ahead of me. My movements were deliberate and they felt, well, oddly graceful. Keenly aware of everything around me, I felt like I was on autopilot. I could tell that my body was propelled forward by a silent momentum and when I passed a young man who had just exited the locker room, headed for his own workout, it occurred to me that I might well be venturing into a similar space as the gentleman that I had passed just an hour earlier.

The Romantic Life

Alright then. I've sold another painting and I've gotten my website up, though not completely functional, and I've gotten some folks to come by and read my rants and raves. I do the work and I can honestly say that "I am an artist."

Still, as I try to distance myself from my own voice and look and listen objectively on the object that is me, I can't help but notice that there is something missing from my life. Something that, I believe, I became aware of when I started reading about art and artists in my mid-teens. It is a romantic quality, a nearly swashbuckling attitude, brave, defiant, revolutionary and even dangerous.

Instead, my life is filled with medication costs, roofing problems and tree removals. Where are the intense café conversations, the whirlwind love affairs that end in heart break, stacks of inspired paintings and notebooks filled with enigmatic drawings? Where are the absinthe visions and opium dreams? Where is the romantic life that an artist is supposed to live?

~News Shorts from Long Weekend~

My long weekend is over and, I have to say, it was far more productive than I expected, but not as productive as it needed to be.

I got to my folks' house and spent a day putting together my dad's birthday present to my mom - a full length mirror on a wooden stand - working on Dad's computer and investigating why they can't make long distance phone calls from their land line home phone. I also got two loads of my laundry done and Max got to spend time with his Grandma and Grandpa. A fine time was had by all.

The sale of the painting was finalized and that is certainly a good thing! I was also able to spend some time staring at the new paintings that I've started. I'm not sure where these new ones are headed. Perhaps I really should try to crank out a few more in the style of the one that I just sold...in case there are some other buyers lurking around out there that want one of those beauties!

My workouts at the gym are progressing nicely. I think I have decided to forego the "before" photograph that I mentioned in an earlier post. I see no reason to subject myself or anyone else to such an un-pretty sight. I'm quite sure that within the next few months I'll be able to tell a difference and that's good enough for me. My most recent weight was 196.2 lbs. -- almost 4 lbs. down from my top weight of 200!!!

I had an appointment with my doctors on Tuesday. The most recent bloodwork came back a mixed bag - not an uncommon thing for me. My CD4 count, which reflects the number of healthy white blood cells in my system, was in the mid 700s, that's pretty darned good. Even close to normal. My viral load, an indicator of the amount of viral RNA in my system, was not as good, and this is a factor that I've had trouble with for quite a while. All other indicators seem to be a-okay, so I've got little to complain about.

Having gotten the word last week that health insurance rates are going up at the beginning of the year, I talked to the docs about the cost of my meds. When the copay goes up to 20% I'll have reached a point where I can't afford the damned pills. Of course, the irony is that I work for the hospital. I work in the health care industry but I cannot afford healthcare. Just a rough estimate puts my monetary output at around $800 every three months come January 1, 2006. That's almost $267 a month. Folks, I don't make that kind o' money! So, I got the name of a local agency that might be able to help with the copay. I have yet to call them, but you can be sure that I will!

Other things on the to-do list that haven't been done: get estimates on getting the front porch roof fixed, arrange to have the locust tree in the front yard removed (it's branches are tangled in the powerlines,) get estimate on the rest of the roof, get an estimate on getting the two Chinese Elm trees in the back yard removed, which will have to be done before the main roof is fixed and, (whew) talk to the bank about refinancing the house so that I can afford all of the repairs that are needed.

And I was asked the other day if I had a social life....

Sold!

Great way to begin a weekend - by selling a painting, that is!

Got a call while I was at work from a patron who had seen my paintings at the Board of Realtors offices. They were very matter of fact, direct and to the point. They just wanted to buy the painting.

wow.

The painting is titled "Verse in Black and Grey" and is a 16" x 20" acrylic on canvas. This is actually one of my own favorites from this last batch of pictures.

The question now is whether, in the name of possible future sales, I should make more of these types of paintings. If I do and they sell, I could finance further adventures in paint pushing.

Something to think about...

News Shorts ~

Good morning y'all!

Feeling a bit better about the world today. No real reason to, though. Found out yesterday that the hospital that I work for is changing its health insurance policy for next year which might well make it impossible for me to afford my medication. Kind of a necessary thing when one depends on those chemicals to stay alive.

Better start making money in other ways!!!!

I've been able to paint a little bit in the last few days. I haven't really gotten over the creative hump from a few posts ago, but at least I seem to be working through the block. Perhaps it's just a bit of whiplash from my last period of painting which was fast and furious and, for the most part, easy. Now I've got new artistic "issues" that I need to resolve before the paint flows easily again...hmmm...might be some truth there....

Speaking of art, the gym thing is working out very well. I've been going every day (except last Friday) and alternating cardio/weight loss with weight training. One of the gym employees called me and asked if I would like to take advantage of their free consultation with a personal trainer. Of course I said, "yes!" He then wanted to know what my personal goals were. I told him point blank that I wanted to look as good with my clothes off as I do with them on (and to myself I said, "actually, I want to look better!") Then I told him that I'm actually looking at this whole exercise as an art project - and he understood completely!

