NickydocDocs

So yeah.  Vacation.  I just got back from one.  Anyone that knows me knows that I'm simply not afraid of hard work.  I tuck my chin, grit my teeth, and bull my way forward.  I don't stop to think about it--I just do it.  While I'd much rather lay on the couch all day and watch Star Trek, that, regretfully, has never been my fortune.  I am certain that I would have no problems living a life of leisure.  If I were to win the lottery, I would have absolutely no compunction in quitting my job, buying a private island, and devoting the rest of my life to the search for the perfect coconut.  I can do nothing all day and be perfectly content.  While I love my job and the things that demand my time and attention, I am equally happy to play with my dogs all day, putter around the house, and lay out in the sun (weather permitting).  When I went home to Russell, KY, for a vacation last week, I was reminded of one of my life's greatest treasures--having perfect days line up one after the other, like those decks of cards that my Dad used to play poker with--with absolutely nothing to do.

My mother and sisters fed me.  They, like many southern women, have a special place in their hearts for the family's 'baby boy'.  No matter how hight (or low) my life has been, they have been right there.  These are among the benefits of being raised within a southern matriarchy.  I returned to work rested, patient, and tranquil.  It lasted for exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes until I came down with a 103.2 degree temperature.  

It's odd to say outright, but sickness is my trade.  I wake up every morning and every morning I'm faced with the critically ill and dying.  Like most physicians, I rarely talk about it.  While evidence and knowledge inform every decision I make, the time comes in every life when scientific legerdemain fails.  The irrevocable fact is that everybody dies and almost everyone is surprised and afraid when their card comes up.  I still comfort--cradle fevered heads and hold fragile hands--when there's nothing left in my medical quiver of arrows.  When I have no magic bullets left, I have only my compassion and tenderness to offer--no pharmaceutical shields, potions, or magical procedures--just me and the values life continues to teach me.  In short, I am afforded the absolute blessing of offering up the absolutely best part of me every day.  I'm grateful for that.  However, with my recent (thankfully brief) illness, I found myself on the other side of the stethoscope.

One minute I was feeling fine and the next I had a fever of 103.  I had taken the usual tylenol/advil/cold medicine remedies and my fever continued to rise.  I got confused, dizzy-headed, and bone-crushingly tired.  When I couldn't get my fever to come down, I got plain-old frightened.  It had been a while since I had been afraid like that.  Heck, I still have that 13 year-old man-boy's spiritual sense of immortality.  For those few hours, I had convinced myself that I had meningitis, then leukemia, then a brain tumor.  In retrospect, I realize it was just an incredibly high temperature for someone my age.  The fever came down, the gorilla-cillin antibiotic a colleague of mine called in finally worked, and I'm feeling back to 'normal'.  However, I realize that, one day, one of those things (or a host of others) will, in fact, be my fate.

One day, it will actually BE a heart attack and not heartburn; a stroke and not a headache; or fatal pneumonia and not an altogether garden-variety bronchitis.  The 'worst-case scenario' will be the 'reality-based scenario'.  I've thought a lot about it, and I continue to ask myself 'what will comfort me?'  In logical procession, and certainly more importantly, how can this inform my interaction with the sick and dying?

The answer?  The tenderness of presence.  Simply stated, being there.  In my experience, people avoid visiting sick friends and family members because of their own fears of mortality.  It's awkward and scary, but it reminds each of us that we're all mortal.  Yet every life, in my experience, has a fundamental need--a need to have someone bear witness.  Every life, I believe, has an essential need of testament, especially at the end.

Was I dying?  No, but there were a few moments there that I wasn't quite sure.  Panic was definitely hiding in the shadows.  But it reminded me.

So yeah.  Lexington is having a 'Creative Cities Summit' right here in Lexington.  While I'm all for it, I can't help but be a little rankled by it.  First of all, it tickles me to death to know that Lexington's Ben Self is one of the keynote speakers.  This guy is a real powerhouse in INTERNATIONAL politics, particularly regarding new media.  He and his wife, Becca, are prime examples of authentic and engaged citizens of passion and accomplishment.  Becca works with Seedleaf and if you're not familiar with this organization, do yourself a favor and look into it.

But back to the Creative Cities Summit--I appreciate the hard work that has gone into landing the forum.  As part of a group of interested citizens called 'ProgressLex', I've been privy to some wonderfully exciting discourse on the event.  Some are all for it, and some are vehemently opposed to it.  The argument goes that Richard Florida's 'Creative Class' theory has been discredited while he continues to make a killing from the lecture circuit.  What always seems to to get almost everybody's hackles up is the 'creative class' designation.  Oddly, it's members of the conventionally defined 'creative class' who seem to have the biggest issues with it.

For those of you not familiar with the 'creative class', it was first introduced (or described) by Richard Florida, one of the speakers at the Creative Cities Summit.  Personally, it sounds like a retread of the 'yuppies' and 'guppies' (Young Upwardly Mobile Professionals/Gay Upwardly Mobile Professionals) from a decade or two ago.  I've never made much of it, although by conventional definitions, I would fall into BOTH of these categories.  As such, I will forgo every modicum of decency and humility, and speak as a member of the 'creative class' simply within the confines of this post.  I will name names.

In my realm of existence, the creative class is (and has been thriving) for some time in Lexington.  Collectively, I believe we've endeavored to make changes in ways that we can and simply go about our business.  You can find us on boards of every non-profit in town, on state committees, national, and international boards.  You may have read some of our blogs.  You may pick up our newspapers.  You can find them in think-tanks like 'Progress Lex' and you can read their writings in ACE Magazine.  You will find us on twitter, facebook, and LinkedIn.

