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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

To find your MOIA, make your pizza from scratch

Donald Clegg

I cracked a rib a couple of months ago, my second broken bone in as many months, the first additions to my list of athletic injuries in ages.

I hurt it in an absurd fashion, avoiding a big goopy goose-poop on the Centennial Trail, jackknifing my front wheel, which sent me flying.

My earlier dive, in similar high style, gave me a broken finger and various contusions. All part of the reward of taking up a new sport, I guess. (More on that in a bit.)

First, though, I received a fair amount of feedback on my last column, relating to what I call MOIA (rhymes with “boya”) – i.e., the Meaning Of It All.

This was gratifying since I’ve been reflecting on that a good deal, while working for just over a year on a trilogy about the “human condition,” which I’ve nearly finished.

The first book develops a philosophy or model of reality based upon a new way of looking at religion through art, and a critique of belief and belief systems, particularly those rigid puppies that cause so much grief.

I’m a great case in point, having suffered the pains of seeing one collapse not too long ago, so I’ve titled the first volume “Belief Sucks.” (Yes, the B and the S mean what you think.)

I think a goodly part of MOIA is finding whatever it is that makes it worth getting out of bed each day: work, if you’re lucky enough to be rewarded by other than dollars in your job, or those activities that require dedication, involvement, and practice in which to excel.

These pursuits, which I call “volitional engagements,” are like making pizza from scratch – effort, you know – versus throwing a frozen one into the oven.

My art got me out of bed for about 25 years, requiring everything I had (and then some) in order to excel. Painting wasn’t an obsession so much as it was simply the filter through which I viewed most everything. If one’s metaphor is rich enough it can serve as one’s primary model of reality.

Art is certainly a deep and wide river, full of sufficiently interesting tributaries with which to encompass a life, or so I believed. Rigidly. Big mistake.

Big because I’ve been feeling the effects of the depressed economy (not to mention people) on the old art biz as my river dried up, the dollars flowing ever more slowly until they pretty much just plain stopped.

Since it would appear that painting no longer pays, I’ve been writing instead, five books in four years, with dubious results. Two are unsold, though I’ve used a good deal from them in the latest three, so they may not have been wasted efforts.

My current routine usually includes getting up a little after 3:30 in the morning to write for a couple of hours or so before an alternate reality takes over, the one in which my time is no longer my own.

By the time I get home, it’s already been a 12-hour day, and the fun element in life has been somewhat lacking of late. Which brings me back to my rib.

All work and no play does make Don a dull boy, and I put play back into practice not long ago through the auspices of a nifty three-wheeled scooter – think skiing on pavement – called a Trikke.

It’s the best workout I’ve ever had, and a real break (pun intended) after a long day. My klutzy injuries just annoyed me because I had to stop to heal.

And did I say fun? Any Trikkers out there?

Donald Clegg, a longtime Spokane resident, is an author and professional watercolor artist. Contact him via e-mail at info@donaldclegg.com.