I adore your comments!

At 3:59 a.m. this morning someone was reading my weblog and they felt compelled to write a comment. Woo-hooo! Love those late night blog readers and their comments!

And what did this anonymous reader have to say? They told me that if I am alone all I have to do is call this particular number to find "Real Singles" in my area with only a $4.99 connection fee and $0.99 per minute! WoW!

Now, this is the only comment I've gotten so far on my blog. Only one comment and it's from some sort of advertising 'bot that wants me to spend money on finding a date. Well, let me tell you something: if I had a friggin' social life I wouldn't be spending all of this time keeping this weblog. And another thing - If my entries are so un-interesting that I've only gotten one comment and it is...well...a non-comment, then I really have a problem, eh?

a question to myself...

I tried to paint this weekend.

I would like to say that I paint every day but there isn't time for it. If I were more dedicated, I suppose I would make the time. There are too many other things happening these days. In other words, I'm lazy.

There didn't seem to be a spark when I was mixing the paint on the palette. There wasn't a feeling of connection when I was pushing the paint around on the canvas. There was a feeling of apathy as I regarded the outcome.

sigh

Perhaps it is time to reevaluate my subject, my themes...time to update them with newer interests, more pressing issues in my head. Maybe I experience this artistic ennui because the reason is gone.

Why do I really make pictures? Why is it important to me? What function, what purpose does it serve?

...a slight waiver...

Well, my body is sore. I don't think I'm to the place where would I say something trite like "I'm sore in muscles that I didn't even know I had," but I'm certainly feeling the effects of several days worth of working out.

I've been reading and reading and reading, when I have the chance, about techniques, programs and supplements and boy oh boy oh boy has it gotten confusing! Expert A says this will work then Expert B says that this other thing will work then Expert C runs around shaking his fists in the air screaming "where do these myths come from?!?!?!" And spying some bloke in the gym who's got the look you're going for and then asking him "what did you do to get that way?" isn't necessarily going to get the needed information, especially when his response is as likely to be "I follow exclusively the Expert Q program" as it is to be "Visualization. See in your mind's eye what you want and the rest will follow."

I suppose I should just be happy that I've made the decision to go to the gym and get some exercise. I should just take it day by day and sooner or later I'll become more comfortable with myself and the gym environment and I'll be able to weed through the crap that some people preach and concentrate on the things that make sense and the things that, with some intelligent trial and error, work for me.

Let's remember: I'm a 47 year old guy that has never done anything like this in his life! As a kid in school I avoided the gym like the plague. I hated that place, and with good reason. I didn't fit well into the athletic culture. I was tall and skinny and wasn't interested in competitive sports and I never got any encouragement from anyone in the athletic department at school nor any constructive criticism regarding what little physical activity I engaged in.

Enter low self esteem.

Well, none of that really matters now. I've started anew. I am determined and I know I have a long hard road up ahead. I can read until the words are burned on the back walls of my eyeballs but I just need to get out there and do some work. Exact diet? Screw it. Just start with being more aware of what I'm eating and when. Start paying attention to calories, fat, carb and protein content. The pacing and portioning will come with time.

As for training programs - hell! Try Expert A's routine. If it feels good, then fine. That doesn't mean that I can't check out Expert B or C's or even Expert Q's method. And visualization never hurt nobody. I realize that there will always be more opinions about right and wrong, good and bad, effective and ineffective than there will be time to prove or refute any of them. And, perhaps, this is where being an artist can help.

Being an artist means being adept at seeing - seeing without translating. Artists must be able to view the world with a clarity that allows them to tear it apart and reassemble it in a crucial, meaningful and effective way. This ability can be directed toward objects, emotions and even situations. Artists are masters of perseverance. They must be willing to repeat a technique until it becomes transparent to the message. Above all, an artist must be resilient, thick skinned and at the same time, sensitive and hyper-aware. These are skills and talents that can be effectively turned toward the process of physical self transformation.

"Pygmalion! Noble Artist-King! Sculpt thyself!"

In The Beginning...

I've been going to the gym for two days now. Two whole days! I'm not too sore, but I imagine that is not very far down the road.

So far, I'm really just learning about the equipment and how to use it. First stop was the cardio room. Lots of bikes and treadmills and banks of TV monitors with the sound turned down and closed captioning turned on, and really bad pop music thumping out of the stereo. Note to self: here is a case for owning an MP3 player....

I'm very comfortable on the bikes - hell, I wasn't a "serious" biker in the past, but I knew my way around one and used mine constantly. It was my primary means of transportation for years and my primary form of exercise for years beyond that. And then the old green monster (my bicycle, that is) was snatched from my back porch and subsequently dumped, wheels bent and broken, in my back yard only a week later - but that's a different story. Nevertheless, I can do a bike with little instruction. Not really used to an electronic control panel on a bike - I did need someone to tell me what buttons to push for a "personalized" riding experience. Also necessary for recording my workout....