You will see us working with organizations like Seedleaf, and you'll have seen us at Farmer's Market for years and years.  We get together for brunch, we text one another until our fingers are numb, and you'll see us at just about every LFUCG council meeting.  I'd say just about every single one of us votes and many of us slog up and down the streets during campaign season.  Some of us stuff envelopes while others of us either host or attend fundraisers.  We do our homework and, more often than not, we are the voice of discontent.  Some of us leave Lexington and some of us stay.  The fact is that most of us are not much affected by the designation one way or the other.

When the city landed the summit, we're all, I believe, scratching our heads a little bit.  When people continue to carry on (and on and on) about the 'ever elusive creative class', I, for one, want to throw myself off the roof.  The fact is that particularly astute leadership has been working with us all along.  To whit:

1.  Diane Lawless

2.  Jim Gray

3.  Kelly Flood

These three elected officials should serve as paradigms for the folks who appear to be out snipe hunting, or serve as the collective 'Johnny-come-lately'.  These three, as far as I'm concerned, set the bar for community engagement--and they all started the dialogue LONG before they ran for office.  It seems like the 'Creative Cities Summit' is more of a political move than an honest attempt at engagement.  That's not to say that it won't be enlightening or worthwhile.  It just seems a little contrived.

There's also the argument that the 'creative class' designation smacks of elitism.  I'm not really sure what I think about that argument.  Most of my friends are not particularly wealthy.  Very few have positions of power, but almost ALL of them endeavor to have positions of influence.  Personally, that simply defines an 'activist'--people who are trying to get other people to look at things in a different way; ostensibly, a 'better' way.  If we were to substitute the words 'activist class' for 'creative class', I suspect everyone would feel better about the designation.  Right now, nobody even wants that label, me included.  It just seems a little bit snotty.

So to re-frame, I have TONS of activist friends.  Most of them are creative.  I don't agree with them all the time, but I always take the time to listen to their ideas.  There are Marxists, Libertarians, Republicans, and Democrats; some are foodies, some are academics, and some are unemployed; there are doctors, lawyers, laborers; housewives, economists, and chefs; marketers, business owners, waiters, and students.  The thing that binds us together is a real and dedicated interest in making our own part of the world a better place.  It really is as simple as that.

Am I happy that Lexington is hosting the summit?  I suppose I am.  It's bringing an estimated 600 people to Lexington, and that's good for business.  However, the Lexington Art League brings out over 60,000 people to the Woodland Art Fair every year (and all the revenue that follows).  Unfortunately, we don't see everyone touting it every year all over the airwaves; yet it brings out 1000% MORE people than this summit. 

The Kentucky Classical Theatre Conservatory brings out around 25,000 people to the Arboretum for some great live theatre in July alone.  Most of those people have gone out and bought provisions to bring to an evening of theatre under the stars--food, wine, utensils, etc.  The 'creative class' writes about it and, more often than not, sponsors it on our own dime.  (I should note here that Diane Lawless was on the original Board of Directors of KCTC, and Jim Gray showed up at the ACE Magazine press launch because Mayor Newberry 'couldn't make it'.)   Representative Kelly Flood was so impressed with the Lexington Art League's 'Side by Side' variation that she is putting up a piece of legislation in front of the General Assembly during this legislative session to fund a statewide initiative for arts programming for children and young adults with special needs.  

The 'activist class' has been here all along.  I'm not crazy about the 'creative class' designation, but it seems that it's one we'll be dealing with for some time.  I can only hope that the 'activist class' doesn't throw itself off of the nearest roof from the 'done to death' panacea that the label implies.

So yeah.  I woke up into the new year at about 3:24 AM today.  It was the hospital.  I, of course, was on call, pretty much extinguishing any hopes of traditional merrymaking. Joe and I decided to take the 'languorous' road to New Years--which is pretty much the same road we took to Christmas--pajamas, a roaring fire, our dogs, and some special-effects laden piece of Hollywood fluff.  I was out by 9:20.  It would appear that I truly HAVE turned into my Aunt Mae.

Next thing I know, I'm pulled outta my bed and rushing into the freezing cold Kentucky morning, diet Pepsi in hand and iPhone crunched uncomfortably against my ear.  I pull out of my driveway and hit the light on Tates Creek and Cooper, and what do I behold?  Yes boys and girls, I saw an actual 'walk of shame'.  There was this guy in the remnants of his suit, drinking heavily out of a bottle in a bag, sort of loping down the street.  I audibly chuckled.  Right there at the stop light, my mood changed.

One of the great things about working a bit out of town is the down time of the commute.  I've got a blue million CD mixes that I can listen to as I tool to work.  I think about my day ahead, rarely the day behind.  So I started my 20 minute commute thinking, 'Yeah, if I had a nickel...'  I had followed the comings and goings of my buds on Twitter, gazing longingly.  I began to think that I'm getting old, then realized of COURSE I'm getting old (which, in my book, is always better than the alternative).  There was this thing on Twitter, #10yearsago--everyone recounted what they were doing 10 years ago on that date.

I, for one, remembered very vividly what I was doing.  I was in Time Square.  I realize that sounds pretentious and,...I don't know...touristy.  Just the same, I was bound and determined to spend at least ONE New Year's Eve in Time Square.  That year seemed about as good as any other.  So I moonlighted like crazy, banked the dough, and went all out.  It was full of pageantry, that's mostly what I remember.  Every hour, on the hour, they celebrated the culture of the country that was celebrating the New Year across the globe.  The other thing I remember was, after about an hour, I was TRYING really hard to have a good time.  In the end, it should never be difficult.  As it turns out, I ended up in my hotel room at the Paramount with my ex, eating pizza while watching the ball drop.

Cut to ten years later.  I see the 'walk of shame', and sort of recounted my New Years passed.  The ones I remember, with the New York exception, are the ones that have been sort of impromptu.  Never throwaway affairs...just the ones full of the casual banter and elegance of people whom genuinely like one another.  I drove down the road actually REFLECTING on my life.  I honest to god counted my blessings.

