We have to do better than this

Compromise is not a dirty word

Columbine. Gabrielle Giffords. Aurora, Colorado.

We have to do better than this.

I spent a good portion of my growing up years in the rural South. People had and have guns. When there are rattlesnakes and water moccasins, rabid raccoons, even alligators on the doorstep, they are useful tools.

But we have to do better than this.

I’ve heard most, if not all, of the arguments on both sides of the gun control issue. The Second Amendment constitutionally protects the right to bear arms. ‘Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.’

Please understand that I am not trying to pry your precious hunting rifle out of your hands when I say that you can have no reasonable response that refutes the following statement:

People without guns kill far fewer people.

When did the “well regulated” part of the Second Amendment fall by the wayside?

The shootings in Aurora will bring this debate back to the top of the political wrangling.

And they should.

I don’t know the answer, but we have to find a better one than we’ve got now.

Compromise is not a dirty word.

Back in the Wild West–or, at least, in the literature and cinematic depictions thereof–the marshal, intent on civilizing a town and making it a fit place for families to live, would begin by requiring the cowpokes to take off their gun belts when they came to town.

A little regulation. Not confiscation.

Turn ’em in when you ride into town. Pick ’em up when you ride out.

Where’s Gary Cooper when you need him? Can’t we apply a little common sense here?

I went to grad school in Denver. I’ve driven through Aurora. I’ve been to the mall. I may even have been to the movie theater. I’m just going to sit here for a while and wonder when–and if–I will be going to any movie theater again.

While I’m doing that, Roger Ebert’s column in the New York Times is worth reading. You can find it here.

Morning Pages and Forward Motion

A Friday Re-Find

It’s been 20 years since The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron was first published. Almost 4 million copies have been sold. (I bought at least 5 of them myself. They make great gifts!) So, it seems like most of the readers of this blog will have, at least, heard of it.

It’s worth reminding you about it, however.

Of all the self-help books I’ve read in my life–and I have read a few!–The Artist’s Way is the most transformative. You are reading this blog because of Julia Cameron–(and because of my good friend Hope Nunnery ,who first gave me a copy of Ms. Cameron’s book).

Hope and I embarked on the odyssey of the 12 week workshop outlined in The Artist’s Way with the idea that it might improve our acting skills and help us with some of the things we felt were holding us back in our acting careers.

Hope is now a recording artist with a fabulous and critically-acclaimed CD to her credit, and I have a completed novel, a sheaf of short stories, and an award-winning full-length play.

I can’t speak for Hope, but that is not what I expected when I began doing my morning pages and going on my artist dates. But it has been a wild and fulfilling journey.

I get lazy sometimes. I forget to do the morning pages, or I lose confidence in them. What constantly astonishes me, however, is that every time I go back to that practice, I also regain forward motion in creativity and in the practical aspects of getting the work out into the world.

So, I suggest–if you haven’t already read/done The Artist’s Way–give it a try. It’s a book designed to be used as a 12 week workshop. You can do anything for 12 weeks. Go to JuliaCameronLive.com, and get an overview.

If you’ve done it and forgotten about it, dig out your copy. Refresh your memory. Do those morning pages, and see what happens.

You could be amazed!

Celebrating the MotH*

No, I am not a lepidopterist.

Thankful this Thursday for a handy husband, the Man of the House. As annoying as he can be (and all those who have ever been married understand whereof I speak), the cost of renovations over here at Casa Lagarto would have been far greater if not for the MotH’s abilities–and willingness–to pitch in and fix things. Plumbing, light fixtures, drywall, roof leaks–nothing seems beyond him.

The MotH is a retired Broadway stagehand–a member of the illustrious band of brothers and sisters known collectively as IATSE: the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees. Furthermore, he is a member of Local One, the New York local branch. Rock on!

I’m telling you, these guys and girls are a can-do bunch.

It’s fashionable in certain quarters to complain about the theatre unions, and the stagehands come in for quite a bit of the flack. Any actor who has been scolded for moving a chair knows what I mean.

But they keep the show running, the scenery (and sometimes the actors) flying, the props at hand, the trapdoors opening and closing, and everybody safe.

You like that chandelier in Phantom… , the spectacular skating track set of Starlight Express, the ice skating in the Radio City Music Hall Christmas show?

Thank the stagehands.

And now, one of them is spending his retirement working every bit as hard far off the stage as he ever worked on and behind it. And in far weirder conditions.

This week, he had even planned to be in a canoe under the dock running a PVC pipe to serve as a conduit for the electrician who is going to clean up the wiring down by the water. At the mercy of tide tables and spiders and the frustratingly hilarious fact that when you hammer something from a canoe, you tend to float off from within striking distance of the nail. (We know this from previous experience. Don’t ask.)

He’d have done it, too, if it had not turned out to be possible to pull up some of the boards.

He’s saved us a lot of money. The house is prettier, safer, and more efficient.

I can hammer a nail myself, and I could probably figure out the other stuff if necessary. I am very glad it isn’t necessary, however.

* MotH: Man of the House

Organized lightning*

“The peril the wind sings to in the wires on a gray day.”**

Today, I am wondering about electricity.

As Dave Barry says, ““We believe that electricity exists, because the electric company keeps sending us bills for it, but we cannot figure out how it travels inside wires.”

I sometimes think–

On second thought, that’s not really true. I almost never think about electricity. It just works. Or it doesn’t–usually during a big storm or, inexplicably, on three consecutive sunny Saturday mornings last May.

However, today, I was thinking about electricity, because it is Wondering Wednesday, and as I was wondering what I was wondering about enough to write about today, I remembered something that happened many years ago during rehearsals for the Women’s Project’s production of Heather McDonald’s Dream of a Common Language.