Okay. There's something worth mentioning - the recording of the workout. I guess I should have known that one records statistics about the events of the workout, that is, the type of equipment used, the weight and even its distribution, the number of sets and the number of reps within a set. DAMN! I'm beginning to use real gym words! Huuuuaaaah! Right now, I just have an 8.5 x 11 inch piece of red paper on file at the gym with the information on it. I'm thinking that a little notebook might be a good idea - a real journal of my training....hmmmm....

My "Quick Start" trainer, one provided by the gym, had me working in the weight room rather than in the "circuit training" room. I think that's where I really want to be. Now, I have this fat that I will be getting rid of, but my primary goal is to gain muscle mass in some key areas. Learning the different machines will be interesting. I couldn't name any of them right now, but I know they all have names like Ted, and Bruce and Kyle and Dexter. Knowing their names and being able to demonstrate their proper use: there is a subgoal.

If I have a problem with any of this right now it's the diet. Okay - I love food. I can cook and I like to eat what I cook. I like exotic things. I like fat, and carbs. I like cheese and nuts and pizza. I like candy! Plus, I like eating whenever I'm hungry, and sometimes that means constantly nibbling, sometimes that means going for long periods without a meal. Now I've got this, this...diet that I'm supposed to follow. I'm supposed to count calories and protein, carb and fat breakdowns. I'm supposed to eat 6 meals a day. I'm supposed to eat low fat cottage cheese and drink skim milk. Lite wheat bread. LITE! not Light....! 1 oz. of pretzels is now considered a course! I look at this list of things to eat and I am bored silly! So there is another thing to tackle: coming up with a menu that is similar in calories, carbs, proteins and fats but is actually tasty.

Okay. So, that's been the goal of diet gurus down through the ages. Maybe it just takes a fresh and motivated set of eyes to look at this problem.

I could be embarrassed to state this, but here it is: the heaviest weight on any of the machines that I used was 50 lbs. I'm a beginner - okay? It doesn't seem like much - hell - it isn't much. But I have to work up to this. I need to condition my muscles. Get them used to the idea that I'm going to be asking them to do more and more in the months to come.

This just demonstrates that this new world that I'm entering requires some real study. There is a new language, there is a new physical landscape with a different topography. A different set of facts and figures are important, there is a different criterion for establishing value....

REVIEW: Bubblegum Society

As promised I went to the opening reception for Ben Harben's exhibition of Reality TV celebrity portraits called Bubblegum Society. And, yes, it's true, the collection of 8" x 10" pictures are constructed from chewed bubblegum. No paint, no extra pigment, just a layer of a two part epoxy which protects the surface of the image while giving it a rather wet-looking "just chewed" appearance.

Despite the sweet medium the colors initially seem somewhat sour: teal, pink, pale yellow and low intensity blue and purple. The application and texture reminded me of encaustic with an eerie translucent quality. The subjects of the portraits run the gamut from vapid to grotesque. Paris Hilton with her rat-dog in tow and William Hung, gazing with glazed eyes toward his 13.7 minutes of fame.

The technique is novel and, for the most part executed very well. The subjects are, as stated, fleeting and insipid - they're portraits of Reality TV "stars" after all. The theme, which I would label as "discardable celebrity" is downright disturbing. The synergy is nothing short of amazing. It's been a long time since I've seen an exhibition of new work that so deftly combines theory and practice.

As objects to look at, this collection is quite satisfying. Pictures constructed of chewed gum do, however, run the risk of being labeled as gimmicky and contrived. It is the combination of medium, execution and idea that allows these works to take off and, hopefully avoid marginalization. Where does the artist go from here and how can the artist's works avoid suffering the same fate as that of his subjects? The medium and technique certainly offer many possibilities, the theme can surely be explored further, and the combination of elements work very well together. So, what about subject? More celebrity portraits?

While inspecting Harben's current offering I kept thinking about the idea of a still-life in bubblegum, perhaps "Arrangement with Cell Phone, Walkman and Pager." The possibility of using the genre's allegorical angle with this medium is definitely intriguing. There is already a sense of story in the way the images relate to the materials used, and the social and cultural context from which they've been snatched. And it is there that I see the passing of one of my essential tests for the quality of "good art": it makes me think and it makes me want to create.

Bubblegum Society - works by Ben Harben is on display at Teller's Gallery and Bar in Columbia, Missouri through the month of August.

Pumping Iron

Tomorrow is the day that I officially start my health-club workouts. Though I've decided that TV is the main culprit in stealing my time away and by canceling cable I should be able to make it to the gym for at least 60 - 90 minutes a day, I have realized that the hours open to me are all going to be in the evening and I really think I am a morning workout kind of guy.

So, does this mean that I should get my butt out of bed at 5 a.m. and get myself into the gym before I go to work? Hmmm...that does not sound particularly appealing.

I've also realized that part of my hesitance comes from my being guarded about the time I spend with Max. He doesn't adapt well to changes in my schedule and me taking off for any amount of time after I've gotten home from work does not sit well with him.

Sacrifice. That's a new word to ponder.

