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There is plenty to worry about in this twenty-first century. But some of us are hard-wired to worry no matter what; and at some point the Worry mechanism robs a soul of the ability to do something about what is causing the Worry in the first place. Such has been my lot since 1961 when, as a second-grade student in Miss Wolf’s class, I failed to finish an assignment about what kind of questions might be asked around Thanksgiving (example: “May I have some more turkey, please?”) because I worried that I might not come up with the ten Miss Wolf required. You’d think the Apocalypse had started, the way that got to me.

Fifty-one years later, I am more mellow, less apocalyptic, more productive, and less dire-predictive. Either I gained wisdom or I gave up.

Here are the words to the acrostic:

WOE betides the Worry-Wart from cradle to estate
OMINOUS are Signs&Portents–onerousness great
Rigor Mortis–Nostradamus–yes, the end is nigh
Richilieus & Looky-Lous will hit you in the I
Yet the fine print indicates there is no need to panic
Yggdrasil & Gilgamesh prove Doom is merely Manic

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About ten years ago I read John Steinbeck’s TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY IN SEARCH OF AMERICA. Mr. Steinbeck and his dog, a “standard” (tall) French poodle, lived the gypsy life in a beat-up camper, years before Charles Kuralt went “On the Road” for CBS. I remember vividly Mr. Steinbeck’s description of bigotry in a group he called “the cheerleaders;” the rest is a vague blur. But the idea of traveling with a dog appeals to me. I would want to do it on foot, though.

The man and dog in my drawing are not meant to represent Steinbeck and Charley, nor the late great William Doglas Bowers and me. They’re an invented guy and his invented dog, pedestrianing out in the countryside near a highway.

Here are the words to the triple acrostic:

Hit a road with a non-mangy mutt
Arcs & souls & butterfly flutter
Velvet glades & gusto to have
End the angst: the hinterland salve’ll

It’s been almost four years since Bill skipped town (Earth). I so miss him.

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This page is about Sainthood–Sainthood in my book, anyway. The prime criterion for Sainthood, seems to me, is Kindness. So I surround my four modest acrosticized lines with eight of the Kindest people I know, and I draw two of them.

Here are the words to the acrostic:

O Saints who call Urchins ma cher/mon petit
No matter if helping O. Twist or Pu Yi
Come teach us a lesson on living a Dream
Enfolded in Kindness with Love as its theme

Here are the people I’ve listed:

Judy Green-Davis
Jack Evans
Charlene Sims
Dick Wilkinson
Diane Norrbom
Cary Stoneman
Barbara Mills
Brian Bowers

Judy, either about to be ordained or just ordained, is married to Jack, “the Godfather of Phoenix poetry,” who’s been a volunteer at an assisted living center and who hosts both poetry events and movie viewings. Charlene, also known as Starry Bright, taught me an important lesson in empathy with her blog post about the three gatekeepers we need before we say anything. Dick Wilkinson is a ninety-two-years-young philosopher and raconteur, gentle and wise. Diane Norrbom is one of our family matriarchs and a goddess of nurturing. Cary stood by me and calmed my nervousness on my wedding day, December 10, 1988, and has given of himself to family and friends numberless times before and since. Barbara, also known as Hobbit, has made a career of elementary-school teaching, and her poetry reveals extraordinary depths of wisdom and caring. Brian, my brother both biologically and spiritually, nursed our grandfather in the last months of his life, comforting a dying man in great pain as no other could. Whatever I can do to honor these fine people, it’s not enough.

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Here are the words to the triple acrostic:

Eco-logic tells us we owe Life to melt & flow
Vessels for libations are best fill’d with aitch-two-oh
Each & every droplet put in free fall is a sphere
Raise the temp to have a steamy scene with one held dear
Yet when iced it turns a thirst to Gratitude sincere

And above all that, and below “Snow cone” and “Fog bound” and “Rain man” and “Cloud Nine” and “Hail bop” and “Ice scream,” in tiny letters, I wrote “NOT PICTURED: AL SLEET, THE HIPPY DIPPY WEATHERMAN.” This is, of course, a tip of the hat to the late, great, lamented GEORGE CARLIN, whose spaced-out meteorologist once caused Johnny Carson to nearly laugh himself out of his chair. That clip is easily findable on YouTube, and if you haven’t seen it, and need a good belly laugh, please check it out!

