6/29/25 "My joy was hidden in a dream. I didn't know it was there until you set me free"-Lone Justice
"Silent Lucidity" by Queensrÿche found me like a whisper from the cosmos at a time when my soul was seeking ground. I’d just come through a summer of kaleidoscopic highs and shadowed lows—psychedelics had cracked open the heavens and the underworld, and anxiety lingered in the aftermath. In the quiet desperation of late 1990, I wandered into a bookstore searching for a way to make peace with my anxiety during the day and my dreams at night. Lucid dreaming called to me like forgotten medicine, and Stephen LaBerge’s writings became nectar that rewired my path. And then—serendipity. My friend flicked on the TV, and there it was: Queensrÿche’s “Silent Lucidity,” playing like a message from the dreaming universe itself. A song about lucid dreams, cosmic tenderness, and the power of inner healing. It was as if the universe whispered back, “You’re on the right track.”
I recently watched Professor of Rock talk about the song, and this quote struck me to the core: “You know, Silent Lucidity connected with a lot of people at just the right time. It was a song that stretched way beyond Queensrÿche's typical fan base. It was like there was this perfect storm of events that brought Silent Lucidity into the light and touched so many hearts."
That perfect storm? I lived it. And it left a trace on my soul that still glows. To this day, dreams remain my sacred home—a spirituality that bridges daylight clarity and nocturnal wonder. And it all began when one song echoed through the veil.
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6/4/25 |
The world was shifting beneath my feet—though at the time, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Spencer’s Butte, towering over Eugene, Oregon, had always been a place of perspective. A place where you could stand above it all, see civilization laid out like a celestial game board, and pretend you weren’t just another fragile piece in the grand cosmic play. That night, though, I wasn’t just standing above it—I was teetering on its edge, trying to hold onto something that was already slipping through my fingers. Dave, must have seen it in my eyes—that glint of apprehension, the way the stars looked a little too sharp, a little too knowing. “Here,” he said, pressing his Walkman into my hands, like an offering. Aerosmith’s "Sweet Emotion" hummed through the headphones, a song I’d heard a hundred times before, but in that moment, it was medicine. It tethered me, gave my mind a place to land before it could spiral into the unknown. Of course, the real test came on the way down. That’s when the trees turned into tricksters, their branches whispering half-truths, their shadows weaving themselves into something sentient. At one point, I caught sight of a coin flipping through the air—except it wasn’t a coin, not really. At first, it was just an ordinary flicker, catching stray flashlight beams as it tumbled. But as it ricocheted off the branches like a pinball, something shifted. It multiplied, expanding, assembling itself into a presence—grinning like the Cheshire Cat but scaled like some forgotten reptile. Its eyes were perched on stalks, swirling black vortexes within them, each one holding the infinite roll of fate. And in that instant, I understood something unspoken: the universe was less a solid structure and more a playful, ever-shifting puzzle. We pressed forward down the trail, flashlights carving tunnels through the black. The trees leaned in, their skeletal branches flickering in and out of existence in the half-light. Shadows moved with intent, shifting in ways that shadows shouldn’t. Eventually, we reached the city, and I let myself breathe. My companions wandered the UofO campus, their conversation like anchors keeping me from floating off into the unknown. The night stretched toward morning, and in the half-light, the bushes lining the sidewalk became ankle-biters—lashing out, playful yet persistent. I knew they weren’t real. But knowing didn’t erase the sensation; it simply lived alongside it. Back at the house, I found solace in sketching. The lizard-cat, the swirling coins, the strange anatomy of the night—lines and shadows taking form beneath my hands. Something fundamental had changed, but I couldn’t quite name it. Not yet. When the sun rose in full, I was new. Not reborn—nothing so dramatic—but undeniably different. The world was luminous, transient, stitched together in ways I hadn’t considered before. And somewhere in the years to follow, in the chaos of shifting perspectives, I found clarity in lucid dreaming and Buddhism. "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form." Nothing existed in isolation. Everything leaned on everything else—an endless cascade of reflection and connection. The universe, I realized, wasn’t cold and uncaring. It was bejeweled, magnificent—a living, breathing web of interconnected light. And though fear and uncertainty still loomed, they no longer felt like the final truth. And if I kept my eyes open, I could see it shimmering between every moment. |
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12/1/24 |
