Actually I had already learned of guilt after thieving that pie with Pip from Mrs. Joe’s, and while runnin’ off with Huck and Jim a few years before that. I still experience confusion remembering my time with Jody Baxter without becoming emotional about the prospects of growing up.

Yes! I love to read, though I’ve taken it for granted, snacking freely on adventures and ideas for the price of a willing mind and heart. To read—the pleasant dangers of considering vicariously what I have not experienced, being granted permission to commit theft and murder; then to share another’s redemption, confession, to seek release; and the gift of full participation in alternate realities, exploring the mystery of written words and the magic of their endless arrangements.

For me, the written word, like paintings, is a mirror—“where who I am see’s what I am becoming…,” as books I read and read again become the “…the gentle witnesses to my transformation….”

“Is that really me?” I often wonder—my frail reason repeatedly flabbergasted by the actualities of my imagination.

I love to read. And because I love to read, I’m hooked on the immediate availability of the Internet and digital media, on the information at my fingertips, on the compelling connection between myself and folks everywhere, and the instant access to webs and links of related data right in the middle my focus. But still, for all of my ecumenical free thinking; the old rite of turning pages bound together along a spine, generous margins for scribbling in, and the paper and ink smell of opening a real book still excite me.

At the university where I teach, sometimes I’m saddened by the impression that cheap entertainment has finally replaced the gift of interpreting the written word—the icy code of text messages, those many unidentified chatters, and other immediate pseudo interactions that are more effectively corporate than individual. I suppose it’s a bit of a paradox that I often type my thoughts first in digital formats before transforming them into orthodox shape and exterior. For some reason—syntax, semantics, spelling, and grammar seem more obvious in type on a screen than in my cursive scrawl. So I sit here feeling more like the place between extremes, the culprit of growing disunion, representing the possible schism between old and new.

(Big sigh!) Ah! My buddy Rodka and I, stuck somewhere in the middle.

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“There he is! Look! There! Don’t you see his sleigh? Up there! You can just barely make out the reindeer in front….”

“Yes, I see it—at least I think I do. But it’s hard.” I answered.

So, that Christmas, being seven years old and in the second grade, I realized that if Santa was really just my parents, he, or rather they, would have to have hidden the gifts somewhere—and I went exploring. The top shelves in the pantry? The shed in the back yard? The back of their closet? And, the last most scary place to look was the cellar. The damp smell, the cool closeness, and all those sooty cobwebs hanging—we, the kids, never went into the cellar. So I decided then, by logical deduction, that it was the most likely place to find hidden presents, the place I didn’t dare look.

One afternoon while my mother was out doing errands, I decided I’d venture into the darkness beneath our old house. Slowly, I opened the door and descended the bare squeaky boards that were the cellar stairs, petrified of what I might find down there, other than presents. The furnace made those awful thumps and grunts as I quietly took each step, carefully checking above and below for imagined spider attacks. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs I turned and reached out into the emptiness, caught and pulled the chain attached to the fixture and bare light-bulb hanging in the middle of the room. “Nothing. Nothing! Nope, no presents here!” And I spun around and left as quickly as I could, tearing up the stairs, and then—as I turned to close the door behind me, I noticed what I hadn’t seen on the way down in the dark, that above me—high up over the stairs—on the shelf— were presents, the presents.

But, that is the enlightened story that I tell now. What’s odd is that I didn’t see them then. That day when I first went down into the dark, I came back sure that there were no gifts hidden anywhere in the cellar, reinforcing my steadfast desire to believe. I didn’t see the presents at that time. As I turned to close the door behind me, and glanced up at the shelf, I saw nothing. I didn’t see the presents stacked on the shelf until a few years later, after understanding more fully the true nature of Santa’s life. It was then that I saw what I was looking for, what I couldn’t see while staring straight at them. Suddenly I remembered, and there they were. Then, in my twenties, I looked and saw more than just the packages; I saw my parents’ love. Later, as a young parent, I looked and saw struggles and sacrifice on top of that. And, while that shelf is still a mystery in some ways, I’ve learned to have faith in its magic—though it doesn’t happen how the smart neighbor kids or I once thought. The presents had remained invisible until my experience and understanding grew to include their possibility. The real miracle and potential is that the shelf in the cellar continues to fill with gifts today, so many things that I can hardly imagine—before I learn to see them.

