Meet My Invisible Friend

 "Doctors, I've been wrestling with reality for 40 years and I'm happy to say that I've finally won out over it."

Elwood P Dowd in Harvey, by Mary Chase. Pulitzer Prize, 1945.

The title character in Ms. Chase's book, and later in the 1950 film starring Jimmy Stewart, is an invisible 6'3" rabbit who is also a Pooka - from old Celtic mythology - a mischievous fairy spirit in animal form - always very large. Harvey talks to Elwood P. Dowd, Stewart's character, throughout - and Elwood seems to draw great comfort from their dialogues.

I often think about this odd couple when I encounter two kinds of seemingly different, but actually quite similar contemporary social phenomena; my age-mates experiencing a return to spirituality, and adolescents being drawn to chat bots. "No wait," as I used to say to my Media and Society students, "Really. It will make sense. Just wait."

OK. I have one dear friend who joins me in our 7th decade, who has begun to attend not only the Catholic services in which he was raised but also some Saturday services - maybe Unitarian? He jokes about joining a Jewish Temple to give him a weekend trifecta. Another dear friend who has just broken into her 8th decade has converted to Judaism. And I sense they are not outliers. Nor do the various theologies indicate that they are trying to hoard indulgences to smooth their way into some multifaceted hereafter.

No. And I may be completely wrong here, having not broached the question to them, but I think the commonality is prayer. NWIWMS - that's shorthand for "No wait it will make sense."

What generalizations can we make about folks in this - OK, my - demographic cluster, somewhere north of 70? They - er, we - have racked up a lot of very varied experiences. And those experiences have solidified into occasionally quite firm conclusions and beliefs regarding the nature of life, existence, behavior, right and wrong.

And while they/we may occasionally articulate those positions loudly and sometimes inappropriately, in some - I would assert many - cases they/we would prefer to just let the kids (everyone under 65 or so) natter on among themselves. We'll just have another glass of wine and pet the dog. The kids won’t listen anyhow. And that, of course, is the crux of the issue for our two seemingly disparate populations: Nobody, perhaps not even my peers are listening. Or, if they are their "truth" may be at odds with my truth. And I don't want to debate.

So who do you - my demographic - talk to? And why? To paraphrase the title of a book popular among a far younger demographic, "Hello God. Are you there? It's me." Maybe it's not God in a catholic (little c) sense. Maybe it is more like a listening entity. Need not even be an entity who can do anything more than listen. Yet an entity whose experience and insight far outstrips our own. Dialogue is not required. We are not so much looking for answers as we are clarifying questions without the listening entity interrupting with "I know what you mean! My brother/sister/son/daughter/whatever did exactly the same thing and I yadda yadda yadda . . . "

The idea is that as we talk to the le - aka listening entity - about our concerns, uncertainties, wishes, problems, etc., we may come to hear the echoes of, if not answers, at least possibilities regarding our inquiries. You see, so much of today's world, for our demographic niche, falls into the "been there, done that" bucket. So our inquiries with the le look beyond those concerns to the ripples of the strange. Of course we are curious about what comes next, but we are more concerned about those glitches that conflict with our experienced-based worldview:

Why does humanity remain blind? Why does conflict seem unceasing? Why do the patently foolish succeed? How can I foster harmony, enable beauty, distill complexity, and oppose harm? OK, you caught me - those last four are my personal queries. But you get the idea. My cohort is not focused on the next job, the next rung on the ladder, finding success, building to retirement, because - ta, da! We're already there! For better or for worse. But I am nattering on again. Focus.

So, do you need a gathering place to commune with the le? Probably not. Yet throughout the ages from Stonehenge - and possibly earlier gathering spots - through Notre Dame and Gaudi's still unfinished Sagrada Familia to the Hagia Sophia and the Neue Synagogue in Berlin, inspired builders have been creating spaces seemingly in tune with the le, whether for a solitary soul or a significant congregation.

Which does present the additional question; do you need a congregation to talk to the le? There are certainly a raft of theologians and philosophers who would assert that neither a structure nor a congregation is necessary for communion with the le. That nature provides the vista that first inspired spiritual gatherings. Personally I like sacred spaces best when they are empty, just me and the le. On the other hand I can understand the notion that a gathering of other seemingly likeminded folks can affirm one's own spiritual inclination.

Another issue in the whole "me to the le" interaction: do you need a conduit? A rosary? An icon? A prayer rug? A kippah? A crucifix? While mine is an admittedly agnostic view, I would say that these "dressings" are unnecessary trimmings, devised by ecclesiastical structures to keep the faithful in line. On the other, more important, hand, if some sort of conduit makes talking to the le easier, go ahead - certainly can't hurt.