When we think of trailblazers in the realm of visual storytelling, Robert Abel’s name undoubtedly rises to prominence. Renowned for his pioneering work in computer graphics and special effects, particularly in television commercials, Abel’s influence permeates far beyond the screens of the 1970's and 1980's. His mastery in blending technology with creative vision has subtly, yet profoundly, shaped my own artistic journey and the aesthetic of my books. Robert Abel was a visionary who saw the potential of computer graphics long before it became mainstream. His company, Robert Abel and Associates, produced some of the most memorable TV commercials of the late 20th century. These commercials were not just advertisements; they were art. The seamless integration of vibrant visuals and cutting-edge technology captivated audiences and set a new standard for digital artistry. On a subconscious level, Abel’s work has left an indelible mark on my creative consciousness. The surreal yet cohesive worlds he crafted through his commercials have become a silent muse in my art and writing. His ability to tell a story through a few seconds of mesmerizing visuals taught me the power of concise, impactful storytelling. The vibrant colors, the intricate details, and the fluid motion of his graphics have inspired the visual language I use in my illustrations. There is a certain rhythm and harmony in Abel’s work that I strive to emulate in my own. This influence is particularly evident in my current book project. As I delve into writing and illustrating this new story, I find myself channeling the spirit of Abel’s aesthetics. The way he used light and color to create mood and atmosphere is something I consciously incorporate into my illustrations. The dynamic compositions and the sense of movement in his graphics influence the way I design my scenes, aiming to capture a similar sense of wonder and engagement. In essence, Robert Abel’s work has been a quiet guide, whispering through the corridors of my mind and subtly shaping my creative endeavors. His legacy as a pioneer in digital graphics continues to inspire artists like me, proving that true innovation in art is timeless. As I continue to write and illustrate, I carry with me the lessons learned from studying his groundbreaking work, striving to create art that resonates with the same depth and impact as his did.
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11/11/24 Recently, I revisited Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey, a film that never fails to provoke deep thought and reflection. As the credits rolled, I found myself pondering the iconic monolith—those mysterious black structures that catalyze leaps in human evolution throughout the film. In the movie, the monoliths serve as a catalyst for significant evolutionary advancements. From the dawn of man to space exploration, each encounter with a monolith sparks a profound transformation. This got me thinking: in our current world, are we in need of another monolithic encounter to propel us forward? Recent events have shown that humanity seems to be at a crossroads. Instead of evolving, there are times it feels like we are regressing. Division, misinformation, and societal challenges paint a picture of a species struggling to find its next evolutionary step. In this context, I can't help but draw a parallel to the "monoliths" we carry around every day—our smartphones. These devices, while powerful tools for communication and information, often serve as modern-day distractions rather than catalysts for progress. They hold immense potential, but how often do we use them to foster true knowledge, connection, and evolution? What we need is a new kind of monolith—an event or breakthrough that encourages us to look beyond our screens and reconnect with the essence of what makes us human. Whether it's through technological innovation that truly enhances our understanding of each other and the universe, or a collective awakening to the importance of empathy and collaboration, the next step in our evolution requires more than just passive consumption of digital content. As I ponder the monoliths of Kubrick's universe, I hope for a future where we find our own catalysts for growth. The tools are in our hands; now we need the vision and willingness to use them wisely. |
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11/10/24Imagine it—Summer 1992 in Portland, a city cradled by forests where golden sunlight filtered through the trees and illuminated the buildings near Powell's Books. I turned the big two-five and fate decides to gift me a night to remember. The scene is set at the Roseland Theater, a cathedral of the gothic sound. My friend and I, two kindred spirits, stepped into that sacred space where music transcends the ordinary. We were there to witness one of my favorite goth musicians, the harbinger of shadow and light, Peter Murphy. The show wasn't just a performance; it was a journey into the depths of the human psyche, a brush with the archetypes that Jung whispered about. Back then, I didn't fully grasp the significance of it all. But as years rolled on, I understood—sometimes to grow, you must delve into the shadowlands. It's in those dark, fertile places that creativity, courage, and infinite possibilities spring forth. We often celebrate the sunlit days of growth, but true nourishment comes when we plunge our roots deep into the gothic soil. It’s there, in the haunting melodies and dimly lit spaces, that we draw up the essence of life, breathe in the air of possibility, and dance to the rhythm of gothic reverie. Being it was my birthday, my friend gifted me a Peter Murphy t-shirt, a talisman of that night. I wore it like armor, carrying the magic of that evening with me. Alas, during a stint at my grandmother's house, the shirt disappeared—likely banished by her, mistaking the dark enchantment for devil magic. But oh, it was magic, the kind that transports you to realms brimming with that darling, dark wonder. Here's to the darkness that nourishes our roots and the light that dances in the shadows.