I got to the hospital and did what I do.  One of the great refuges in my life is my work.  It's a place that appeals to the control freak in me.  I also love what I do.  As bad as it gets, it unfailingly fulfills my most fundamental needs--I'm not really sure what they are exactly; I just know they do.  Some 6 hours later, I found myself at a sunny-filled brunch.  It was a fantastic group of people, each different and unique, and, when bunched together, morphed into some beautiful bouquet--not a coiffed and manicured floral display from the hot florist in town, but the kind of grouping you'd see at an actual GARDENER'S house.

There were friends old and new, but it was one of those elusive moments where everyone is just being themselves.  The humor and good will were pure, not dank and flat like so many of the other gatherings I've been too.  And as I recounted my version of the holidays (which included cleaning up a veritable FOUNTAIN of my boyfriends vomit that he spewed all over two bathrooms with an apparent zeal that would make mere mortals weep, my black Lab's psychotic break which involved an epic throw-down with my toy poodle, AND my interrupted sleep), I realized that this is my life now.  I also realized that I didn't meet a single person in Time Square that year.  I didn't listen to a story of an absolutely undeniable love that was meant to be, including missed opportunities, a circuitous trip to Texas, 'other' women, and a love that you could tell was still going strong.  

I didn't meet someone who lived in New York, rubbing shoulders with Broadway stars, but decided he loved Kentucky too much to stay.  No one explained 'digital media' to me in a way that made me excited.  No one talked about the utility of the deep freeze.  No one cooked for me.  No one smiled, at least not in my direction.  In retrospect, I loved that trip because I ate pizza in my hotel room with someone I came to care for very much.  Today was that kind of day too.

It may not appear to be much but let's face it--these are the things that make a good life: love stories played out in small towns against all odds; the reaches of home to faraway and glamorous places; the revelry in and reverence for life told through levity and humor.  These, I believe, are truths well told.

It is Christmas Eve EVE, and I'm chilling out at the house.  Joe is at 'Music Over Lexington' at Bakers360 tonight, and I'm left with the run of the house.  I took a long hot shower and put my special mix on iTunes--it's the mix that Joe absolutely hates, so I'm always excited to conjure the tunes out of the digital ether.  The first track is titled 'When I Die Tomorrow' by Sweet Honey in the Rock.  It's an old school gospel song with an african flair that I fell in love with when I was broke and backpacking around Kenya and South Africa.

There's something about this song that reminds me of my southern baptist roots in northeastern Kentucky; there's a vocal joyousness about it that evokes some sort of altered state of consciousness in me.  One of the lines goes something like,

"When I die tomorrow

I will say to the Lord,

'Oh Lord, you've been my friend--

thank you Lord you've been my friend."

When I die tomorrow,

I will say to the Lord,

'Oh Lord I'm your child.

Oh Lord I'm your child.'

When I die tomorrow,

I will say to the Lord,

'I had a hard tedious journey--

had a hard and tedious journey,'

It's a simple song but filled with a quiet pleading of faith that leaves me shell-shocked.  It will surprise more than a few people to know that I've had a deep and abiding faith in something greater than me since I was a young boy.  In fact, I came home after my first week of 'World Religions' class and Centre and talked to the preacher at my church for the better part of a weekend.  There was this overwhelming body of evidence that can pretty much obliterate the beliefs of the rational being.  I read the old King James from cover to cover for the class.  In my study, I read the commentary from theologians called the 'exegesis'.  It was scholarly, inordinately well-researched, and left me struggling--a struggle between the rational part of me and the spiritual part of me.  All of a sudden, everything I'd ever believed...on faith...seemed to be slipping away from me.  It made me feel lonely and afraid thinking, 'Is this it?  After all this, is THIS all there is?'

Very quickly after, I met one of the true loves of my life, Jennifer.  We fell instantly and madly in love, and, to my genuine surprise, I found her to be a being of faith and hope.  While her spiritual beliefs are incredibly personal and authentic, she incorporates them into her life with ease and grace.  She struggled (and continues to do so), but at the end of the day, her resonating internal spiritual life informs her attitudes and decisions on a daily basis.  I learned a lot from her, and still do to this day.  Another spiritual believer, albeit in an entirely different way, is my mother.

One of my sisters was born with psoriasis.  As a young girl, she tried every ointment, tincture, and concoction out there.  When phototherapy came about, my parents would load up our green station wagon and head to Duke University every weekend so she could stand in a claustrophobic closet with blinding light beating down on her.  I remember hearing her cry from her fear of tight places, but she absolutely refused to come out.  It was devastating.  I'd sing to her to pass the time; talk about this and than; anything to get her through.  It was a test of faith.  For all of us.  (I'm proud to say that she went on to be runner-up in the Miss Kentucky pageant--the only thing that kept her from winning was a fall and a beaver shot to the front 4 rows...)

At any rate, when the study at Duke ended (at the tender age of 11 for her), her psoriasis had cleared up.  Unfortunately, the psoriasis came back with a vengeance.  My mother, in an act of humility and blind faith, took a little piece of cloth and had the church deacons say a blessing over it.  When we would get ready for school, my mother would pin that tattered old cloth to the inside of my sister's shirt.

Now people from my neck of the woods all have a testament to faith.  I listen with interest each and every time now because I'm here to tell you--that cloth worked.  I raise my hand to heaven and swear on all things holy, it actually worked.  For about 6 months, her skin was absolutely clear.  

Believing these days--well, it's not easy.  In fact I think it's impossible, without some sort of grace.  I suppose you could call it 'willful disregard'--disregard of fact and convention; disregard of logic; disregard of history and plausibility.  Faith in things unseen and unproven is hard to come by.  I struggle, but when I listen to some really good gospel music, or chant...or pagan drum circle, it gets easier.  It helps me access that weird complex of neurons that convene to pitch off my doubt and cynicism.

