Do Not Take Your Vitamins

I’m happy to have a private neurologist, Dr._, who was from the first astonished at seeing my original art works. In December I brought another one in to demonstrate how memory loss is interfering with my latest (which I do not show to him, for it is unfinished). But he gets the point. That moving (for example) from the palette for a green I see I need, and picking up a red instead, and then moving my brush to my paper and not seeing where I’d seen the need for the green it makes painting a confusing frustrating thing. This is why I’m seeing Dr._: when my art is infected by some mysterious element, I need to know. A few questions and he ordered an MRI of the brain. His diagnosis is “memory loss/Ataxia”. He orders a CBC, other blood tests, and the MRI. (By the way it’s nice to find that the VA will honor this.) Now the blood work is back: all in normal range, except for Vitamin B-12. I copy from the results, not really understanding it much. Over the phone the VA nurse said my B-12 is almost double the normal.

VITAMIN B12 EIA 1923 High pg/mL (211-911)

A vitamin? Maybe only a vitamin is behind the life of symptoms like this:

I’m reading. Impossible to fight off the tiredness, so I let it go. I start seeing lines in the book “highlighted” in pink and blue as if I’d done so with a highlighter. The descent into sleep is so pleasant I allow it because I can’t stop it. Now on the page behind the words I see a realistic color image of Lincoln standing with Jimmy Carter at the funeral of Rosalynn.  Moments later I come back to the page in “The Romantic Process” in Avery Craven’s “An Historian and the Civil War”. Hallucinations of this kind are really rather fun if not disturbing.


Jean-Honoré Fragonard

So, I’ll take the MRI next week. I’m betting that it will show normal. I had been taking a B-12 supplement every night for the past couple of years. Since this report I have stopped it. And I’m now not passing out all the time during the day.

Meanwhile my current watercolor – started on September 4 – is progressing, very slowly.


Many in America look forward now to April 18, Tax Day as it’s symbolically noted in jest, for not wanting to call it what it is: the end of absolute slavery for one more year. On the question of slavery, who would understand it better than those “ferocious and remorseless men-stealers”[1] of the South before the Civil War?


“The grand question…is what shall be done to protect…from this everlasting enmity and turmoil, which tears the country to pieces, when any question arises which in any manner, it matters not how remotely, effects the question of slavery. The bonds of our Union have wonderful tenacity and can stand as they have done, many a rude shock, but can they bear the silent and insidious rust, of a progressing perverted and corrupt public opinion, such as we know has been manufactured with more than Jesuitical zeal and perseverance for a quarter of a century…? They take the child’s young mind and pre-occupy it by every species of lying and blasphemous outcry…and follow the child into man-hood with this sort of teaching…until lies and sophistry and false information…have become ingrained into the very intellect and hearts of…people. It will take as we count, just fifty years to unwind the tissue of falsehoods, elaborated in the pulpits, and school-rooms…during the last quarter of century. It will never be done, at all we think.”

Georgia Telegraph, Tuesday Morning, April 4, 1854

[1] William Lloyd Garrison, The Liberator, February 18, 1860

The Hideout

According to the VA website the Indiana Veterans’ Home is operated by the State of Indiana for the care of its veteran population. The Veteran’s Administration, VA clinics, and VA hospitals are run by the Federal Government.

We were at the Veteran’s Home in W. Lafayette IN on December 13 (the VA will honor my private neurologist’s order for tests, blood work, and brain MRI; just need to set up day and time.) In the cafeteria, I noticed an old man with a WWII cap. Most of the population housed there are old. There were a few Vietnam Vets. You can tell the live-in ones from those like me who are there for an appointment with the VA. I’m in my winter coat. The old guys are in their every-day wear. In exchange for a pretty good private room, meals and on-site medical treatment they hand over their bank accounts—Social Security, military retirement pensions, and veteran’s disability payments. And then they become inmates. If they have a spouse they get a larger room. I said to my wife, “Christ they give up their freedom!”

On the way back to my car I noticed this Christmas scene, the Nativity. Real bales of Indiana hay around colorful plastic figures. I thought, “a little tacky…the fake and the real…but a peaceful old scene, nice to see it…I bet those figures light up at night.” Then it hit me: this is on government property!


Last December Obama signed an executive order forbidding discrimination against the Muslims. There were to be no “offensive religious displays” on Federal Property including nativity scenes. So how in the hell is this Nativity scene standing? My guess is that it’s the old veterans who live here that got this scene up. And I doubt that anyone is about to protest. We don’t have a big Muslim population here; Lafayette religion is majority Catholic (35.58%) to 0.58% Islam. And no Father Sante Braggiè here who would take down these veterans’ Christmas religious display “because it could offend Muslims and atheists.”