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11/6/24Imagine this: Just as a plant, in all its natural splendor, culminates in the blooming of a flower, so too does our psyche unfold in the form of dreams. The plant doesn’t need to be told how to bloom; it simply follows its nature. Similarly, our psyche, in its intricate wisdom, produces symbols in our dreams naturally and effortlessly. Jung saw dreams as the blossoming of our inner world, a manifestation of our deepest feelings, thoughts, and unconscious desires. Each symbol in a dream is like a petal, part of a larger bloom that represents the wholeness of our inner life. Every dream, in this view, is evidence of our mind's continuous process of symbolization—transforming abstract feelings into vivid images and narratives. So, next time you find yourself wandering through the maze of a dream, think of it as your psyche in full bloom, revealing the hidden parts of yourself in the most beautiful and mysterious ways. |
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11/6/24Throughout my life, I’ve explored various spiritual paths, searching for something that resonates deeply with my soul. I grew up immersed in the traditions of Christianity, but over time, I found myself yearning for something more—a philosophy that speaks to the vast, interconnected mysteries of existence.
To me, Christianity felt increasingly like a "dead desert religion"—rigid, dogmatic, and distant from the vibrant, living essence of spiritual exploration. In contrast, the Eastern traditions of Buddhism, Advaita Vedanta, and Taoism have offered me profound insights and a more holistic understanding of life.
Buddhism teaches the power of mindfulness and the liberation that comes from seeing the world as it truly is, free from the illusions of ego and desire. Advaita Vedanta reveals the non-dual nature of reality, encouraging us to see beyond the superficial distinctions that separate us. Taoism celebrates the harmony and flow of the natural world, guiding us to live in accordance with the Tao—the fundamental nature of the universe.
In addition, Jungian psychology has provided me with invaluable tools for personal growth and self-discovery. Carl Jung’s work on archetypes and the collective unconscious has deepened my appreciation for the symbolic and mythological dimensions of the human psyche.
Together, these paths have opened my eyes to a rich tapestry of wisdom and a way of being that feels deeply alive and authentic. They invite me to embrace life’s mysteries with curiosity, compassion, and an open heart.
I share this not to dismiss the beliefs of others, but to express my own spiritual journey and the profound sense of connection and wonder I’ve found in the philosophies of the East.
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6/28/24There was a time, not too long ago, when I'd step into the social arena like a gladiator armed with self-deprecation. It was my shield, my way of steering the chariot before the lions of judgment could pounce. Especially around the fairer sex, I'd toss out a quip about myself, a preemptive strike of wit, showing I was the maestro of my own shortcomings. As an artist, my brush strokes were bold, my canvas alive with confidence. You'd think such assurance would waltz me through the dance of courtship. But alas, when it came to the gaze of Aphrodite's descendants, I felt more like a sketch than a masterpiece. A history of rebuffs, a skin etched with the adolescent storms of acne, left my self-esteem teetering on a precarious easel. As for many of my comrades, they seemed to navigate these waters with the grace of Casanovas, finding love's harbor quite easily. Meanwhile, I was adrift, battling the squalls of self-doubt. But here's the kicker – the epiphany that washed over me like a gentle summer's rain: our worth isn't a prize to be won in the eyes of others. It's an innate treasure, a birthright that doesn't hinge on the fickle tides of attraction. We're all entitled to stand tall, to claim our space in the pantheon of self-respect. With that in mind, I think it's best we learn to anchor our souls, not in the shallow pools of external validation but in the deep, still waters of self-acceptance. I understand that can be very challenging, my friends, but I'm discovering it's a voyage worth taking  |
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9/14/20In 1978, just after Star Wars came out, I purchased the model
kit "Interplanetary U.F.O Mystery Ship" and assembled it as good as any
average 10 year old kid could. The Leif Ericson (the original version of
this model) was designed by Matt Jefferies. He designed the Enterprise from Star Trek and other
spacecraft on the original series. The model was released in the late 1960's. The
version I had, however, was relabeled, "U.F.O. Mystery Ship" and was
molded in a light green glow in the dark plastic. The model was part of my
imaginal space adventures using the Galaxy Laser Team figures as some of the characters
in my space fantasies. Unfortunately the model I built as a kid didn't follow
me into adulthood. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the model had
been nostalgically re-released in 2008. I ordered the model online and in a
short time, I was building it in my studio in August of 2019. This is my photo
blog of the build of the Interplanetary U.F.O Mystery Ship...  Opening the box... On the model kit instructions there is a bonus story adventure about the Leif Ericson space craft... The decals for the model give you options. The option I chose was the "weathered and battle damaged Pirate Ship" version... Shuttle docking bay assembled. Docking bay and doors installed. Hull and neck parts being assembled... Model and space shuttle fully assembled. Time to weather and patina, enhancing hull details... Adding the pirate decals... The finished model with
some special effects just for fun! I imagine the glowing aspect of the ship to be an "aurora borealis-like" phenomena – the ship's protective force shield emitting residual energy after warp speed. Warp speed to adventure! A look into the shuttle bay! The shuttle emerges... |
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8/9/20 |
"The whole is more than the sum of its parts."