So yeah.  My mother opened up a Facebook account.  It is one of those ideas that sound good fresh out of the gate but somehow manages to break a leg before the first turn.  I was absolutely delighted and amazed that my lovely mother decided to cross the electronic divide.  I'm a bona fide supporter of social networking.  In fact, it's hard for me to believe that I've only been at it for a couple of years.  (I signed up for an account on Twitter and posted my first tweet:  something like 'going to Louisville for [something or other]'.  Then silence for a several months.  When I decided to take a second swipe at it, the first response (from ACEWeekly, of course) was 'wow, that was one long trip to Louisville! Welcome back!'.  And, of course, the rest is history.

I am a good son.  That's one thing my mother got in the bargain.  While coming out to family is always traumatic for all parties involved, I made her a solemn promise: 'Mom,' I said, 'this is really gonna work out to your benefit in the end.  Mark me.  When all this passes, I'll cater to your every whim, dote on you with poetic sincerity, and love you with the power of a thousand suns.'  Needless to say, I've kept my word.  Life is easy for us now, although she's harder on my boyfriends that she EVER was with my girlfriends.  She's come to appreciate my tidiness, my obsession with punctuality, and, of course, my absolutely undying devotion to her.  She often comments on these things with a tenderness and clarity that defies belief.  I just say, 'When I say it's gonna rain, ya best set out ya TUB.'

So when my niece Marci set her up with a Facebook account, I was happy.  I posted it loud and proud on my facebook updates--encouraged all my friends to 'friend' her.  The first message I got from her said, 'I sent you a message but I'm not sure what happened to it.'  The SECOND message reads, 'I also sent you some pictures, but I'm not sure where they're at either.'  Several old (and new) friends have emailed me that they've sent her a friend request, but she hasn't yet responded.  I called her up on the phone today (as I do every single day) and said, 'hey ma, alot of my friends are trying to 'friend' you on Facebook.  What's up?'  She went on to tell me that she has absolutely no idea how to manage that yet, but she's getting a real kick out of looking at all the pictures out there of me and my sisters (all on Facebook).  

In fact, I suspect she's trying to post the 'baby booty on the bear skin rug' shot of me, or the one of me clad in a diaper complete with a gun belt, careening around our front yard trying to pee our dachshund  'Suzie'.  I felt more than a little angst initially.  My parents were picture-takers from WAY back.  There was always a polaroid around when my sister, Melanie, and I were young.  There are the shots of us on Easter pulling grass and rubbing it on our head because we really didn't know what it was...(to say we were over-protected could very well be the understatement of the year).  There are the shots of my Aunt Katherine running down the beach chasing after her 'falsies' after being knocked down by a wave.  There are old home movies of me in every state of dress (and un-dress) imaginable.  Yeah.  There's lots of stuff out there.

Somehow though, I don't think I mind it much.  (Even the senior pictures of me that definitely DIDN"T make it into the yearbook, looking like some odd hybrid between Rick Springfield  and a solid gold dancer.)  She's my mamma and to her, I was always beautiful.  

I suppose I'll have to tone down the raunch-factor, but something's always lost when something's gained.  She admittedly can't spell or type.  There's always the sanctuary of Twitter.

SummerFest has come and gone and the rain has come.  We had only one rainout, the opening night of 'Once On This Island'.  All three shows were just beautiful.  It was a bit of a risk putting up shows that were perhaps a little less well-known than the usual fare, but the audiences were receptive and the attendance was spectacular.  There's a lot to be said about not underestimating the audience.  As it turns out, my family was up from Russell, Kentucky (the old homestead) on the night I was surprised with an award from the KCTC Board of Directors.  Through a mouth full of pretzels, the only thing I remember is thanking my mother.  I thanked her for teaching me to dream and imagine; for giving me the courage to risk failure; and for showing me that the only way we elevate our own lives is to elevate the lives of those around us.  That's pretty much all I remember.  I prattled on a bit, but my mom sure enjoyed it--she cried all the way through intermission.  I'm pretty sure I secured the meal of my choice when I visit her for, oh, forever.  I see meatloaf in my near (and far) future.  It was special--for the both of us.  On the closing night of the festival, I got a call out at the park from Washington--as it turns out, I've been selected to sit on the national board for the Society for Art in Healthcare.  I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to find the time, but one thing's for certain--I will.

Life is slowing down a bit.  I have had some great conversations with Jennifer Miller (a dear personal friend of mine and the newly elected president of Actor's Guild of Lexington.  She is an incredibly dynamic and intelligent leader, and the organization is already benefitting from her savvy.  I'm particularly interested in their Second Stage plans--a proposed showcase for contemporary and 'edgy' theater.  I'll be looking forward to seeing what they put up.  I'll definitely be in the audience.  In my experience, when times are at their most challenging for the arts, organizations are almost always at their best.  I've followed the recent defunding of AGL in the papers, and I've been impressed with the straightforward and transparent way they are dealing with it.  This organization is a cultural tradition in our community, plain and simple.  They are handling the challenge with alacrity and grace.

As some of you may know, I've become a member of the Twitterverse.  It's an incredible medium, although it's made reading the local newspapers (ACE Weekly excepted) impossible.  By the time the news reaches local media outlets, it seems like old news.  It's rambunctious, thoughtful, and not without a few digital smackdowns.  Most importantly, it's full of incredibly well-informed, interested (and interesting) people; full of great ideas, longing, and idealism.  Rob Morris (@RobMorris2), for example, is leading an incredible movement (#lexmob) to support the businesses affected by the South Limestone street closures.  Grassroots mobilization at its finest.  ACE Weekly continuously provides concise reporting on local meetings, LFUCG goings on, and a plethora of information regarding opportunities for citizens to get involved.  Kim Thomas (@KimmyVille) continues to cover the arts scene as WELL as the thoroughbred industry.  Dan Sherman (@dvs) provides insight into the importance of social capital, and is an exemplary involved citizen.  The list goes on and on, but these people (along with many others) inform my life and my activism.  There are attorneys who are incredibly involved in the arts community, like Pam Perlman (@PerlLawLex) who, incidentally, was in BOTH 'Grand Night for Singing' AND SummerFest's 'Once On This Island' who find a way to balance an incredibly successful law practice while, at the same time, consistently contribute to the arts community every single day.  My hat is off.