(excerpt from Chapter 13, The Infinite Degrees of Santa Claus, Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door)

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IT WAS REALLY SNOWING! By the time I finished the driveway, the other end of it needed shoveling again, the best time to return to the house, to light a fire in the stove, and then to sit and stare out at the cold whiteness of it all from my warm place inside.

I like it when things with similar substantial aspects on the outside turn out to be essentially different on the inside. I also like it when things which are essentially the same, look dissimilar. Most of the time it’s fun to be surprised, fooled by mimicry, as in the clever use of marzipan presented in the windows of Sicilian sweetshops; or tricked by the hidden reality of trompe l’oiel environments, as in the faux wood grain or marble that decorates the interiors of some old buildings. So I’m also delighted with words in English which are spelled the same but can have several distinct meanings.

This is the season for notes–notes about the gifts I plan on giving, notes about ideas I plan on considering, notes on images I plan to paint; and visual notes, the sketchy basis for making pictures, notations that will grow into complete patterns and painted worlds. I make a lot of notes, where one mark or color is enough to bring a complete view to mind. (Where’m I going with this?) Notes on next year’s garden that already begin to grow inside me as the real thing.

Then, there are the familiar combinations of musical notes, the seasonal songs and hymns that seem to carry me back in time, the notes of traditional melodies, the tunes passed down like gossip traveling from fiddles to feet, the toe-tapping stuff I’m addicted to (images of my nana step dancing in the kitchen with my dad late at night) interbred with my spiritual craving for communion with something bigger than me (memories of Sunday School, of congregational hymns in church, and the singing of heavenly-sounding choirs).

From what I want to remember, the little pieces of bigger themes–to what I can’t forget. I’m lucky. During this time of year the house is filled with notes, the music that my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather played, my kids preparing for seasonal concerts and parties. For me, these notes resonate the universe I live in–which is magic. Kirkmount, A forgotten village in the hills of Nova Scotia, the white-washed church and little graveyard, the place my dad knew as home–much of it has returned to woods and barrens. The one-room schoolhouse has recently collapsed, where folks danced strathspeys and reels all night to fiddles and the percussive banging of the piano. But in my house the lingering notes of the driven bow and irregular spiky rhythms are still heard, especially during these months when the celebration comes inside out of the cold and snow.

And finally, notes, the ones scribbled in a journal beside my bed where I jot down the conversations and contents of dreams, notes from another kind of place, not just from inside, but from in-between. I noticed the other day that on several pages I wrote horizontally and then rotated the book to write vertically spanning the height of the page, to create a cursive grid scrawled first across and then up and down. Then there are those pages where the notes refer to notes several pages before, notes written in circuits back and forth throughout the book.

Notes, the mnemonic doorways into memory. Notes, the sonic building blocks of music. Notes, a secret code to decipher at the right time and in the right way. Notes, notes, and notes….

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“IS IT INTERESTING?” I asked again after reading another chapter to her. “And, who do you think will want to read it?”

“I like reading it. It’s a wonderful book—but it’s not a murder mystery if that’s what you mean.”

I was stunned. “…not a murder mystery…? Of course it’s not a murder mystery! So, what is it?”

“It’s different,” she answered, slowing down then in order to offer the thoughtful response she could tell I was seeking. “I think it’s beautiful—like a long poem. But not exactly.”

Finishing the first volume of my Tesla journal and seeing it now in physical form has felt a lot like finishing a painted image. There’s always some amount of lag between the euphoria of calling it complete and finally feeling the initial infatuation dissipate. The emotional experience becomes a memory to process. That’s when I begin truly to wonder how others see what I see, what I hope to have shared.

Yes, writing words for others to read has felt a lot like painting—including the eventual realization that the audience is important after all. In the beginning, it’s easy to claim that I’m the only audience to please—that it’s solely for my personal satisfaction. Often it takes a while to discover the truth.

“Hey! What’s the view from over there?” I call across the chasm that separates me the painter from me the person who lives with other people in a house, on a street, in a community, country, and on this planet. That’s how it feels anyway—to pick up my head from my work and to look around. “Is this experience just mine? Or does someone else care? Have I painted the image clearly enough that others can see it?”