A Memory of the RF-4 Phantom Crash in Ely, Nevada
In May of 1981, when I was 13 years old, I witnessed a tragedy that left an indelible mark on my memory. I was one of many in Ely, Nevada, who saw the crash of an RF-4 Phantom (BuNo 153101), an accident that claimed the lives of its pilot, 1st Lt. Peter Joseph Keenan, and radar intercept officer, 1st Lt. William Dewey Lauerman III.
It was late on a Friday morning, just before lunch, when the classroom windows framed an astonishing sight: an F-4 Phantom flying unusually low over our school and then out across the town. The aircraft demanded attention—its raw power and proximity were mesmerizing. But the awe turned to horror in an instant. As we watched, the jet performed an acrobatic maneuver—an aileron roll—over the distant hills. Then, suddenly, it nosedived behind a ridge and exploded.
The school erupted in commotion, students and teachers alike stunned by what had just unfolded before our eyes. The principal’s voice came over the intercom, steady but somber:
"As you are all aware, we just witnessed a tragedy. There is nothing we can do about it. The authorities and emergency crews will do what they can. For now, remain calm."
At lunch, plumes of smoke still rose from behind the hills near Squaw Peak, the mountain range that overlooks Ely and the Steptoe Valley. The military arrived soon after, securing the site for investigation and cleanup, keeping the public at a distance.
That night, life carried on as it always had—an odd contrast to the day’s events. As was common at the time, many of us spent the evening roller-skating at the armory. REO Speedwagon’s "Take It on the Run," Hall & Oates’ "Kiss on My List," Kool & the Gang’s "Celebration," and the Go-Go’s "We Got the Beat" played in rotation as we skated laps around our town’s makeshift rink. The juxtaposition was unsettling: mere hours before, we had witnessed a catastrophe, and now we were laughing and having fun.
A Final Adventure
Two weeks later, my brother Marty and I set out on one last adventure with our cousin Peter before moving to Oregon. We wanted to see the crash site for ourselves.
We snuck past the city landfill and made our way toward the restricted area. Climbing up the desert hillside, we hoped to avoid detection by the military personnel who were still stationed nearby. If they saw us, they didn’t react—perhaps by then, they no longer cared. Hidden in the sagebrush, perched on a rocky outcrop, we looked down onto a dirt road winding into a canyon. Below, military trucks and personnel worked to strap down the charred remains of the aircraft onto a dump truck, preparing to leave.
Once the coast was clear, we descended the hillside into the shallow canyon, stepping onto a narrow dirt road. At first, there were no obvious signs of disaster. But then, we came upon an unmistakable scar in the landscape—a blackened hillside, trees and brush burned to charcoal, and small remnants of the plane still scattered across the ground. The smell was sickening—an acrid blend of scorched earth and metal.
We wandered in silent, morbid fascination, collecting small fragments of the wreckage. Then, we saw something that still haunts me to this day: marking tags spiked into the ground at various points, each bearing a biblical inscription. They marked the locations where body parts had been found. That moment stayed with me—I will never forget it.
We lingered for a while, maybe 30 to 45 minutes, before realizing the sun was setting. Soon, it would be dark, and it was time to leave. Carrying our eerie souvenirs, we made our way home.