Other good news:  Liquor Barn, long-time stalwart arts patron, has received a Governor's Award for the Arts for its long and ongoing patronage to the arts community across the state.  Roger Leasor, another businessman with an incredible talent in theater, is another mentor of mine.  If I can even come close to his dedication to the arts community, I'll consider myself having lead a meaningful life.  Other personal heroes of mine?  There are many.  Joe Ferrell.  One of the most artistically gifted human beings I've ever had the great fortune to meet.  I could listen to this guy talk about theater from dawn to dusk and back again.  One of my favorite things is to go to a rehearsal for a show that Joe is directing.  His interaction with the cast is something close to mystical.  He is encouraging and thoughtful, but with an economy of words that is stupefying, he brings out the actors with simply amazing results.  Admittedly, I don't speak the language.  In fact, it's something close to verbal and emotional shorthand.  But it works.  Every time.  He was the first to score the productions out at the Arboretum.  Every time I'm at his house, I take the time to surreptitiously scour his CD collection.  To watch a Joe Ferrell production is to immerse yourself in the artistic experience.

Things over at the Lexington Art League continue to raise the bar for community engagement.  The Executive Director, Allison Kaiser, is another personal mentor and hero.  I can say, without reservation, that she has taught me more about the arts community than just about any other person I know.  She gets the 'big picture' in the arts, and I feel fortunate to have worked with her for the last four years.  We speak on a weekly basis, and when I'm having a problem or challenge I can't quite get my mind around, she's one of the first people I call.  Her enthusiasm is matched only by her facility in representing the arts is a graceful and incredibly effective way.  One of the biggest blessing having come out of my engagement with the arts is some incredible and lifelong friendships.  Hers, I count among them.  Another is Sheila Ferrell.  If you haven't had the chance to read Liquor Barn's blog, do yourself a favor.  As a result, Sheila has gained a savant-like knowledge of history.  Every day, she gives historical perspective.  She lists things of historical (and topical) importance that have happened on that particular day in years (and decades) past.  One of the highlights of my day when we meet is to ask, 'OK Sheila, what happened today?', referring to her blog.  It may seem simple, but Sheila knows one of my favorite singers is Peter Gabriel.  On one particular day, she remarked on his birthday.  Mostly, I'm crazy about her because she's smart.  And she's a 'true believer'.

Although I was always interested in the arts, Diane Lawless  was the person who encourage me to get involved.  We met over edamame, and she has been a member of my chosen family since then.  She's incredibly gifted, and has LONG been a supporter of the arts ('We Came and We Put Down Roots')  In case you haven't picked up a newspaper in the last couple of years, she's also become a bit of a local rockstar.  She is an individual of true integrity, and I'm grateful every single day for her friendship.

I hear alot about the lack of leadership in Lexington.  Granted, there are areas for improvement.  However, I'm afraid I, in toto, disagree.  There are PLENTY of leaders in Lexington.  I'm proud to call this city my home.  I can't help but get a little riled up when I hear (or read) a complete dismissal of leadership in Lexington.  From where I'm standing, I see it every day.  I see people whose leadership is just as natural to them as breathing--from volunteers for non-profits, to business men and women; from Council Members, to teachers, to students; from attorneys and fast-food workers and the unemployed; from mothers and fathers to sons and daughters; leaders are everywhere.  The trick is, at least for me, to never discount any opinion, even if it is vastly different from my own.  When I stop listening and close my mind to the people whose opinions aren't necessarily my own, I am absolutely doomed to failure.  

SummerFest has a big old hit with SummerFest's first show, Henry IV.  If you happen to be a fan of reviews, you can find ACE Weekly's review by Kim Thomas here,or the Herald-Leader's review by Candace Chaney here.  By all accounts, this is an accessible and incredibly enjoyable Shakespeare experience.  The set is stunning, the costumes are lush, and the acting is exemplary.  The experience of watching outdoor theater under the stars is really quite priceless--precious even.  I go out every night, and every night I am amazed at the sheer and simply elegant talent on and behind the stage.  The finished product always speaks for itself, that much is true.  This particular finished product certainly does.  The work that goes into turning a bucolic field into this particular finished product is staggering.  I think it's easy to overlook the fact that this summer production starts out as a beautiful patch of lawn--a pastoral blank canvas.  When the curtain closes some three weeks from now, it is all that will be left--it is a 'leave no trace event'.  Everything will be stored and recycled, down to the programs.  It is perhaps the greenest art event I'm aware of, along the lines of the Burning Man Festival.  It is as ephemeral as summer itself.  It has been a rough year for the arts.  Lexington, unfortunately, has not been immune.  I, for one, am overjoyed and fortified by each and every success story I hear.

I was an english major at Centre College.  I struggled with Shakespeare a bit.  In its READING, it is dense.  I always thought of Shakespeare as the sort of distillate of everything pure and beautiful about the english language.  It is intoxicating in a way.  Quite honestly, I find myself reading it at a snail's pace, luxuriating in the play of words, the meter, and the exuberance.  Watching it performed, as it was surely meant to be, is less immobilizing (for lack of a better word).  This production is exhilarating, plain and simple.  The acting and direction make it easy to follow.  It is by turn, comical and poignant.  It is always topical.  The setting adds the necessary languor for me.  The pre-show music tonight was sort of laid back jazzy.  I watched the people walking up with their blankets and picnic baskets one and all, each with big sunshiney grins on their faces.  They had all taken the time out of their busy days to make time for themselves--they had made time.  I can't tell you how many times I've said to myself, 'gosh, I really want to go see that.' referring to some show or venue or exhibit.  Time slips away.  I get busy with my day or my week and then the opportunity passes.  When SummerFest rolls around, I think to myself, 'How many times am I going to have the opportunity to sit down on a warm summer evening with an honest-to-goodness picnic and watch some really great theater?'  Then I get in my car and head on out to the Arboretum--with a big ol' sunshiney grin on my face.