I have been reading to her from her own copy of the book and have noticed that she has underlined parts with a red pen. “Nope, not a murder mystery. People don’t usually underline passages in murder mysteries.”

“I hope you like it?” I begged for more.

“How many times do I have to tell you how much I love your book? Why are you so insecure?”

“Isn’t everyone?” I grumble to myself, and to be heard. “I’ve painted enough that I’m confident most of the time about that—but writing…? Yes, I am insecure. Totally.”

“Well, I do love your book—and so do a lot of other people. But, it’s not a common book. You know that.”

“Yeah, I think I do,” I concurred, remembering the many other times in the last few months that we have had the same conversation. I reread a few chapters to myself again after that, as I usually do in order to be reassured.

“Don’t think I’m bragging but I like it,” I told a friend later in the day. “I really do. I like reading it. It gets my thoughts going—loosens me up.”

“Me too,” he agreed. “I love everything about the book! And you should know that.”

“But it always surprises me to find that I really do enjoy it,” I responded. “…sorry to be so insecure.” I took a deep breath and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You know, vulnerability is a strength,” counsels my wife. “…sounds strange but it’s true.”

“I guess,” I admit, “but it doesn’t always feel strong.”

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a post by Alex Bigney, author

I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME sailing on my brother’s boat, out in the middle of Penobscot Bay, as he called out instructions in nautical lingo. I sat helpless, excitedly ignorant of what it all meant and what to do. Then, there was my first time in Italy after an intensive but brief two months of Italian classes-all communication too soon streaming by in a noisy current of fervent and frenzied speech, leaving me blessedly confused and feeling foreign. Once, I attended a gathering of professorial types coming together to taste wine and to toast to each others’ accomplishments. And there I was-me, the teetotaler, an artist, a stranger in the strange land of high-browed socializing-just standing and smiling.

“…but there’s nothing to know!” horselaughed one intemperate fellow who went on to testify passionately of his vast knowledge of godlessness. “Of course I’m an atheist!” he boasted.

“That’s more faith than I’ve got,” I remarked politely, feeling confused and out-of-place, and making my way toward the front door to let myself out. “What do I know?” I grumbled.

“Yeah! Is there anything at all to know?”

In the studio, lack of knowing on a certain level can kill an image, leave it lifeless, turn what was magic into what is senseless and without reason. Life outside the studio is similar-pervasive, stubborn, nagging doubt can supplant purpose with comfortable confusion and leave things meaningless.

What’s worse is that, speaking with gallerists, I’m often reminded that meaning is a liability. (Ah! The convenience of modernism!) I guess it should be obvious-who could let meaning creep into the brokering of something as ephemeral as painting? In the business of art, meaning and knowing are inconvenient. “…difficult to sell.” At least that’s what I’m told. “People don’t want to think about it.”

“Is it me?” I ask myself. “Or is it possible…?” I wonder, recalling my unbelieving associate at that party where I felt similarly muddled. “Can I know anything for sure?” For me, conviction can be a difficult thing to muster-I mean certitude retained for longer than the emotion that fuels it.

Now tell me-what would you do? You’re dreaming a particularly pleasant dream where a slender old gentleman shows up and tells you his name, tells your fortune, foretells a work for you, something you know nothing about. And the old guy returns, and returns again, and again, giving lectures and discussing thoughts you had never thought before. It just happens-without explanation.

Yesterday, I watched my dog dreaming-asleep on the rug, face twitching, legs and paws jerking at a run. I pictured her out in a meadow playing nip-and-chase with dog friends. “Who does she meet there?” Or, maybe tagging along with a boy chasing butterflies. “Which of her lives is most real? ” Soft yips and growls signaled satisfaction. “And, can she know the difference?”

Today, I’m in the studio and she is stretched out comfortably at my feet, snoring. In my case, to know something but not know enough is a liability, as it’s too easy to assume that a current view is all there is to see, like the controlled image of myself that I tend to protect. (p 197, Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door)

Like making pictures, it’s a tug-o-war, a struggle both to know and not to know too much, a crazy dance of believe and make-believe. Life is a dangerous proposal.

“Well, that’s just it,” said a friend recently, “…what we all deal with-especially concerning our worth and missions as individual persons….”