Well, as a former Catholic, I’m with a FB friend who says he’s “a 100% confident Atheist. Still not afraid to call myself a Christian. I know a lot of good ones.” And I don’t know any good Muslims. I know my Catholic friends love their contradictions and will seek a contradiction in that. For that matter, some of my atheist friends will break their heads over it too. A clue to the solution is found in Ayn Rand’s answer to the question of whether it is appropriate for an atheist to celebrate Christmas. She wrote:

Yes, of course. A national holiday, in this country, cannot have an exclusively religious meaning. The secular meaning of the Christmas holiday is wider than the tenets of any particular religion: it is good will toward men—a frame of mind which is not the exclusive property (though it is supposed to be part, but is a largely unobserved part) of the Christian religion.

The charming aspect of Christmas is the fact that it expresses good will in a cheerful, happy, benevolent, non-sacrificial way. One says: “Merry Christmas”—not “Weep and Repent.” And the good will is expressed in a material, earthly form—by giving presents to one’s friends, or by sending them cards in token of remembrance . . . .

The best aspect of Christmas is the aspect usually decried by the mystics: the fact that Christmas has been commercialized. The gift-buying . . . stimulates an enormous outpouring of ingenuity in the creation of products devoted to a single purpose: to give men pleasure. And the street decorations put up by department stores and other institutions—the Christmas trees, the winking lights, the glittering colors—provide the city with a spectacular display, which only “commercial greed” could afford to give us. One would have to be terribly depressed to resist the wonderful gaiety of that spectacle.

The Objectivist Calendar, Dec. 1976

Indiana Veterans’ Home. Growing up we called it “Soldier’s Home”. Still do. (It was built in the 19th century to care for veterans of the Civil War.) If it gives the men there pleasure to have their Nativity scene, who would erect it? VA employees are forbidden – they’re Federal. Those plastic Nativity figures have been commercially available for a long time. Looking at their Nativity, I think again: these old veterans are ingenious. And they haven’t given up their freedom at all.

Merry Christmas!

On My 50th High School Class Reunion


The Dead Alchemist
Elihu Vedder
Oils on canvas
23.23 x 16.93”

From a letter to a 1st grade friend:

This is a reason why I am myself no good in a social situation. This is why I could not attend the reunion. I have no grace at all in a group of more than three. I was thinking back on St. Lawrence. Particularly at recess. I remember well how I found ways to not join in. I’d get way back on the basketball area against the fence and watch from there the class mingling here and there. Or I’d get close to the incinerator there at the left corner of the building and try not to be noticed. Later I discovered two group activities I was really good at. Kickball. And marbles. I was surprised at how good I was at placing my kicks perfectly according to how I saw the opposing team’s field of battle. I took it all in in a glance and might hold my kick back just between an opening I perceived in their defense. Or, most surprising of all, I could kick the ball all the way to the basketball area if I saw a “home run” was the solution and an actual possibility. It was both tactical and strategic skill I had discovered. Marbles was a different campaign, again though discovering a kind of natural ability in strategy and tactics. Here, it was more compact, or intimate a situation. It was I think only boys, although I can see myself trying to enlist a girl for I was always more comfortable around girls. And it would be one on one when it was your turn. There might be four or more around the circle, but I’d watch the little beauties – those colorful little spheres – and plan my attack when my turn came up. You wanted to aim for winning the big “shooters”, while along the way winning as many of the little ones as you could. As long as you kept hitting others’ marbles you stayed in the game, acquiring more and more marbles for your bag. I remember I’d got a lovely pink quartz shooter. It was large, seems it was around 3″ in diameter. It had tiny bubbles inside like a ball of frozen champagne. Oh, to lose that would have been disastrous! But I never did. It could roll over two or three or even more in one shot. But you see the concentration needed for both of these games. I was in a group but was focused both outward, and inward for my goals. Neither demanded argumentation or much even of talking to others. This was about the extent to which I would allow myself to socialize. Thinking on it now, I realize I’d known early on that being around others was extremely painful. What I had to do was endure. I stayed camouflaged, stayed hidden. And just watched. I heard them. I wasn’t deaf. I heard their ways. And then I’d go into a daydream. My daydreams were of solutions to problems I saw they were struggling with. I wanted to tell them of my solutions, but I knew how they would respond. The few times I took courage to say something, they’d hear me. I knew they did because they’d take my thoughts into discussion. And in short order my points were changed into the babbling language they were comfortable with and I was forgotten, as if I wasn’t there. That bothered me some, that I ended up ignored. It bothered me to be unceremoniously dismissed. Not so much a recognition as a “you’re crazy”, or “get out of here”. Just ignored. But I knew it was coming; the torture for me was going out there. But after, I would move back into my camouflaged position where they didn’t have to notice me. There, I imagined further solutions – to problems of my own, that they wouldn’t see. As you’ve seen, some of my art is of this latter form, solutions to matters that must remain with me alone, and unspoken out in that world. My choice of career as an artist is perfect for me. It’s a silent thing. I show, but do not speak. So I remain dumb. And it is being dumb that keeps me unseen, and untouchable. I’ve always been like this, both as an artist and in my personality. I know I won’t be seen – and I don’t want to be seen – it’s why I don’t publicize myself very much. I don’t use the more modern things: I don’t use Twitter or Pinterest or LinkedIn and so on. Nor do I have a cell phone. Just my little web site that sits there mostly unseen. I want my isolation. I want my obscurity. What has been of never ending fascination to me is the goodness in people that I’m granted it.