It may surprise some people to know that SummerFest is actually the production arm of the Kentucky Classical Theater Conservatory (KCTC), or 'The Conservatory' for short.  The Conservatory is a summer intensive theater training program that provides three weeks of theater education for our actors, directors, and tech crews of the future.  Instructors come from across the country every year to participate.  The training program is encouraging and educating Lexington's future artists.  I can think of no pursuit more noble and worthy, and I say that with an absolute lack of hyperbole.  It will come as no surprise to anyone reading this post that I am a strong proponent of the arts.  To my mind, when I hear 'the arts', I viscerally translate it into 'imagination'.  To me, that's exactly what the arts are--imagination.  SummerFest takes the imagining of placing a full-blown magnificent theater production squarely in the middle of a beautiful stretch of lawn and turns it into a reality--a fully realized, meticulously crafted and flawlessly executed reality.  It's the closest thing to magic I've encountered.

To expose Lexington's children and young adults to this bold imagination through KCTC and SummerFest is meaningful.  By example, people like Joe Artz, Sheila Ferrell, and Trish Clark are teaching our city's future artists to be absolutely unafraid; they are teaching our city's young adults to follow their dreams; they are teaching them the importance of commitment and dedication.

Corporate Lexington has stepped up to the plate this year.  Businesses like LiquorBarn, Darley Farms America, and ACE Weekly have lent their support; Donna Smith at the accounting firm, Stiver's and Associates have stepped up; the Frank Jenkins Law Firm has stepped up; Morgan Worldwide has stepped up; LFUCG and council member Diane Lawless has stepped up; individuals like Lee and Patsy Todd have stepped up; LexArts has stepped up; Dr. Luis Vascello, Dr. Enio Kuvliev, Dr. Travis Sewells, Dr. Rick DiNardo, and Dr. Paul McCreary have stepped up.  These people (and many more) have all grasped the importance of what really fuels the whole endeavor--the absolute necessity of imagination in our collective lives, and the discipline and commitment required to turn that imagination into a reality for Lexington.

A lot is being said in our community (and across our nation, for that matter) regarding what is important and meaningful.  It seems that we are in the middle of a paradigm shift here in Lexington.  The discourse is invigorating and ubiquitous.  There are so many people with so many great ideas, it's hard for me to keep up.  Everything is so immediate these days.  While this immediacy may be the virtue of its vices, I find myself struggling to prioritize.  The thing that always lands on the top of my list is imagination.  That seems odd, I realize.  It also happens to be true.  I am a joyous creature.  I often wonder why.  Genetic optimism?  Possibly.  I think the thing closer to the truth is that I allow myself to daydream out loud.  Perhaps that's why SummerFest is so important to me--every single time I go out to the Arboretum, I see people who daydream out loud too.  I see the reality of their daydreams every evening out there under the stars.  I see people on blankets with their picnic baskets who have, if just for a little while, left their worries out in the parking lot.

So yeah.  I was following a particularly funny virtual conversation on twitter last night, and something caught my attention--it was a hashtag (#) denoting the recent Iranian election (#iranelection).  I was vaguely aware of the election having taken place, but hadn't followed it too closely.  I searched the hashtag, and happened upon some students that were (verifiably) tweeting from the University of Tehran which, as it turns out, was pretty much under attack.  The mainstream news media hadn't really picked up on it yet, but there it was;  tales of tear gas, beatings, and militia intervention, told through the terrified and jaw dropping tweets of some students under siege.  The brief communiques of 140 characters or less were some of the most gripping moments I've ever experienced in my experience with the internet.  

To be candid, I suppose I had somehow (tragically) bought into the whole 'axis of evil' thing.  Somehow, I had gotten it into my mind that the entire country was chock full of america-hating terrorists bent on my own personal destruction.  I had become lazy in my thinking, forgetting that, although the ideal, a government rarely accurately represents its people (particularly dictatorships).  I have read Solzhenitsyn's 'The Gulag Archipelago' and Hannah Arendt's 'The Origin's of Totalitarianism' with awe and learning.  In fact, those two books, perhaps more than any others, shaped my view of the world.  I found myself thinking about those two treatises while following the tweets of those oppressed students, scared and breathless in their dorm rooms in Tehran.  It also reminded me of the egocentricity inherent to villages, states, and nations.

I was awarded a Watson Fellowship from Centre College, allowing for post-graduate study abroad.  I was still undecided about medical school, and thought I'd take a couple of years off.  I applied for this fellowship and, to my surprise, ended up being one of 75 national recipients.  I went to South Africa to study the allocation of healthcare to black population under apartheid, to St John's College at Oxford to study the National Health Service architecture, and to Israel to document the allocation of healthcare to the Palestinians in the West Bank.  It was an amazing, albeit heartbreaking experience.  I remember being befriended by a pair of twin Israeli soldiers, 'Hod' and 'Natti'.  Of course everyone in Israel has to serve some time in the military--conscription or, in the american vernacular, 'the draft'.  I happened to be in Israel during the first intifada (the first Palestinian uprising, starting in some of the refugee camps and ultimately spilling over into east Jerusalem, where I happened to be living).

The trip started off a bit shaky:  I had flown into Ben Gurion airport late one night from London, and had forgotten to check in with the american embassy the next day.  A couple of days later, I called my parents who had, by then, contacted the State Department and were in the process of walking their passport applications through, and were working with the State Department to hop a flight to Tel Aviv.  My mother answered the phone, and burst into tears.  Then she tore into me like a hot knife through butter.  Times were...fragile.