“So, how can we know and continue knowing for longer than those few fortunate moments?” I responded with a question before she had finished speaking. “Just try writing about and believing in paintings and dreams!”

“You got me! But isn’t that what we’re all trying to do?”

Suddenly I recalled words from the entries of my journal: Then I saw the night sky and the stars in motion slowly revolving around a single star, and felt like a big question mark again, still waiting for a sign. “But who am I in all of this?” (p 246, Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door)

“And, I’m more sure now than I’ve ever been that I’m not sure of anything at all,” I added.

“Sometimes, that is the best thing to know,” said Nikola Tesla. (P 240, Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door)

Recording things, painting or putting them into words, is like staking a claim, based on hopeful aspects not on perfect knowledge. (Am I ranting just a bit?) And I can lose track of who I am, what I’m doing, and where I’m headed. “Write them down, dear,” my wife said. “Keep a journal.”

“For what?” I answered then and ask now, even as I continue to take notes and faithfully write and rewrite chapters some five years later, though there’s no guarantee of success, no crash course in knowing other than living daily life awake and aware.

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ALTHOUGH MANY PEOPLE STILL ASK ALEX if it’s true—if he really meets Nikola Tesla in his dreams—Alex usually sidesteps the question, asserting that the reason he began writing Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door was to create a context for viewing and discussing art and the nature of creativity.

“It’s about the strange relationship between art and artist,” says Alex. “I like to think that it’s almost anyone’s memoir, the internal workings and explorations that are common to most people—those tender recollections of childhood, the thoughtful constructs of our more private fantasies, and the shared self-conscious inquiries that make us aware beings. It is about the magic of inspiration in an average life.”

Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door is also the basis and point of view for the Harness the Spark initiative that Alex is developing—a non-profit educational umbrella for teaching and exploring creative awareness and activity. Alex, along with artist and friend Kent Wing, the painter of the dustcover image, and others, is currently creating a curriculum for teaching painting and art using Talking to Tesla as the thematic matrix for viewing and understanding creative activity.

The book is written as a dream journal—the interaction between a middle-aged artist (alla Dante) and Nikola Tesla who appears in the artist’s dreams and begins to teach him. It was after encouragement from Kent and me that Alex began to process and record his chats with Nikola Tesla. I have listened as Alex awakens in the morning to recount his dreams, seen his “night notes” scrawled in a notebook he keeps beside the bed, said “Good-bye” as he left to travel to Nikola Tesla’s birthplace in Croatia, and continue to attend countless book readings and signings.

To say that it’s been a strange and curious adventure doesn’t say enough. Life has become a constant surprise, a kind of scavenger hunt, as Alex also describes his book. And I am lucky enough to tag along—which is a lot like entering part of the dream world he describes for readers.

“The book was written in the same spirit that I paint a painting,” repeats Alex often, as if everyone understands that process. “The activity is part outside and part inside—the blending of an amount of paint’s material substance with the mysterious essence of conscious awareness. That’s the miracle of creative endeavor—the particular human ability to organize a quantity of what is seen by qualifying it with what is unseen.”

And readers continue to respond to Alex’s musings—so, if you’re looking for something new to read, “a roller-coaster of a read,” something “wonderfully whacky and seriously engaging,” something delightful and a bit challenging; if you’re trying to find the perfect gift for a thoughtful friend—try Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door. “The book really makes me think…causes ideas to blossom, and dreams to occur—it is indeed a threshold into another world.”

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“Well, I’m not sure what it’s about…but I like it—and I want the rest of it yesterday!” That’s what he said.

After I had finished writing the first four chapters, in order to get some needed feedback, I began to let a few people read the manuscript. Sometimes I met with folks over lunch to discuss their experience and opinions concerning my curious project. So there, while downing a largish sandwich, a small bag of chips, and a bottle of exotic juice, I decided to continue writing Talking to Tesla.

“How could I tell someone what to expect? I guess I’d just have to tell ‘em to trust me. It’s something you’ve got to read to get it,” he explained.

I looked at the guy across the table, someone I hadn’t met before—watched him chewing and talking and chewing and talking….

“Hey, I’m no artist,” he went on. “Nothing at all. Never was. At least I thought so—but my daughter, she’s into art history—and I’m reading this and suddenly I’m wondering whether I might have some artist stuff goin’ on after all. It was like it was my life you were describing. I was surprised. I mean—I really got it!”