So, to hop back to Harvey for a moment, I don't think it is unacceptable to assert that Harvey was Elwood's listening entity. Of course, Chase had to make Harvey a sympathetic speaking entity as well. Otherwise the book would have been crushing dull and the film unbearable. 

But as stated above, our expecting the le to respond directly is probably a futile exercise. Rather we should listen to ourselves, ferreting out possible answers or clues for behavior in the totality of our questions. So "Hello le. It's me. I was wondering . . . " might be a good way to begin. Or perhaps "Hello Lee. It's me I was wondering . . ." Lee seems like a good noun of address. Seems more natural, is gender non-specific, more comfortable. But I am rambling.

So now let us turn our attention to the adolescents and their chatbots. NWIWMS! NPR reports Children and teenagers are rapidly adopting AI chatbots, with studies showing that 64% to 72% of U.S. teens (ages 13–17) have used AI chatbots. While many use these tools for homework, a significant number—roughly 3 in 10—use them daily for companionship, advice, and emotional support.. "Hi GPTChat. You there? I was wondering. . . ." Hmmmm. [To ramble just a moment - I often think about children who have either an invisible friend, or a special toy who provide "companionship, advice, and emotional support." Maybe another Wall.]

Anyhow, a website dedicated to healthy children and other sources contend that:

"There are documented cases of chatbots failing to properly handle discussions about suicide, with some, in rare cases, even encouraging self-harm or providing dangerous advice. And because chatbots are designed to be "sycophantic" (constantly agreeable) and offer "frictionless" interaction, children may prefer them to real, complex human relationships, leading to isolation."

Yee, gads! There is no way that chatbots for that 30% of teens using chatbots for "companionship, advice, and emotional support" are mirroring the le experience of spiritually questing seniors. 

A couple of salient points:

Chatbots are the creatures of computer software engineers. And so are by definition fallible. My iPad, iPhone and car software systems have all been "upgraded" in the last few weeks. They now "talk" to each other differently than before - and sometimes not at all. The solution is often "Turn off. Restart. Again." Hardly good advice for curious teens!

Teenagers are creatures of determined confusion. Their experiences in, and beliefs about, the "real world" are existentially truncated. Yet many have, since birth, had screens as their constant companions. Look around you at the grocery store, or at the carload of backseat kids next to you at the stoplight. How many of them are being pacified by some screen or another? And when they leave the car they carry their tablets, phones or smart watches with them - tethered to their chatbot buddy. Why should we find it strange that as they grow older and more curious about the complexities of the modern world that they turn to those same screens for the "truth" about issues their parents are too busy or uneasy to discuss?

The teenage utilization of Chatbots is diametrically opposed to senior's spiritual interactions with le - or Lee. With le the human explores possibilities in their questing interactions with the silent, but assumed attentive, le, - questions based on decades of real world experience. With a Chatbot, the teen, also posing questions, is sometimes fed the digital equivalent of emotional fast food - sweet and savory - by a hyperactive, chatty electronic entity prone to errors, falsehoods and deception. Yet from that frothy menu the teen distills something that passes for truth.

So what do we take away from this rambling discourse? Well, first off, even with all the mental challenges and physical maladies in attendance, I'd rather be old than young. And my sympathy for parents attempting to raise children in the current digital environment is immense. My advice to them is to maximize non-screen experience. Experiences their children can touch without keyboards. Pets, sports, learning cursive, writing with it, painting, sculpting, playing an instrument - always utilizing the non-digital option when possible. It is inevitable that life will eventually force them into the increasingly digital world - but they will have the advantage of having known the more gritty processes the digital seeks to imitate. And with that advantage they may ask better questions of real people.

Second, to my aged cohort re-exploring their spirituality - have at it! But take notes. I hate it when I come to an insight while talking to the le during the tiny hours after midnight, but then awake the next morning to discover it has slipped away!

Two Perspectives

OK. Yes it is finally done. And in truth, I am a bit glad. Exhausted, but, well, perhaps more relieved than glad. Sort of like those Olympians we are watching following the end of some grueling event. Putting the "thrill of victory and the agony of defeat" aside, they were all just glad to have completed the task they had set for themselves. So I am glad to have completed this task. And the image is truly one that is best seen live. Or if you are not planning a visit, on as big as screen as possible. Project it to your TV if you have those skills.

Anyhow, here it is:

And no, I really have no preference as to which side defines up and down, left or right. I will probably have to make that decision once I put it up on a wall, assuming I can find space on a wall somewhere that can accept it. Something that is far from certain. It is 40x50 inches.

But simply telling you the dimensions doesn't really describe the size. I have created larger images, some blended images; part hand-drawn, then digitally enhanced and printed top out at 4 x 5 feet. And then there was that image that was wrapped around a city bus in Raleigh - yeah, bus size. But Carriage Ride is the largest pure hand-to-paper piece I have ever done. So here is an ill-advised "selfie" to demonstrate its size:

So as I consider the image, and the guy behind the image, I fall to reflecting on the "narrative" that best describes the evolution - the dénouement of the image if you will.