At any rate, I was sitting with Hod and Natti one late evening in Jerusalem.  I had the candid curiosity that the young (or young at heart) are heir to only, and asked the twins if either of them had killed a man.  Natti looked at me with these incredibly green eyes and said, in somewhat broken english, 'I suppose yes, but have no memories of seeing them fall.  I DO remember shooting a young Palestinian boy in the stomach with two plastic bullets.'  Just like that.  Not so much as a flinch.  I was drinking bottled water.  It's an odd memory to have, but I remember it like it was yesterday.  I had poured the bottled water into a drinking glass, and the waiter in the street cafe' had brought me a lemon.  When Natti told me about the shooting, I literally sucked a lemon seed down the wrong way.  After a brief choking fit, I tried to regain my composure.

I tried to remain neutral in my line of questioning, feeling immediately morally superior.  In retrospect, I was spinning questions out like thick knotted rope, giving him enough line to hang himself.  After some questions and remarks, the story was this:  The brothers were dispatched to quell a violent outburst somewhere in the occupied territories.  Natti was across this small alley from his brother, Hod.  Natti looked up, and a young Palestinian boy was on the balcony above, getting ready to drop a rock (weighing about 20 pounds) directly onto his brother's head.  Natti had a gun loaded with plastic bullets in his hand and reflexively shot the kid in the gut.  Twice.  My arrogance and certainty slipped away like tears in the rain.

I thought of that conversation while following those students on Twitter.  I forget sometimes.  I forget how easy it is to judge--to judge a people, a movement, or a country; how easy it is to judge a religion, a set of feelings, or a brand of loyalty.  These Iranian kids, like the Israeli soldiers who befriended me, are all just trying to get by.  That story, incidentally, lead to my first published poem.  Without dipping into the maudlin, it is reprinted below.

This Dream, My Urn

I count gray hairs, then think I could be bald instead.

When my hands are unyielding, I remember my father's hands--

coarse as sandpaper, stained yellow with smoke.

He used to tell me,

'A man cries when he has no shoes

until he sees a man who has no feet.'

I am learning from

this dream, my urn 

that, in the end,

it is not the bones

alone,

that tell whom you have truly been.

Nick Kouns

So yeah.  I went to the LexArts reception this evening for local members of the Kentucky Arts Council.  I was one of two two appointments for the four year terms.  Having been the president of the Lexington Art League Board of Directors for two years, it was quite a different experience.  In the past, I have worked for an organization that looks to LexArts for funding.  As a member of the Kentucky Arts Council, I find myself in the position of being a part of the organization to which LexArts applies for funding.  It was one of those odd role reversals that seem to happen just out of the the clear blue sky.  I spoke with the executive director of the Philharmonic, the new maestro, and several other representatives of Lexington's arts community.  I had an interesting conversation with Scott Terrell, the new maestro, regarding community engagement.

I was recalling my days living in Miami Beach, and really looking forward to the 'brown-bag' days put on by the New World Symphony.  The NWS is a training program for world-class musical talent.  Every month, they had a casual 'get to know the symphony' sort of affair--all the symphony musicians would show up in blue jeans, and provide brown bag lunches to the attendees.  It was a very unpretentious sort of early evening, with the symphony conductor stopping at certain points in the show to educate the audience on how to listen to the music--through understanding the structure of a classical piece of music, appreciation comes naturally in its wake.  There is an introduction, an exposition, and a recapitulation, of theme.  In understanding the musical architecture, I started to listen to the music in a different way.  It really was then that I started loving classical music.  Nowadays, it takes little more than the 3rd movement of Prokofiev's 3rd Piano Concerto in C Major to induce an altered state of reality for me.  And it came from this incredibly friendly, unassuming, and rich community outreach program.  I owe the New World Symphony a debt of gratitude for that.

As it turns out, Scott has a very similar vision regarding community engagement.  We talked about the importance of access and community infusion into the local arts scene--of collaboration between established arts institutions and local bands, for example.  After some interesting conversations with arts advocate and local impresario, Jennifer Miller, it seems only logical (and incredibly intriguing) to encourage a joint effort between local groups (Chico Fellini, for example) and the Lexington Philharmonic.  'The Swells' play regularly at the Art League, and the crown attendance is incredibly rich, diverse, and textured for the 5/3 Fourth Friday events.  In my estimation, these are the sorts of collaborations that foster meaningful and pivotal cross-pollination between different demographics in our city.  Conversations abound along the wires about 'NewLex', 'OldLex', and every other 'Lex' you can possibly imagine.  Fair enough, but if we are to move forward in an innovative and meaningful way, I believe we need to live along that fine line where the two intersect--'NowLex' if you can handle another #hashtag.

Without descending into maudlin and lofty language, arts (and life) is breathtaking for me only when I am surrounded by incredibly different and unique individuals whom have simple yet incredibly deep passions.  My idea of a perfect dinner party guest list?  John McCain, Antigone, Gloria Steinem, Malcolm X, Evita Peron, Judas Iscariot, and Gandhi.  It's an odd group to be sure, but these people all had the courage of their convictions.  Right, wrong, or indifferent, each believe(d) in something.  As opposed to 'NewLex' and 'OldLex', I pretty much categorize people into 1 of 2 categories:  true believers and everybody else.  While I accord each respect, I want the true believers at my dinner parties.  Whether it's a belief in the importance of art; or the belief in the importance of integrity in leadership; or the importance of being able to make the perfect cottage cheese sculpture--it's the undying BELIEF and subsequent devotion TO that belief that lights up my world in about a million different ways.  If a person is passionate about the mating rituals of cicadas, I'll listen with authentic and rapt attention, provided that the believer speaks with passion and love.  It's the sharing of ideas and passion that connect us.  

The evening went as these evenings typically do.  Joe kept pulling me away from this awesome dip that often shows up at functions around town, I believe from DaRae's Catering (it's this absolutely incredible pimento cheese dip with some sort of homemade jam on top) to meet and greet.  I suppose it's unseemly for one of the guests of honor to spend most of his time stuffing cheese dip down his throat.  Fair enough.  But the conversation with the Maestro was encouraging.