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Yesterday was as bouncearound as a pinball machine. It was my daughter’s birthday, so Denise and I left Sedona before 7am, joining daughter Kate; her mother, my former wife Joni; my mother; and her husband, my stepfather Marty, for a 9am breakfast at Coco’s in central Phoenix. Denise and I went straight from breakfast back to Sedona, I caught an hour’s sleep, then I worked a five-hour shift at the Village Gallery, where dwell certain ceramica of mine. Home by seven-thirty p.m., quick dinner crafted by Denise, viewing an episode of CRACKER, which stars Robbie Coltrane, known the world over as Hagrid of the Harry Potter series, another hour’s sleep, than off to my nighttime day job, working 11pm to 7am. Somehow before I left for work I did this page.

Here are the words to the acrostic:

The right words can make a career
Hold demons at bay with no fear
Empower; ennoble, help steer
Some phrases turn jelly to stone
Assist an ascension; enthrone
Usurp human will unto drone
Remonstrances may cure the lax
Upenders oft thrill to the max
Still–ACTION lets hearts and moons wax

As Mark Twain says, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is really a large matter — it’s the difference between a lightning bug and the lightning.” ‘Nuff said!

From top to bottom, and left to right:

First there is a sandwich. “Home is where the Cardioid is” is the bread, and that heart-shaped function dubbed the Cardioid is the meat. Then is the classic, simple equation f=ma: Force equals Mass times Acceleration. To its immediate right is the example of a gun firing a bullet. When a bullet is stopped, it accelerates its mass of lead from, say, 1000 ft/sec to 0 ft/sec in very little time–a forceful wallop indeed.

Next is the Math Thematics acrostic:

Mapping reality calls 4 sum thought
Minds hear the challenge [congruent-] equals flame 4 a moth

Antwerp, Armenia, Cannes, Chillicothe

Tackrooms & classrms & Batcaves by Gotham
Teach us Utopia–give us Golgotha

Here be the dragons of all & of naught
Here asymptotes may be deadly as Gotti
Half-solved equations turn sum cyanotic
Heroes’ resolve gives us answers by lots

Under the first acrostic is a gap described (and, ironically, filled) [discontinuity]. One example of a discontinuity is when the curve of a graph shoots upward to infinity and then an infinitesimal smidge to the right comes up from the depths of negative infinity.

Under the ungap is a Mathematical quadruple acrostic:

Menthol-vaporic
Arrangements–a
Testimonial thrill

Menthol-Vaporic doesn’t quite rhyme with Euphoric, so it becomes the best phrase I can come up with to describe the frustrating ecstasy Mathematical matters have provided me over the years.

To the acrostic’s right is a graphicrepresentation of the square root of minus one, also known as i. To its right is a pirate intoning “i, lad!”

Under the second acrostic is an imagined bumper sticker that reads “Σ: That sums it up.” Σ, the Greek alphabet letter known as Sigma, is the mathematical symbol for summation.

To the bumper sticker’s right (and the pirate’s left) is an equation which reads Infinity divided by Zero does not equal Anything. And, indeed, Anything, including Zero AND Infinity, divided by Zero is what the mathematics realm deems Undefined. However, I vaguely recall from second-semester Calculus taken about thirty-six years ago that there’s something called L’Hôpital’s Rule which allows us to skate around such obstacles in special cases. (Interested parties may do a search on YouTube; I just discovered, in obtaining via search the proper circumflex-and-all spelling of “L’Hôpital,” that there’s an introductory video in YouTubeVille.)

Under the equation is the final, fudgy triple acrostic “Math Them At[t]ics”:

Millennia dictate melancholia
As a threshold means an entrant
The quad takes the quadratic
Humanity’s limits are curves

Finally, at bottom is my signature and date.