I suppose that if I'm to use this forum to chronicle my progress I should provide a "before" picture. I don't want to gross anyone out, so I'll take a pic and just link to it so regular readers can avoid the horror of it all if they wish.

Now, once I am successful in reshaping and sculpting my bod into a "work of art" I will definitely post a picture for all to marvel at. But that will be many months down the line.

Stay tuned...!

Ups and Downs

A frustrating few days with the computer. I was having registry problems (for you non-computer folk, that translates as fingernails on the blackboard) and, not having the proper software tools to fix the problem I decided to go to a local tech store and give them my money rather than download something online.

I didn't choose the most famous name in software tools, nor the cheapest. Something right in the middle. I got home, did some tinkering here and there, walked Max and, early in the evening I sat down to get the problem fixed.

I installed the software. It didn't go smoothly. I hacked my way through the process though and got it installed.

Bad things instantly began to happen. Programs wouldn't run, error messages popped up over and over again and, when I tried to reboot the system got stuck in an endless loop of trying to re-partition the hard drive.

I curse, I swear, I beat my head against the desk...then I apologize to Max for my histrionics and take him for a walk. That makes things seem a little bit better.

Next morning I log on and write a few emails, make a few journal entries and then start work on the registry problem again. I know that I need to leave for my folks' house soon so I decide to batten down the hatches and run the "powertool" to identify the problems and get them fixed. I think I was suffering from the head injury from the night before because I didn't anticipate problems - I just did it.

Then all hell broke loose. Nothing worked. I tried to do a search and the program window came up blank. My task bar started to disappear over and over again. Error messages plastered my screen like internet pop-up advertisements.

I am left with one option. I must start from scratch and restore the system to its original state and then spend the next few weeks customizing it again.

I am sad.

And then, to make matters worse, I got an email from friend Dan today informing me that the More Drama Tour has been canceled.

Very sad.

It Sparkles!

Atlanta based duo PerkinsWood have released a new CD that, despite the fact that I have a vested interest in the success of the product (I took the album cover photo,) is really worth more than a passing listen. In fact, it's worthy of grabbing your shades, putting the top down on the old convertible, heading out to Route 66 and cranking the stereo. Definite cruising music, suitable for gulping bottles of Orange Crush and feeling the wind in your hair - if you've got any hair, that is.

Son of Sparkle, the second release by this wife and husband team, is not easy to categorize. Just they way they like it I'm sure. Purely instrumental, the guitars and occasional keyboards weave in and out, sometimes presenting a humable melody, sometimes challenging your concept of harmony; sometimes causing prescient flashes of a future that features colors not yet visible to the human eye and sometimes triggering episodes of nostalgic deja vu. In fact, upon the first several listens I was sure that someone in the band was channeling Steven Stills or Jorma Kaukonen circa 1967.

Quite notable is the mixing and engineering. There is a quality to the sound in general that is solid and full of flavor - something that is missing in most commercial musical releases these days.

Stand out tracks include Ride, Move, Float Trip, Triangle Boy and the challenging yet quite listenable epic The Wedding Murders.

Real Pop Art

While Max and I were visiting our friends at a local bookstore yesterday, a couple came in asking to post a notice on the store's message board. With them they carried a collection of glossy post card sized announcements for Bubblegum Society, an exhibition of portraits of reality T.V. stars done in chewed bubblegum by artist Ben Harben.

Brilliant!

The show is at a local Gallery/Restaurant/Bar called Teller's running through the month of August. There is an opening reception on Monday, August 1 from 6 to 8 p.m.

You can be sure that I'll check it out and write a review. If you can't make it, be sure to check out the website!

The Deed is Done

What a day this is turning out to be! I'm sitting in a café, a little shop owned by a Jordanian living in mid-Missouri, connected to a wireless network with my laptop computer, writing a post for my blog. So very early 21st century, n'est pas?

The café is decorated with an old coffee grinder, an old roaster, several old silver and brass coffee services, two giant hookas and a series of sepia toned photographs of Old Jerusalem circa 1895. Aretha Franklin is playing on the stereo. Somehow it feels right.

The coffee is strong. The air smells of spices. I can watch people walking by on the sidewalk through the big picture windows, and there is a row of patrons sitting in plastic chairs lined up in front of the café. A couple of women, one, middle aged with a colorful tattoo on her arm that is partially hidden by the sleeve of her Grateful Dead t-shirt and the other with grey hair tied back into a loose bun, with a young but wise face, sit nose to nose right outside the door playing chess on a small wooden board with plastic pieces.

In contrast, right before I came here I was at the gym. I was committing to a year of membership. I realized that I was making excuses for not joining. Money being the biggest excuse. Time being the other excuse. Not enough of either. So, in the name of a healthier me, I joined the gym and I canceling my cable TV subscription. That will save me money and buy me time.

The place smells of chlorine and sweat and iron. The perky girls working the front desk are tanned and slim and oddly sincere. I think they truly enjoy their environment. The muscular guys walk in looking cocky, handsome and even arrogant, and they leave looking dazed, sweaty and spent. They sacrifice much for the look they've achieved. I have yet to talk with any of them. I know I'm operating from a stereotype that was formed by years of being the skinny un-athletic wimp in school and dreading gym class. I mean to change that. I mean to change a lot of things.

