As a matter of cosmic history, it has always been easier to destroy, than to create.

- Star Trek, The Wrath of Khan



Today, Mary shared her birthday present with me. We spent the day in Vancouver Washington, at the Firehouse Glass Studio, where I had purchased a private lesson for her in glass working. I had intended it as a truly private event for her, but it requires a partner, and kindly enough she included me.

That said, I must say that this was every bit as difficult a process as it might seem; Matthew our instructor pulled no punches, he walked us through each step of the way and then handed us a steel rod or glassblowing pipe and said go to it. Fortunately he was ready to jump in if we got in too deep, but he obviously believed in a hands-on method. I managed to mangle a number of pieces as we ventured through solid pieces such as paperweights - mine resembled a rock by the time I got done, but Mary's was much more pristine, a nice orb shot through with wisps of red and glittery Aventurine.

We followed with blowing; this was different than the blowing we had done in the past, in that we were not given the advantage of using a blowing-hose (a method which I could tell Matthew considers a bit of a cheat, but he himself used for purposes of his own demo)....we instead faced the blunt mouthpiece of the pipe itself, puffing away. I could feel myself turning blue while barely able to see the result five feet away on the other end...barely enough to call a bubble. The result of this first experiment was supposed to be a ball, specifically a simple glass ornament. Instead, I produced a misshapen puff that resembled a pickled crab apple. Nevertheless, Matthew assisted as we placed it into the cooling kiln as if it was a Murano masterpiece. I tried again, producing a larger but equally peculiarly shaped object - I decided I had moved up the chain from crab apple to eggplant.

The third section of the day's lessons was in sculptural form; this was accomplished by kneading ground and colored glass into the glowing globs at the end of the red-hot steel, and repeatedly toasting and revolving it in the annealing oven like a toasted marshmallow. I seem to recall losing a lot of marshmallows in the campfire when I was a kid, and was determined not to sacrifice this piece of glass to the same fiery fate. Nevertheless, as I rotated it in the flames and felt my knuckles glazing over in scorch, the flaming marshmallow image did soar past my minds-eye more than once.

Pulling the first glob out and sitting at the workbench, rolling the rod in my left hand and detailing the yellow-hot glass with various shears and tongs with my right, I laboriously clipped, pulled and cajoled, returning the glass to the fiery glory-hole again and again until I had accomplished what purportedly was a red half-open rose; the next step being to attach it to a glowing glob of kneaded-green glass, then pulling it to form a stem. This called for standing and swinging the rod maniacally - actually a gentle swing was more in line with the instruction but I took it upon myself to wave it as much as possible. then a few twists and clips with the shears, a rap on the handle and it landed softly in a vacant spot in the kiln to cool. There it was, but looking at it I realized that instead of delicate blown-glass flower I had managed to create a glowing red Sea-Cucumber-on-a-stick.

Ah well, if not a great glass artisan, maybe I have accomplished a new fast-food delicacy.

Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam -

- I have a catapult. Give me all your money, or I will fling an enormous rock at your head


I have been sitting here at my desk working, and looked up and out the window in front of me at the sun coming through the trees and across the lawn, and the pansies just planted by the gardeners who frequently but inexplicably come through to abruptly pull up the plants that are in full bloom to replace them with new plants in full bloom...and I noticed a truck in the parking lot being unloaded of its cargo of brown suitcases.

The suitcases are a mystery, and this is not the first time they have appeared; in fact about once a month a truck like this rolls up and hundreds of the identical bags are taken off and hauled upstairs to an office without identification on its door.

For about a week after this delivery, there will be a number of people, all dressed impeccably, seen leaving the building each with a brown suitcase. Sometimes they will congregate in the parking lot, smiling and laughing - but if a non-suitcase-toting individual wanders too near they scuttle like ants, tucking their cases into their cars and zipping away never to be seen again.