I leave meaning-derivation as an exercise for the student. Good luck with that, Friend!

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P1010184This little piggie is glazed with Coleman Red-Orange.

P1010181This little piggie stays home: I’m not going to display it for sale at the Village Gallery, where my stuff hangs out. It’s got Cobalt Turquoise and White Liner going for it, and I can’t wait to put some Cottonwood flowers in it after Denise and I move there.

P1010185This little piggie went wrong, or not: Coleman Red-Orange again, and Cobalt Turquoise, but the Red-Orange morphed to a sort of red iron oxide just below the rim. But the ribbing was consequently better defined with that thinness. Still, I wish I’d kept the vessel inverted/immersed longer in the glaze.

Bowers_G_Black Satinbird_3D_ceramic_12X6x9_1This little piggie DID go to market; after being rejected by the Yavapai College Juried Art Show, I gave it shelf space at the Village Gallery, and a $35.00 price tag. Within 24 hours it was purchased by the spouse of one of my fellow artists–and there was a thank-you note in the cash envelope! Moral: Rejection need not be Forever.

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And this little piggie is going Wee Wee Wee all the way to the Valley of the Sun. It was commissioned by, and made especially for, stellar Valley poet Bill Campana. I’ve upended it to reveal the signature/date format I use. Feb 6 on top, 2013 on bottom, and my signature in the middle, with the O of Bowers coinciding with the center. Atypically, since this is a commissioned work, I’ve added “Made exclusively” (below Feb 6) and “for bill campana” (above 2013. Bill texts almost entirely in lowercase, including his name) to the foot inscription. (The bottom of a functional ceramic vessel is called the Foot. Other body parts, like Lip and Belly, come into play as well when a vessel is described.)

It has been too long since my “One with Clay” featured clay. Feels good!

From A, Awake in the Dark, his wonderful collection of film essays, to Z, Z-Man, the unforgettable character in Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which screenplay Roger co-wrote with the equally unforgettable Russ Meyer–Roger Ebert lived an exemplary life. Much of that is thanks to C for Chaz, his other half. Yesterday Chaz described his passing as a Transition. Roger, I so hope it suits you. Farewell!

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The reproducible human being has been in the literature at least since Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, which was written in 1931. Most of the humans in his imagined future were not born, but decanted from a vessel whose chemical mix and hospitability depended on the caste of its embryo. The lower caste zygotes were subjected to “Bokanovsky’s Process” which cause the fertilized egg to take twinning up to as much as 96-fold.

Much later there was a richly imagined story by James Tiptree, Jr. (the nom de plume of Alice Sheldon, who kept her gender a secret from the science-fiction community and fooled even Isaac Asimov, who corresponded with “him” and referred to “him” as Tip), entitled “Houston, Houston, Do You Read?” This was a future without men, and very few distinct women, who had to repopulate the Earth with their clones. Then three guys from three hundred years ago, time-warp slingshotted by the Sun, show up…

I’ve had a brief go at a clone story. The one new thing I was bringing to the party was the notion that if extensive human cloning was taking place, there would be a process called Twisting that would afford every clone something absolutely unique to her- or himself. The clone would then choose a unique name. I imagined, among other things, a Gary, Indiana populated entirely by Garys, who would jet off to wild weekends in Helena, Montana, poplated entirely by Helenas…

I have a feeling that DNA preservation is going to be big in coming decades; and, legal or not, high-profile folks (such as Mohandas K. Gandhi) might, willingly or not, be cloned, perhaps over and over again. Thus a semi-doodle of a person in lotus position bloomed into this weird Cirque du Soleil of cloned Gandhis.

Here are the words:

GreatSoul–Bapu–some roots vedic
All recordings are not vinyl
New-found tech from Chi to Vilno
Darkest dreams of Saint & Villain
Here we walk a gene-pooled vale
In our quest; seek verities

Would a cadre of Gandhis be helpful in saving civilization? I can ask that question, but I’m not arrogant enough to think I can answer it.