Just as a note, Aretha is gone from the sound system. Disraeli Gears is now playing. Sometimes it is good to have a little cream with your coffee. (Sorry. I couldn't help myself!)

So, it's a Saturday afternoon. I've spent money today, I've heard some fine music. I've committed myself to at least a year of workouts, sweat and, with some hard work and attention to diet, I'll get a healthier, better looking me in return. And I've been baptized into a level of the wired world that was cliché before it was invented: I've blogged in a café.

Naked or Nude?

Got my first little bit of heaven from my newly registered account with ArtInfo.com - this article makes life in the United States seem a bit, how you say, conservative. One of the bigger questions in my mind about this event is "what will be the bigger show? The art or the audience?"

"Daddy...Where do artists come from?"

It was a slightly skewed bit of synchronicity that, on my last birthday several friends came to my house to view a series of new paintings that I was preparing for an exhibition. One of these friends, Matthew Traeger, shares the same birthdate. Matthew now lives about 100 miles away and we do not see one another very often, but our relationship is one of those cherished bonds where, despite the amount of time between seeing one another, when we eventually meet it is as though little or no time has passed.

Artist and Social Worker, Matt Traeger. Photo by Stuart Dummit.

I gifted Matthew on that particular date with a print of a manipulated photo (seen above) that I had taken of him at our last meeting. He, in turn, gave me a wonderful multi-function portable light show and a poster of Klaus Nomi.

I had no idea who Klaus Nomi was.

Matthew, of course, came prepared to enlighten us all about the alien invader disguised as a New Wave performance artist. He gave us all an abbreviated bio and offered up a sample of a CD of one of Klaus Nomi's performances.

Now, Matthew is a social worker. He studied Criminal Justice when he was in college here in Columbia, oh, so many years ago. Matthew is also one of the best artists that I know. Although he produces very few traditional "artifacts," his true canvas is, indeed, himself. Case in point: he arrived that particular day wearing black trousers adorned with randomly placed patches of hot pink fun-fur. Back in the 80s he used to arrive at music performances that I and my musical cohorts were giving completely wrapped in transparent yellow plastic that was sewn together with copper wire. Matthew also has a way of transforming his immediate surroundings and living environment into an open ended art event. For a while, again, back in the 1980s, when one visited him in his apartment, one would find oneself in a black light illuminated cave; a room transformed by the use of black plastic, Styrofoam and various found objects.

Yes, Matthew Traeger is an extraordinary artist and, the most fabulous thing about him and his art is that he goes about it as though there were no other way to exist. The work itself exists, despite it's blatant artifice, as though it were meant to be. And now he was exposing me to another obscure yet seemingly important figure in the recent past's artistic landscape.

And so it was that weeks later as I thumbed through a newly purchased copy of Art in America, what should I see but a picture of, yes, Klaus Nomi -!

So, now I'm mulling over a question in my head: Where do artists come from?

Sometimes Things Work

In the June-July issue of Art in America there was a short article on page 51 about a new foundation that had been established by Louise T. Blouin MacBain for the purpose of "supporting creativity." Now, that seems right up my alley!

The website for the Louise T. Blouin Foundation, Artinfo.com, was reached easily enough, but when I tried to register, to "sign up" for updates, etc., I found that the internet form would not accept my information. I got an error message stating that there had been an error and that I should try again later.

So, I tried later in the day. I got the same message. I tried that evening from home. Same message. And I tried again the next day, using several different flavors of web browsers, and still, the same message.

For some reason, I was determined to get put on their mailing list. I was adamant. I scanned the site for contact information for anyone that might be able to help. I found the email address for the Vice President of Technology for the foundation. Ah! Now she should be able to do something! So I whipped out an email to her outlining the specifics of the problem. I was polite and thorough. Then, I waited.

I guess I was expecting an email back from her but, no. There was only the silence only the internet can produce.

Early yesterday I decided to visit the site again. I got to the main page and everything seemed the way it had been on my last visit. Then, I followed the link to the "sign up" form.

"Error 404. The page cannot be displayed"

Yipppeee! Something was happening! I disconnected myself from my phone (a required workplace fashion accessory) and leapt into the air and danced a little dance!

I quickly regained my composure, realizing that my co-worker's perception of me was dangerously warped to begin with. No sense pushing it. I continued with my work-place chores.

It was nearing the end of my workday when I ventured to try the Artinfo website again. I found the address in my browser's address history and clicked.

"The requested site www.artinfo.com could not be found."

Huuuuaaahhh! Never before had I been so happy at the dysfunction of a product. The thing is, I had realized that something was broken that I could not fix, and by a simple act of communication it seemed as though someone, somehow, was doing something about it!

I tried again last night from home and got the same message.

tick tock tick tock tick tock

This morning I get into work. I boot the computers, I log into the phone system, I check emails, I take a call.... Then there is a pause. I check the personal email account from which I had contacted the Vice President of Technology. Nothing from her.

I take a deep breath. I enter the address into the web browser. I press ENTER and wait.