Just So


Just So

 The group was becoming more boisterous as time passed.

“These conditions are awful!” cried a young woman holding a jug. Year after year I lug this thing—” Her voice was lost in a sudden outburst.

One young girl was reclining on a couch. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m freezing. It’s always so cold in here and I—”.

A man called David was rubbing his left arm tenderly. “No one hurts as much as I do,” he boasted. This arm of mine is so worn—”

There was a young girl combing her hair. “Lisa!” she called out. “Lisa” I can’t find her anywhere, and she has more to complain about than any of us.” The girl continued with her long blond hair as she called for her lost friend.

One girl wore a monstrous hat and a huge smile. “I don’t think things here are as bad as you make them sound,” she said to those around her. “They treat us right and—”

“Oh, shut up!” voices to her left said. “You’re always smiling! And here we are, eating the same food day after day after day, never finishing what we’re supposed to be doing, and you keep on smiling.” The whole group joined in the. “If you like it so much here, then you can just—”

Suddenly everyone quieted down. They distinctly heard it now, the sound of people walking towards their room. Hushed whispers filled the room as everyone scurried to find their places.

Michelangelo’s “David” bent his left elbow again. “Mona Lisa” crossed her hands delicately after she waved to her friend, Renoir’s “Young Girl Combing Her Hair”. Velazquez’ “Toilet of Venus” girl stopped shivering, as Goya’s “Water Carrier” jumped into her frame. Bruegel’s “Peasant Wedding” stopped complaining momentarily, and Hogarth’s “Shrimp Girl” smiled even more broadly than before.

None of the museum viewers noticed, though, because they were on a tour and spent only a few seconds in front of each painting.

The guide was saying from the next room, a few minutes later, “And here we have Vermeer’s—”. And then the room behind him broke loose again, with cries of stagnation and unchanging positions and threats of a strike filling the still museum air.

Don’t Tread on Me

I created this “coin” in Photoshop. The coin is resting on the 1775 “rough draft” text of the Declaration of Independence, as Jefferson probably presented it to Benjamin Franklin and John Adams for correction prior to committee. Hence, the mint mark of “1775”. At the top of the rough draft can be read “A Declaration” and “UNITED STATES”. On the bottom is the line “mankind are more disposed to suffer while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.” Thus, my graphic is relevant to both then and now, as a statement of disagreement with the respective governments. On the coin, the legend in Latin on the outside circle reads “Nemo Me Impune Lacesset,” i.e., “No one will provoke me with impunity.” The motto “Don’t Tread on Me” is based on the Gadsden flag, the famous yellow flag with a rattle snake, an early symbol of American independence. The date corresponds to the date of Jefferson’s rough draft. The mint mark is “L”, the initial of the place the coin was made: Lafayette, IN USA.

independence_day_coin_2015_blogClick image for enlarged view.

It’s been a couple of years since I’ve done any graphic work in Photoshop. This week I worked five full-time days on this coin in preparation for Independence Day. The coin’s field incorporates the large device of the rattle snake, along with a motto, mint and date mark, making it rather cluttered, I think. However that is, it’s set in a rough and used appearance, not newly minted, a bit worn. Not silver or gold, but a copper piece, with a yellow-bronze patina. I imagined a pattern minted perhaps by a skilled colonial engraver with a heavy press, or a lone gunsmith or even a button maker who could make an accurate impression.

So here it is. It’s a symbol of the legend of a people who took the stand that “no one will provoke me with impunity”. According to that legend, America’s founders drafted documents meant to make the government afraid to tread upon the rights that each individual possesses according to his very nature as a human being. Today, it’s the obverse. Individuals are afraid to tread anywhere, for fear of breaking some new law coming down on them from their government. The defiance and rebellion the rattlesnake signified before and during the War of Independence is almost gone.

“The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag”

There’s a husband and wife detective agency, Randall & Craig, Confidential Investigation. They’ve been hired by the title character to find out what his profession is.