Then too, there are the meetings....just down the hall from my office is a conference room used by all tenants in the building; tantalizingly enough, it has a glass door allowing a casual bypasser on his way to the soda machines to observe the goings-on; unfortunately the room is miraculously silent, an unseen "cone of silence" dropped over it that disenables even the most covert eavesdropper from getting so much as a word. Cursed Cone. The suitcase people congregate in this room, apparently some type of indoctination into the Secret Society of The Brown Suitcase, with various posters lining the walls which resemble shelves of cereal boxes or large books. Various speakers take turns waving arms and gesturing at the cereal boxes. In the meantime a pile of the suitcases lurks in the corner awaiting distribution. Eventually the meeting ends and the group leaves silently with their cases.

My mind races. Assassins? Anarchists? Amway? What do the cases contain? What is the secret code hidden in the lines of cereal boxes. I have found myself in the grocery store staring at the shelves of cereal, trying to recognize something from the poster...trying in vain to decipher the code. Was DaVinci a member of this secret society? How would I go about finding out if he carried a Brown Suitcase? If I look hard enough, will I see in the dark recesses of "The Last Supper" the corner of a Brown Suitcase peeking out from under the table? DId "Mona Lisa" have a brown case tucked under her mantle? Was that the secret behind her smile?

The unmarked truck has just slammed its rear door and is speeding off, the last three cases being gathered up and taken inside by a man in a blue suit. I may never know the secret...so I will go back to work.

It's not whether you get knocked down; it's whether you get back up.- Vince Lombardi

I read this quote this morning, and it has stuck with me all day. I like it. I realize that, especially the past weeks, I have been preoccupied with a lot of details that just are not all that important. If you have spinach in your teeth, be grateful you have teeth. If you fall off the curb into a big mushy pile of leaves and mud, accept the hand-up proffered by your wife despite the fact she's laughing hard enough to almost lose her own balance.

I am really glad for where I am right now, and the fact that I am generally able to exercise my freedom and thought. I can maneuver around the big mud puddles, but if I fall in it just means I'll have to wash up. Big deal.

Which leads me to my less-existential day. Work has been very hectic, and fortunately I have Mary's smile to brighten the dark moments away. I need to say "thank you" to her. My evenings have been busy working on an art-project that seems to move very ponderously along; not that it is in any way lacking in inspiration - in fact quite the opposite, I think I have such an unusually detailed vision of its completion that I almost hesitate to put a brush to it in fear that I won't accomplish the exact right effect. Frustration in art is an odd thing - you look for perfection and if something goes wrong you tend to throw up your hands. Van Gogh chopped off his ear. We forget that paint can be wiped off, painted over and if all else fails there's a belt sander in the garage.

Its the vision that matters, how much paint you use is a detail...after you throw a fit, it's whether you get back up.

Thank you Mary!

The Crew

Why, might you ask, name this blog Motley Crew....could it be that I am quietly a follower of the band by a similar name perhaps...

The truth be told, in 1972 I joined the staff of my college newspaper, which ran under the flag of "The Buccaneer". In addition to my journalistic duties of following earthshaking leads on tainted jello in the cafeteria and a leaking roof in the gym, I was given the opportunity to voice my soul in a column for the Editorials page. Given the fact that my Dad had always had us spending our summers rolling the waves in his boat - first aboard the "Spinner" when I was small and later the "Desire" named for the streetcar, a nod to his own youth as skipper of the streetcar that had rolled up and down the 35degree counterbalance in Seattle with or without brakes - but I digress.... my history aboard the boat with my brothers (as my sister I think would never have set foot aboard) it just seemed a natural that for the Buccanner, I would be the Motley Crew.

My column ran for two years, occasionally being the source of humor, more often the cause of a few winces on the part of the Staff Advisor - but most often it ran unretouched and rife with quips, quotes, jabs at the politics of the day, college life, and the never-ending topic of the VietNam war. It was my best outlet, my moment of fame, my window into a world which at the time seemed vague and distant. Today I see that it was a window I am glad I never really closed. And as for the Crue - I am glad to share the name.

Vita Brevis Ars Longa
"Life is short but Art Endures"

Okay, so this is just the launch for this Blogspot, but I do like the above quote. I stole it from someplace but it just seems right.

Dan