BOOM! The site comes up! I dare not cross my fingers because that makes it painfully difficult to type, so I just visualize the online form working....there it is....the form is back!

I put in my first name and press TAB....I put in my last name and press TAB....I put in my email address and click OK.

Thank you for registering with Artinfo.com....

Hallelujah! Sometimes things do work!

Andrew's Apology

I take great pleasure in reading Andrew Sullivan's weblog, The Daily Dish. Though I don't always agree with Mr. Sullivan, being rather politically left of center myself, his insights are often dead on target or at least illuminating of the other side of the fence. Sometimes, as in his statement in the July 5th issue of The Advocate, he strikes a chord familiar to all too many of us who live with HIV infection. I urge you to read this short and enlightening example of his work.

Shifting Into High Gear~~

Okay. The weblogs are on line and looking more and more like they belong to the DEStudios family. The gallery has been modified so that the background color matches the rest of the site and the brand new air conditioner has been installed and the house has stayed cool during the 105 degree (in the shade) heat that I measured on my back porch earlier today. And guess what? The unit was installed yesterday and the bill came today! Now there's a company that knows how to stay on top of things!

This coming Thursday is the "wine and cheese" reception that the Columbia Board of Realtors are giving for the artists exhibiting as a part of the Community Art Program. I, interestingly enough, am one of them. This is the first time I've exhibited outside of the Art League since I joined 3 years ago. This is the first time I've exhibited in a commercial location - ever!

I'm showing six paintings, all of which are in the gallery. The "Window" series and "Canal" and "Ocean Interface" represent my most recent work. A very different approach to painting even if I do say so myself. You can find some of my most recent musings on my philosophy of painting in this blog entry.

So, with this great opportunity I have several little things to get out of the way: I have to write, print and deliver to the exhibition site a "bio" and I have to redesign and print up a stack of business cards.

I'm not too fond of the whole process of marketing my work, even though this web site, this blog, this whole internet effort of mine is a part of that marketing behavior. And when it comes to writing a "bio" for myself, something that I've tried to do in the past, I tend to get caught up in the minor things and seem to lose sight of the "big picture."

I will, no doubt, post the bio once I have written it.

As for the business cards, well, I've got an idea of how to make them stand out and still be dignified. I want to seem dignified. Is that wrong?

Otherwise, it will be a chance to be on stage and hobnob with people that have the money to buy art. And I really need to sell some art! Especially since the bill for the air conditioner has already arrived!

The page is back to its old self again and I hope it stays that way for a while. I have a sometimes bad habit of messing with the scripts and code of my web pages and usually end up destroying them in one way or another. I really do need to learn to a) back up successful pages more often and b) leave well enough alone!

The new air conditioner is to be installed this morning - I hope. Max and I had to sleep on the floor in the living room last night. Not particularly comfortable but at least it was a bit cooler. I look forward to being able to move about the house without breaking a sweat!

I realized last night, while sitting very still in hopes of cooling down a bit, that I had been avoiding thinking about and even more, doing something about one of my favorite topics and activities: ART. I hadn't written anything, I hadn't drawn anything, painted anything -nothing! Now, I did buy two art magazines the other day with the intention of gobbling them up and then reviewing them here and in the newsletter (which I have let slide as well!) But, did I do that? No. I've only flipped through them and then set them aside.

Then, this morning, I found myself checking out some of the posts on DE's brother blog, Scented Shadows and I read a particular bit about transformation. I realized that I am still quite actively in the process of reconstructing myself.

I believe that the last time I spent considerable energy painting I was working on taking myself apart. I was responding to images and paintings that I had seen, I knew that I was imitating both the raw images and the ones that had been transformed by others and I tried as I worked to separate those containers of awareness. As I did this, I noticed certain sensations that were familiar but distant. I don't know what those sensations really were but I suspect they are closer to products of a real me than I have experienced in a while.

Loving the act of pushing paints as I do, I am surprised that I don't do it more often. Part of it, I am sure, is the cost. Part of it is the large hunks of time involved in doing it to my own personal satisfaction. The primary reason, though, and this may be a conceit, is that the process of painting itself is, for me, a wondrous, transformative, magical and spiritual act, and having accomplished something concrete in it I find, like a body builder, I need time to recover. My body and my spirit and my mind need time to rest and rebuild.

Knowing about paints, brushes, supports and knowing about elements of drawing, color, illusion and perception and knowing about history, context and cultural positioning of my own work are all incidental to the transformative power of the act of making art, especially, for me at least, painting. Those other aspects of art can be approached separately and, if you ask me, must be addressed if one is to be successful as an artist. The essential and central point of art is transformative in nature and purpose. Transformative for the artist and, if the byproduct of the actions of the artist is successful, the artifact if you will, then it is transformative for the viewer as well.

New Look! Old Look Back Soon!~~

Hi Ho loyal readers! As you can tell, things are changing around here - again. I hope to have the old look back fairly soon. I've been "tinkering" with things and, as usual, messed them up a bit, so I'm doing my best to get back to square one and start again.

Please excuse the mess!