     So yeah.  I was driving to the hospital this morning to pick up some equipment to perform a little pro bono doctoring on a friend of mine, and I heard Conway Twitty on the radio.  Some songs transport me back to a particular place and time with an eery emotional accuracy that never fails to catch me off guard--it's like time folds back on itself like a blanket.  For example, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the first time I ever heard Peter Gabriel's 'In Your Eyes' on the radio.  I was driving home from Centre College and had passed Chenault Bridge.  It was before the bypass was built, and you still had to drive through the country to get to Danville.  Chenault Bridge was this beautiful old country bridge, painted sky-blue, that spanned a creek down in this little valley.  It was a beautiful spring day, and the song came on.  I remember crossing the bridge, and pulling over to the side of the road to just listen.  Aural medication for a tired young mind.  When I was driving to the hospital this morning, I happened to be listening to some radio station that played Conway Twitty.

     My dad absolutely LOVED Conway Twitty.  He used to sing 'Hello Darlin' to my mama every time he'd see her after they'd been apart.  He'd listen to Conway Twitty when he was upset about something; when he was really happy; or when he was whiling away the hours at a poker table.  He had this great voice with a richness in timbre that I'll never forget--sort of like Johnny Cash.  And as I was driving down the road, I remembered one night he came in pretty late.  My dad was, in addition to being a great dad, a bookie.  He had a 'bookie joint' in Ashland, Kentucky, for most of my youth.  People came and went,  Consequently, I met all manner of folk in my youth, and learned to respect them all just the same.  There was 'Beardog', the sneak-thief, 'Bones', the inveterate card cheat, 'Junior', the somewhat polished (and crooked) local politician, and 'Mt. Sterling Red', who, it was rumored, had shot a man in the face for bedding his wife.  These colorful characters were country tough, to be sure--yet all of them treated me with respect, and I learned valuable lessons from each of them over the years.  One night, my father came in, and was visibly shaken.  He instructed me to go into my room and take the pillow cases off of my pillows.

     Having been raised in a rather unusual environment by rather non-traditional parents, I didn't think twice about it.  I went directly into my room and stripped the cases off of my pillows.  When I got back into the living room, my dad told me to go out to the back of his car and put all the quarters on the floor boards in the pillow cases.  Which I did.  I knew better than to ask where they came from.  At any given time, I could be called to help load a brand new television (still in the box) onto a truck somewhere; I could be called into my parent's bedroom where there would be a brand new pair of Dan Post alligator boots waiting for me; and I could be called upon to take them off at any given time so he could sell them.  My dad paid for my first trip to europe with a solid 6 pound brick of melted-down silver.  To this day, I have no idea where that gargantuan ingot of silver came from.  So when he told me to put what appeared to be hundreds of quarters into my pillowcase, I didn't ask any questions.  He went back into his bedroom with my mama and closed the door.  I heard Conway Twitty playing in their bedroom, and knew enough to lay low.  I set the pillow case full of quarters on the kitchen table, and went back to bed.

     So when I heard Conway Twitty today, I thought of my dad--how music soothed him.  In a way, it's really no different than me listening to certain songs on my iPod when I'm feeling this way or that.  In fact, it's really no different than anyone who finds sanctuary in any of the arts.  Whether it's listening to Prokofiev's 3rd Piano Concerto, or Beethoven's 9th; whether it's listening to U2's 'Joshua Tree' CD or Madonna's 'Ray of Light'; music affects us all in specific and often therapeutic ways.  For me?  Usually something heavy in percussion.  If anything at ALL is wrong with me, it's usually nothing that Youssou N'Door can't take care of.  As for my dad?  It was Conway Twitty.

     The next day, I would learn where those quarters came from.  My dad took a crowbar and pried a pay phone off and out of it's booth.  As it turns out, the reason that lead him to do such a thing and ultimately lead me to stuffing those quarters into a pillowcase was quite simple.  My sister, Melanie, has psoriasis.  As a young child, she used to have to wear long-sleeve shirts in the summer and keep her hair cropped pretty short.  Back then, the only thing that really kept them at bay was a rather expensive steroid cream.  My parents didn't have the money to afford her medicine so my dad took a crowbar and busted into a pay phone.  One might think that being raised in such a household can only portend all manner of tragedy for a young and formative mind.  I suppose I would beg to differ.  I learned a lot from my father.  I learned what it means to really be willing to go to the mat for the people and things that I love.  I learned how to really have the courage of my convictions.  I learned to fight ceaselessly for the things that are meaningful to me.  I've learned not to judge.

     Being on the free lunch program at school was tough.  All the other kids knew.  Back then, Ashland Oil, Inc. was still headquartered in Ashland, Kentucky.  I went to school with the sons and daughters of their executives.  It was tough paying with groceries with food stamps.  I remember we used to go to the local IGA just before it closed to avoid the almost unbearable humiliation of pulling out those 'stamps'.  But we survived.  Like millions of people still do.  And while we've all moved on and, by any estimation, worked our way out of that crushing poverty as a family, listening to Conway Twitty brought it all back.  As I've become more and more interested in the arts over the years, I've never been part of the social aristocracy that patronizes the arts for advancement.  I donate my time and resources to the arts because they add magic to my life, just like Conway Twitty added magic to my father's life.  The humiliation of a child has turned into the humility of a man.  And when I'm at one of the endless fundraisers I attend almost weekly--full of rarefied air and people who have never done an honest day's work in their lives, I'll remember Beardog, or Bones, or Junior.

    I'll think of their easy ways and their genuine grins.  I'll remember their 'honor among thieves' (which is almost impossible to understand unless you've actually experienced it),  It reminds me of where I came from.  It reminds me that art is not about rarefied concert halls or women in five-thousand dollar dresses.  It's about every day living for every day people.  It really is as simple as that.