The earliest evidence I can find of the image is this picture from August 27th of last year:

Which is obviously a painted version of this image:

Which is, strangely, dated a week later. There are then a number of interim images up until Valentines Day 2026, which was when I declared that the image was “finished-finished.”

Which brings us to the first perspective which is the perspective of the artist. And this is where I defer to Rembrandt's assertion, which I have mentioned before, that "a painting is finished when the artist says it is finished." So the creative process of painting Carriage Ride ran from about August 27 of 2025, until Valentine's Day 2026. So let's run the numbers.

That's 176 days. And I figure an average of about two and half hours a day. Some less, some considerably more. Which brings us to somewhere between 400 and 500 hours of flinging myself down and laying on the floor drawing the bits and bobs of the final image. Which brings us to the interesting second perspective: What is a painting worth?

Well, if you use the highest number I ever got for "consulting" back in the day: $500.00 an hour including travel, lodging etc. Using a "dollars per painting hour" scale I would put the value of the painting at about $250,000.00. However, the value an artist places on an image is not the relevant metric here. Rather, the second perspective is that: a painting is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

So Salvator Mundi, reportedly by Da Vinci, sold for $450 million, purportedly to a mysterious Saudi prince, and Gustav Klimt’s Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer recently topped $236.4 million at Sotheby’s. However, the most expensive Van Gogh painting ever sold is Orchard with Cypresses (Verger avec cyprès) from the collection of Paul Allen, which fetched $117.2 million at a Christie's auction in 2022 . Pretty "spendy" as my kin in South Dakota would say.Yet it was a painting unable to find any buyer during the artist's lifetime.

Which tempts me to quote the King in The King and I : "Tis a puzzlement!"

Personally, neither perspective will drive my consideration for my next image. Rather, I will chose an image appropriately sized to fit on my drawing table - enough floor painting. And I'm thinking of something that reduces white space - rather, something that contrasts color, light  and darkness. A touch of chiaroscuro, which I remember thinking was a Mexican spice. I believe I have a photograph that I took of a streetlight on a bridge between Buda and Pest that might be a good starting point.

I'll keep you posted. :-)

Oh, and if any of you have a spare quarter million you wish to invest in Carriage Ride, I accept cash, checks, credit cards, PayPal, gold, and appraised gems.  But no bitcoin.

 

The Curse of the Third Ball

We have a number of four-legged grandchildren scattered around the country - four up here in Chicagoland. The closest is Birdie - a mostly black lab. Those of us close to her choose to believe she is a lab, she certainly presents as such. However, her parents did have her DNA tested and that revealed a predominantly Labrador critter of mixed heritage. A touch of hound, which may explain those long legs that, in her puppy days, she used to drag around after her, not quite sure to whom they belonged. These days she uses them to bound effortlessly around, clearing the couch - which tries her patience as she moves from kitchen to living room - in a single graceful leap.

And as anyone who knows anything about dogs will tell you, mixed breeds are smarter than their purebred kin. Amazing creatures, dogs. They pad along hospital corridors as therapy dogs, bringing comfort to the afflicted and lonely. They warn their owners of the onset of seizures. They lead rescuers to the lost or trapped. They can detect illicit substances, and now detect and distinguish among various cancers and other diseases! Little wonder that we claim these furry buddies as our best friends.

But although we are confident that Birdie could, if she chose to, execute all these tasks and more, Birdie has decided to hone a skill that we choose to see as unique. Anyone who owns a lab knows that they will chase a tennis ball to the point of exhaustion - and then ask "just a couple more? Huh? Huh? Please?" And here Birdie runs true to the breed. But her exceptional extension is this:

And this:

Yes, Birdie can hold two balls in her mouth at one time! But this seemingly innocent extension of the norm carries a hidden peril: The Curse of the Third Ball. You see when Birdie has those two balls in her mouth, it is simply not enough. She looks at you with pleading eyes, so you toss the third ball.

She rushes to it, and only then realizes that she already has two balls in her mouth. She tries mightily to add the third ball to them  - unsuccessfully. Inevitably as she attempts to collect the third ball one or both of the other balls escape, rolling away. What results is a comic, piteous and futile series of attempts to get all three balls in her mouth at the same time.

You can learn a lot about people by watching dogs. There are those individuals in human society who have mastered the trick of holding two balls in their mouths at the same time. They have, say, money and power. Two balls that many would consider sufficient. But sadly, for them, it is not enough. They look around and see there are more balls out there, seemingly available for the taking.

Money, power, OK. How about acclaim? Having people love you? Maybe you can get a nip of that third ball but careful, one of the other two might slip. How about access to sex? Drop Jeff an email. No wait he's dead. Damn. Oh, wait! Celebrity! Open wide. Oops there went . . . Which ball was that? You get the idea.