Upcoming blog entries:
Testosterone and the lack thereof
O Canada! (A good reason to move to the Great, Free North!)
Art Magazines and the usefulness of advertising!

My Issues With Air ~

A year ago last winter, during a particularly cold snap, one of the worst possible things that could happen to a financially challenged bloke like myself occurred. My furnace broke. It didn't just break, it died. It died a cold and heartless death.

I called around to find someone that could come out and make things better for me and Max (the Beagle.) I opted for a locally owned outfit that, despite their slick presentation, seemed like a bunch of good-ol-boys. Alas, they were money hungry and clueless to the concept of customer service. They charged $1.50 each for those little plastic caps that electricians use to insulate spliced wires. They charged me $400 for a new furnace motor and then, when it became apparent that the motor was not the problem they only gave me $100 credit.

Thieves.

Sooo, I found another outfit, some real down-home folks, and for a mere $1935.00 I got myself a new furnace installed and some great conversation and information on furnace care, not to mention about 5 portable heating units to keep the Beagle and me warm until Bessie (the christened name of the new furnace) could take over.

Ah. Warmth.

And so it was that the summer came and went and winter came again. The day before I was to leave for my folks' house for the Holidays I discovered a frightening lack of water pressure and an odd sound coming from the basement, a sound that reminded me of, well, water, rushing out of a broken pipe.

I went into the basement, waded through the lake that was growing there and turned off the water main. I changed my clothes and loaded Max into the car and we headed toward Grandma and Grandpa's house, leaving the crisis until after Christmas.

And so it was that I learned that the frigid air outside had seeped through a basement window and frozen a water pipe that ran near it. The copper cap at the end of the pipe had blown off like a missile and shot across the basement. As it turns out, though, I was able to learn what I needed to fix the problem on my own. It made me feel accomplished and, quite frankly, a little on the macho side. I got to use a blowtorch!

Alright. Now it's late July in Missouri. The outside temperature is in the mid-90s by 10 a.m. and the heat index is inching toward 100. Actual temperature by 3 p.m. is supposed to be 101, and warm air is coming out of my central air unit.

I call the pals o' mine that fixed me up with Bessie and they come out and, lo and behold! the fan is busted in the outside compressor unit. $280 later I'm up and running again. Two hours later, it's blowing hot air again.

Another call to my buds. Is it freon, or the lack thereof? No. The compressor itself has overheated and shut down. The vent is clogged with dirt and can't cool off. With a piece of high-tech equipment (a garden hose,) the compressor is cooled off and the vents are cleaned out. Yippee! Cool air! My house is a better place to be!

That evening, as I finish doing some calisthenics with the idea of improving my cardio-vascular health, I discovered that - alas - the air coming from the air vents is not cold. I turn the unit off and sit, sweating, in the middle of my livingroom floor and bury my face, dripping with oozing water from my newly shaved head in my helpless hands.

Then, as only the best of friends will do, Max came up to me, licked my ear and sat down, front and center, tail wagging in anticipation of an early evening walk.

This morning I called my pals at the Ma and Pa HVAC place and, yes, it seems I'll need a new unit. But, hey! It will only cost me about $1300!!! And they might be able to have it installed by the weekend!

So much for joining the gym. So much for buying my buddy's truck. So much for that new wardrobe and home entertainment system. So much for the new roof!

Alright. Time to buck up! There is life after debt! I just need to be warm in the winter and cool in the summer and be able to think straight in between. Think - think - think....

Of Structured Lives and New Beginnings

After a recent visit to my doctor, I was shocked to hear the nurse say as she was weighing me that I tipped the scales at 197 pounds. 197 pounds! I have NEVER been that heavy! Now, it should have come as no surprise to me inasmuch as I had recently purchased several pairs of pants that were snug at a 35 inch waist, but to hear it put in terms of pounds... I had gained nearly 16 pounds in the last four months!

Later that day, upon returning home, I did what I think many people do when they come to such realizations. I shed my clothing and faced the mirror.

Good GOD! I looked like a friggin' TOAD! Slumped shoulders, sagging pectorals, bloated belly and skinny-assed legs with knobby knees. I seemed hideous to myself!

Now, I have to admit that for most of my life I have accepted the fact that I am one of those many people that look much better with their clothes on than with their clothes off. No big deal. It wasn't as though I felt repulsive in my birthday suit or anything, I just was not Greek godlike in my body structure. I was far beyond that now. The clothes couldn't even hide the tire around my belly. I would never want to look at myself in the raw. (I thought about using the phrase "in the buff," but there ain't anything buff about me!)

So. I have just turned 47 years old and I'm out of shape and I'm feeling unattractive. Gee. I wonder what's going on?

Whatever the real problem is I know the solution. Join a gym.

I called around town, I looked in the phone book, I got on the internet and did search after search after search. Finally, I narrowed the list down to four possibilities. One was close to home and had a branch near where I work. It is also open 24 hours a day. Two have pools and specialize in "family" health but far from where I live. One is in the fashionable part of town and has all new equipment and is a tad more expensive - I bet the people there are equally as expensive. I guess the first one is the best choice, though I wish it had a pool. I decide to go in to talk with them.