Along the way, the wife, Cynthia Craig Randall, “[R]ecalled once having seen a painting entitled “Subway”. It showed a crowd pouring out the door of an underground train while another crowd attempted to force its way it. Getting on or getting off, they were plainly in a hurry, yet it seemed to give them no pleasure. The picture had no beauty in itself; it was plain that the artist’s single purpose had been to make a bitter criticism of a way of living.” I think that painting is by Reginald Marsh (1898 – 1954) called “The Subway”.


While looking for that painting, I ran across two others of the same subject, and period, that caught my interest. There’s a 1935 painting by Daniel Celentano called “Subway”. This one shows people’s faces that are at least mostly contented, if not happy.


And there’s the painting, “Subway”, by Lily Furedi (1934). Here, we see a range of emotions from happy to sad to tired.

Subway-1934-oil-o- canvas-Lily Furedi-s

Discussing Jonathan Hoag, Cynthia says “That’s all very well, but I wish we had never laid eyes on him.” To which her husband, Teddy, replies, “Too late for Herpicide.” “Herpicide” is from the Latin words herpes, meaning “to creep”, and cide, meaning “death”. It was a product sold around 1899 by the “drummer” (travelling salesman), D.M. Newbro. His claim was that Herpicide would destroy dandruff, falling hair, and baldness.


Will update my reading of “The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag” as the pleasantness of reading it proceeds….

And it ends with a surprise. And a happy one, because it is impossible for me to disbelieve the truth: that Jonathan Hoag’s profession is the most unpleasant one I could imagine. And yet, I would hire a Hoag, if I could, to do justice to my own alien art.


Yesterday: The Way It Was

On another blog I had written about the overused phrase “Thank you for your service”. This declaration used to happen to me a lot. Not so much anymore. I wear a denim jacket with USMC embroidered in red above the left pocket. Just below that are miniatures of the rows of ribbons I earned during my four years in the Marine Corps. I wear it to show that I’ve lived through an adventure. When I get recognition I like to say “well, it was an adventure.”

Here’s what I said on July 29, 2012:

But I don’t care.  I always feel a touch of sadness for the one wishing that on me, as if he’s staking a claim on my “experience”.  He doesn’t know what he’s saying; he’s articulating what he’s picked up around him, not able to identify it as social subjectivism geared toward service–an idea now brought to life as a relevant slogan: “thank you for your service”.  Ayn Rand’s statement on military service applies not to society, or any collective, but to the individual:

“Even if he enlists in the Army and hears it called “service to his country,” his feeling is that of a generous aristocrat who chose to do a dangerous task. A European soldier feels that he is doing his duty.” –Ayn Rand, Philosophy: Who Needs It, “Don’t Let It Go”, p. 253

Be that as it is, yesterday (actually, it was five days ago on February 17) I got a “thank you for your service” that I appreciated, and returned in kind. Here’s the story:

I had an appointment with a medical specialist is a small town 64 miles away. The appointment was for 1PM. We left at 10:45AM, planning to find a place to stop and have a lunch before the doctor’s appointment. We were given directions by the doctor’s office via a Yahoo map. Linda was my navigator. We missed none of the steps in the directions, but by 12;30 we found ourselves lost. I was preparing for all the costs of a missed appointment, and just find our way back home. But there was still time. We drove through little towns. The feeling was odd, as if we were back in the 1950s, and then another town the 1960s. The houses and buildings were old, but in good repair. She said about one large white house: “that had to have been built in the 1800s.” The streets were clean. All was in good order. Twice stopping at gas stations for directions, the people were kind and helpful. The directions they gave seemed so simple, but they got us further lost. I turned around, stopped at the only business building on the road, a dentist’s office. She didn’t know our destination that well. But she typed in the information and printed off new directions. There were four little local “roundabouts” to go through before making one last left turn. Finally, I could see we were damn close but one more wrong turn or missed sign and I would miss the appointment; it was now 12:50PM. And we’d driven 96 miles. I had to take the next right into an empty lot, but for a cop car.


Looking at the map one more time, I had no idea how far away we were or even if we were on the right road. I drove over to the cop car, got out and said “Hello officer” and told him our situation. Smiling, he said “you want me to take you there?” And so he did. We had a police escort (without the flashing lights)! He took us right up to the door of the doctor’s office. It was less than a mile. But we would not have found it. By then I was suffering a sensory overload what with all the twists and turns and streets with signs for this and that. I parked, went over and thanked the cop. He said “No problem. Thank you for your service”. And for the first time I ever used that phrase, I replied “thank you for your service.” And I meant it.

That cop was happy to be helpful–the way we were taught growing up in the 1950s: that cops were helpful members of our neighborhood, not to be feared.