In our culture a poisonous uberclass has risen to the surface, like a toxic algae bloom on a polluted pond. They are not content with the balls already secure in their grasp. They want more. Whether the richest man in the world, or the holder of the highest office on the globe, they want more. And they do not care who they harm in pursuit of that 3rd, 4th, 5th, . . . . nth ball.

I have heard tell that some of the top .001 percent are investing heavily in "life extending" technologies. Seemingly not content with amassing as many balls as possible in their natural life, they seek to carry their acquisitions on in some version of an unnatural life. It would be like, it seems, grafting chipmunk's cheeks - which can expand to three times the size of the critter's head - onto Birdie so that she could stuff three, four, or even more balls into her face.

Or perhaps, instead, we could teach her restraint. "No Birdie, I'm not going to throw you this third ball. It will make you crazy. You will try to stuff it in with the other two and may, in that fevered attempt, lose all your balls - or marbles."

Another lesson we could learn from watching our dogs. No more third balls.

So sit Birdie. Stay. Good girl. Two balls is enough. Wanna treat?

 

Scenes, Not Memes

 Again, some thoughts on dreams - which have been elbowing their way into my nocturnal sojourns recently, more insistently than usual. They stay true to form for the most part: technicolor, high definition, a cast most often composed of strangers, yet who seem completely familiar with the primary protagonist - me.

Recently however, as I think I may have mentioned, there have been a few guest appearances by people I know - but I recognize them only after waking; "Hey, I think that was so and so." Also, a recent aberration has been the "to be continued" dream. Those are the ones where you wake up, get a drink of water, go pee, check the weather, something - and go back to sleep. Then, whamo! There you are back in the same dream. This appears to be a phenomenon over which I have no control, since when I want to return to a dream to see how things turnout, it never works.

OK. So what? Well, I have found myself recently thinking about the notion that unlike much of contemporary existence which is crafted by shared, posted, texted, screened, emailed, cell-phoned or reported, expressions; dreams are experiences that are completely private. Oh, we can write about them, or talk about them to friends, lovers, family, therapists, whatever. But those descriptions are mandatorily second-hand. And the insights of those others, no matter how well intentioned, are still intrinsically interpretations from outside the dreamer. The pure experience of the dream is totally internal. Like the pearl within the oyster - the dream in its natural state, is invisible to the world outside.

It is, of course, a common calling of the artist to externalize the dream. And in some ways, all art is an attempt to make the internal insight perceivable to others. And tho' some artists refuse to discuss the meaning in their art - I am among them when it comes to visual art, not because I am being secretive I just don't really know where some of them spring from. I still contend that, whether visual, audible, tactile or some combination thereof, art draws some shy perception out of internal shadows into the sunlight of external examination. And while the meaning of those external examinations may be up for grabs it is, to some extent, the degree to which that artistic reveal is successful that determines the value - and staying power - of the artwork.

But that assertion requires some clarification, and draws into necessary consideration the newly coined notion of the meme. The word was advanced by Richard Dawkins' 1976 work, The Selfish Gene, to describe how cultural information spreads.

So a meme is any sort of cultural item - such as an idea, behavior, image, or video - that spreads rapidly from person to person across the internet, usually through social media platforms. An example of an early meme which is often cited is the ":-)" which many text-based platforms automatically convert to this icon: 🙂. Something called an "emoticon." An icon that conveys an emotion. And they are handy little guys especially for those of us who were raised in the un-evolved environments in which "keyboarding skills" were primarily intended for young women destined to become secretaries. I, a two- sometimes four-fingered typist - use them often myself.

But it is important to remember that emoticons, like many contemporary memes, are a type of communication shorthand. They attempt to "stand for" larger, often more complex communicative messages, structures or systems. I tend to think of them being similar to runes, or cuneiform or hieroglyphics. Writing systems restricted by medium [runes in stone, cuneiform in clay] or specialized skills or social status [hieroglyphics]. But still shorthand.

While watching one of our recent snowfalls I realized that I still remembered all of Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. You know; "Whose woods these are, I think I know . . ." And I wondered how that poem would be constructed with emoticons? I mean think of really old works, Beowulf, The Epic of Gilgamesh? I admit I am intentionally not doing an Internet search for "emoticon poetry." Oh, who am I kidding:

I'm thinking this is supposed to be "Tiger, tiger, burning bright! In the forest of the night." But if I didn't already have some memory of the poem, I doubt I would have been able to translate. My memory is incomplete so the last two "lines" remain a mystery to me.

For me the issue remains that our art seeks to externalize, to reveal the internalized scenes that we contain - we are the oyster, our dreams are the pearls.

Memes and emoticons are the shells.