I fill out a form, answered questions about my goals and then got shuffled off to speak with a membership representative. Nice enough fellow. Not freaky muscular but fit. Dreadlocks and a polo shirt. Hmmm.

I got a tour of the facility. Pretty nice I suppose. I met a few of the staff members. One guy was huge. Big ol' muscles. Very friendly.

Took a look at the prices. Not bad I suppose. I can afford it. I told them I would think about it.

I went home and started surfing the web again, this time looking at "body building" and "muscles." Wow. Now, there are some really freaky looking people out there! I don't want to look like that.... or do I?

...hmmmm.....maybe....hmmmm.....

Hey! I'm forty freakin' seven years old! Then again, I've made it this far in my life, I've accomplished all sorts of things that others might have thought were impossible, why not putting on some good lookin' muscle? Why not be able to use the word buff when describing myself? I mean, what would it take? Start reading the info on the web sites. Go out and buy a few "muscle mags."

Ouch.

I never would have thought that the culture of health and body building would be so complex! Percentages of lean muscle mass, body fat; ratios of carbs to proteins... testosterone levels! Then there are all the different exercises and the terminology involved: sets, reps, extensions, to failure!

I realized fairly quickly that there is a complex and somewhat exclusive culture that has developed around health, fitness and getting huge, freaky and ripped! It is a highly structured lifestyle where knowing exactly how many calories one is consuming, available from what types of foods, their nutritional components and their synergetic effects on one another is just one facet of the elusive jewel of the exercised elite.

So, do I really want to try this? It would mean actually living on a schedule, eating on a schedule, keeping records of calorie counts and number of weighted squat thrusts and how many times I've gone to the can. Hmmmm......

I began to make out a list of my daily activities. I opened up a spreadsheet on my computer and started to make a chart...day by day in 30 minute intervals. Up at 5 a.m. to bed by 11 p.m. (does that allow for enough sleep? Sleep is essential in the effective building of muscle mass!)

Now, I have to factor in everything....walking Max, going to work, 6 measured meals a day at proper intervals, house work, shopping, laundry, visiting the folks...and, oh, work out time -- at least 90 minutes 5 days a week. And there is yard work, studio time (for the art work) and home computer time (for the web site and self promotion...like writing this blog, for instance) and a whole host of other seemingly necessary things.

The result? Still not enough hours in the day. So I shaved my head.

Things Are a-Changing

Slowly but surely things are changing around here. I have recently linked my two Blogger blogs to my website and I will be changing their appearance to conform more closely to the design of that site. Also, I will be rearranging some of the posts so that the Dangerous Enlightenment blog will contain more commentary and the non-fiction writings and Scented Shadows will contain only fiction: both poetry and prose. This should help keep things in order and allow those interested in one type of reading material to find what they want without having to wade through the other type of reading material. I also have to do some editing. After re-reading some early posts I have realized that my spelling is horrible! I mean, I know how to use a spell-checker and a dictionary. SHEESH!

Unfortunately, I have not gotten the other pages up and running on the website. Lazy me. Of course, I could come up with all sorts of reasons for this laps in action but it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, now would it?

...in other news...

My friend and fellow YES-Head, Dan emailed me yesterday announcing that he was getting tickets to see the More Drama Tour that had just booked a date in St. Louis. He wanted to know if I was interested in one of the passes.

"Jeeze! Are you kidding?!?!? Of course I want to go!"

Uh, "More Drama Tour"????

Ah, for those of you waiting for Britney's next opus I should explain. YES is a band, first formed in the late 1960s from members of various forward thinking bands in England. Through the 70s and '80s they were quite popular, especially in the early '70s when their stage shows were filled with lasers, psychedelic sets and virtuoso, bombastic musical epics. Welllll, the drummer of the band, Alan White, has put together a side project called White that includes the keyboardist Geoff Downes, who played on a late '70s YES album (called DRAMA.) They are touring with The Syn, a band that existed originally in the mid '60s that includes bassist Chris Squire, who went on to be a founding member (and the only member of YES to appear on EVERY RECORDING.)
To round things out, Steve Howe, the guitarist for YES is travelling with them performing his accoustic guitar magic. And, as an added bonus, after the three aforementioned acts perform, a reunion of the gents that performed on the YES album Drama will treat the crowd to renditions of songs from that record that have not been played live since, oh, 1979!

So, for those of us with an interest in such things, this is a real opportunity! Stuart is very happy!

Okay. I'm at work and I need to get back to that part of my life. More later from this end of the continuum.........

If this isn't a sign of the impending final days I don't know what is. According to CNN the Supreme Court has decided that it is okay for local governments to appropriate private property for the purpose of private development. In other words, a city can take away your house, tear it down and allow a private business to build a strip mall and office buildings so that the city can increase tax revenue and the business can make more money. I'm sorry folks, but this doesn't seem right to me. It seems like there has been an inadvertent jump into another reality. Or maybe the powermongers have just won another battle for the control of existence.

I've been reading the blogs of Andrew Sullivan lately and, though I do not agree with him on many issues, I admire his integrity and intelligence. I wonder if he will address this particular issue.