When we arrived, Mom was furious. We were supposed to be helping her pack for our move, not wandering around a crash site. She made us throw away the pieces of the plane we had collected, and in hindsight, I completely understand why. As an adult and a parent, I know now why she wanted to protect us from holding onto something so grim.
 Now that I am in my early 50's and have some perspective on what we had witnessed and saw at the crash site, I decided to face some of those haunted memories and work with them in a creative way. As a form of therapy, I used my artistic skills to "reassemble" the plane in a literal way. I first painted an illustration of the plane doing a lot research using its bureau number (BuNo 153101) in the process. In so doing, I was able to find the history of this particular F4-Phantom as well as historical photos of the aircraft in it's various paint scheme iterations. When it crashed, it was painted in basic military grey like the other aircraft it was stationed with in El Toro, California.  However, in 1976 BuNo 153101 was all decked out for the Bicentennial with it's "Spirit of America" design! Such a beautiful plane! I also discovered there was a model kit from Testors issued in the 1990's of that F4-Phantom in the "Spirit of America" color scheme. I was able to purchase the model from Rare Plane Detective (located in Cathedral City, California) and have it shipped to me in Oregon. When it arrived, I was a little nervous because there was some slight damage to the box. It had also been opened but upon doing an inventory I found that all but one small piece was there. The decals looked like they were in good condition but I made a high resolution copy of them encase there were age related issues. I could simply print up new ones if necessary. Here is the box as it arrived at my studio, a little aged and crinkled. Opening the box and doing inventory... The plane is in pieces but I am going to fix it! Assembling the cockpit and gluing the fuselage halves together. The camera bay is assembled and attached to the fuselage. Wings are glued into place. I use One Shot Clear Coat spray as a primer so I can use acrylic airbrush paints instead of enamel model paints. There is a lot of sanding and repainting to make all the seam transitions smoother. This model has vague instructions on exactly where to glue parts together and I relied a lot on Youtube videos of actual F4-Phantoms to show me exactly where the parts – especially the landing gear –attached to one another. I have attached the tail wings and painted in its heat shield at the back. At this point I am enhancing the panel details. I am now masking and airbrushing in the the black sections over the jet intakes, the white panels on the wings and the blue over the nose and around the canopy area. The model comes with decals that are to be used for the red and white ribbon that goes down the nose and around the canopy. I decided to hand paint that area instead –trusting in my paint abilities over the potential hassle the decals might create due to their age and the curving and rolling location on the plane's front section. The bottom of the plane is white but I also made sure it wasn't too clean by adding some areas of weathering and dirt. I am now adding the decals which, to my surprise, slide into place quite easily considering they are almost 30 years old! I am also adding a little weathering to the top of the model at this point. Time to tackle the landing gear! ...and the drop tanks! Sometimes I find it easier to One Shot prime and base paint some of the parts before cutting them away from the part trees. After a little hassle the landing gear are finally attached and painted! Center line and outboard tanks glued together with paint in process and decals to follow. The canopy is the final section I attached to the plane. Trying out a display option. I like the idea of a glossy wet look to the display base because it provides a reflective view of the plane's underside. Final photo shoot without the ground crew which I will be adding soon. For the most part, my model of the McDonnell Douglas F4-Phantom II (BuNo153101) "Spirit of America" is completed! It has been a fun project and a nice diversion during the pandemic. The last time I saw this plane it was in pieces and though there is no reasonable way to undo or fix the past, in a creative way, the mind has a way of healing past traumas. In gestalt therapy, " the whole is more than the sum of its parts". But also, without the parts there would be nothing to make up the whole, which is very similar to the Hua-yen way of seeing things!
Of course, there is still more to go. I just received a 1/48 scale ground crew with pilots to add to the scene. I will update this blog with more pictures as I make progress with the ground crew and their tools! Some of the ground crew are hard at work doing maintenance on the plane... Custom made boarding ladder for pilot... Illustration inspired by a low resolution photo of 1st Lt. Peter Joseph Keenan and 1st Lt. William Dewey Lauerman III about to board their aircraft. |
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 | Yes. I was sitting in Holly's classroom when we heard it happen. I think about it from time to time. | -- Theresa Steiner, 12/17/23
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| Thank you Paul. Bill Lauerman was my brother. | -- Dan Lauerman, 10/27/23
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Previously published:All 21 blog entries The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. RSS | Sitemap |