I smiled, thinking that it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me, eyeing his turkey and Swiss, and wishing I hadn’t chosen roast beef and the overly-sweet mustard. 

“I don’t know you and don’t need to be nice, but when is the rest of it going to be finished? It’s like—way whacked out! You know—in the very best way!”

The realization that I was on an unexpected adventure started to sink in—I wanted the rest of it too—and I felt at least as surprised as he did. “Yeah, I think I’ll keep writing.”

“Well, I really believe this thing’s got legs!”

That was almost five years ago, and I’ve lost track of the number of similar conversations over lunch, at book readings, on the phone, in messages and emails. 

“I didn’t expect to like it quite so much, as I’m not into what I thought it was going to be about,” said a friend. “I’ve started reading it now for a second time and I expect to read it again after that.”

“So, can you tell me what it’s about?” I wondered, hoping for some enlightenment—some phrase I might borrow when asked the same.

“You know, I can’t really say,” he stated slowly. “I really think it’s one of those rare original things. You just have to read it to get it.”

I’ve made a lot of friends since then. I think writing and reading have a way of easily connecting folks as we get to feel intimate without the sometimes interference of needing to be physically present. 

“…bit by bit, just a bite at a time,” wrote one new friend from North Carolina describing the way she was reading my newly published book. 

“I couldn’t put it down!” said another new friend from Las Vegas as he spoke of his marathon devouring of the book. 

“It is a gem…We read it out loud which brings us into a spiritual realm…,” reported a local potter. “The book is very important….”

“I read it in the evening and was very moved by it,” wrote a well-known painter recently, “and then seemed to ponder it all night as I slept…Your book is not easy to describe to others…. Many times I feel like I understand it in a gut or primal way, but I can’t put it into words.”

The positive responses to Talking to Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door continue to vary widely—including my own response. Each time I pick it up, it’s a little different. “I hadn’t seen that!” 

To me, it’s a lot like a painted image, mine or someone else’s—each time I look I notice nuances that I wasn’t aware of, textures and relationships that were invisible before I suddenly see them. 

So—what do I say when asked what the book is about?  I guess I have to tell ‘em to trust me. “It’s hard to put into words. Take a look for yourself—it’s like something that you get only by really seeing it.”

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Comment from Diane Stevenett, 

“Talking To Tesla, The Mirror That Is The Door should be a prerequisite read for every student of life, artist or otherwise. It stimulates, inspires, and propels one to think about life going on about you. It begs one to muse, dream, trust, envision, creatively experiment, design and journal. A basic foundation for the cerebral human—eloquent, rich, and provocative.”

View Diane’s Profile >HERE

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From reader, Kathy Wilson

“I AM JUST FINISHING UP THE BOOK and I wanted you to know how wonderful I think it is. I am convinced that it will be an opening for a lot of people into a new world of their own making.”

“The awareness, honesty and good intentions that made it possible are because both you and Marilyn had the faith and convictions beyond what most people could imagine. Alex, because of your fine mind and memory, the book represents a scope of understanding and awareness that will benefit anyone who is looking for some new answers to old questions, or just trying to figure out their own intuition and creativity.”

“It is beautifully written and engaging as well as scientifically educational.”

“I want to help in any way I can to help people understand the gift you are offering. Thank you both for the heartfelt effort you have made.”

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“IN THINKING ABOUT IT TODAY AS I SAT AT MY WHEEL MAKING BOWLS, I realized your book is a mnemonic device! I am sure you already are aware of that, but it finally hit me. Your writing is beautiful, descriptive, and yet also abstract…”

“I wanted you to know that your book really makes me think. It causes ideas to blossom, and dreams to occur—it is indeed a threshold into another world. It is that piece of mirror you describe in your treasure box. It is seeping into my subconscious; and arousing, creating thought. I am still only half way through Chapter 5. I am a slow reader anyway, but your book causes me to read even slower, wanting to suck the marrow out of it. Thank you for sharing it.”

“I recently came across a Thoreau quote I like. ‘A truly good book teaches me better than to read it. I must soon lay it down and commence living on its hint. What I began by reading, I must finish by acting.’”

Ben Behunin’s Book may be viewed >HERE

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