Dream…is a beautiful play. Set on the eve of the First Impressionist Exhibition of 1874, it explores a topic that was relevant in 1874, relevant at the time of the production on which I worked, and still, sadly, highly relevant now: the way in which the work of women artists is devalued and marginalized simply because they are women.

Anyone who has been following the resurrection of the sense of outrage felt by women playwrights at their drastic under-representation will be both appalled that such organizations as 50/50 in 2020 and the Women’s Initiative at the Dramatists Guild are still necessary and thankful that these organizations as well as the Womens’ Project and New Georges still exist and still work to redress the balance.

All the philosophical, political and societal underpinnings of the play, however, are not really the point of this post. (So that’s a rant for another time.)

What I found myself laughing about yet again, all these years later, as I was digging through my brain for material, was this single event early in rehearsals.

See, the Dream… cast includes a child actor. In our case, J. R. Nutt — who I am happy to see has continued his career into young adulthood — no easy task — way to go, J. R.!

He probably doesn’t remember this. I think he was only 10 or 12 at the time. It is, however, one of my priceless memories of the experience.

It was early in rehearsals. Talented, creative actors with good hearts wanted to make sure that the child among them felt comfortable and at home. They took special pains during a break to reach out to him and include him in the conversation. He had done some work previously, but he was relatively new, still, to the theatre. It was entirely possible that he would be confused by some things.

Our leading man assured him that we were all there to help him out. If he had questions, he should come to us. We would happily answer anything he asked.

J. R. said, “We-elllll…….” and we all cast our minds back over Equity rules and theatrical procedures. Would we be asked to explain the break schedule? The stage manager’s role? Or would it be craft related? The best way to learn lines, perhaps? Given the leading man’s fatherly tone, I even considered the possibility of a question about sex–which would have presented certain problems, I guess, of appropriateness and, even, jurisdiction (his mom was around, of course)–but none was forthcoming.

What he actually said, after gazing speculatively around the circle of actors and crew, was “We-ellll…….you know…I don’t really understand electricity.”

I wish I had a snapshot of the faces in that circle at that moment — although I guess I don’t really need one, because I have never forgotten it, and it makes me giggle even now.

We were all so sure of ourselves, armored in our superior age and experience, and then this kid comes up with “I don’t really understand electricity” and a hopeful, anticipatory air, certain that we would explain it to him. After all, we’d just assured him he could ask us anything.

Seven or eight people then had to confess, sheepishly, that none of us really understood electricity either.

I did go home and look it up in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Perhaps it will come as no surprise to you when I tell you I still don’t understand electricity.

I do now have a Master Electrician lined up to do some work on Casa Lagarto. I have hope that he has, at least, a basic understanding. And I wonder if J. R. understands electricity these days, or if he has given up wondering and just flips a switch like the rest of us.

* George Carlin – “Electricity is really just organized lightning.”
** Janet Frame

Weeding sorties

The value of incremental progress

I am not a champion gardener. If you’ve been following this blog, this will not come as a big shock to you.

And I believe I mentioned before how I live in a sub-tropical climate. Plant life has a tendency toward the over-exuberant. Unless it’s dropping dead from heat stroke or complications due to my lack of green-thumbness. Mostly, however, it is over-exuberant. There’s a vine thing, for example. . .well, let’s just say, it won’t surprise me if it creeps in the window and strangles me in my sleep one night.

Anyhow, it must follow as the night the day *(I knew I could get Shakespeare in here somewhere!), that Weeding 101 would become a required course.

The problem is it is also extremely hot down here. Extremely hot. Hotter than hell, eggs frying on the sidewalk, where’s a cooling shelter hot.

I am a person who likes to finish what she starts. Preferably within minutes.

Back when I was doing a lot more programming than I do now, working on large and complex projects with shifting requirements and ‘scope creep’ of epic proportions, I was most often hired by Tony Coretto, the CEO of PNT Marketing Services, Inc. Tony is a most excellent boss. In the midst of chaos and looming deadlines, he would talk with unfailing optimism about “incremental progress.”

I’m sorry to say that I never totally appreciated the value of that way of looking at things until it came to weeding the flower beds in a hot, humid July in Florida. It is not possible–unless you have greater masochistic tendencies than I do–to eliminate all weeds in one marathon session. A person can, however, make incremental progress.

Going out before the sun is high enough to beat down on the flower bed, you can work for a half hour or so in the shade. Taking out the weed whacker in the late evening, around 7, there might be a breeze coming off the water.

It will never all be done at once in one shining example of impeccable landscaping. The campaign is not one of shock and awe. It’s guerilla warfare with intermittent weeding sorties.

Incremental progress.

And you know what?

It turns out that’s the only way to finish any piece of writing. A little at a time.

So this Tuesday’s Tip is to make a sortie. Set a timer and write for five minutes. Ten minutes. One minute. Any increment at all leads to incremental progress.

* Hamlet, Act I, sc.3

Back on the treadmill…

Nose to the grindstone.

It’s Monday, and the miracle is that I am back on the treadmill. My commitment to exercise, which has risen from the ashes more often than any phoenix, has been resurrected once again.

I was never a particularly active kid. ‘Bookworm’ was the term of choice in those days rather than ‘couch potato.’ I guess the term had to change when it became a near certainty that the kid who was not outside running around was also not inside reading a book. TV, Nintendo, iTunes, Netflix maybe–but not many books. That, however, is a subject for another time.

Today’s subject is exercise. Blccch!

In New York, I walked everywhere. Plus, I went to the gym. Then we moved to Florida, and now, the most walking I do is behind the lawn mower around a .38 acre yard once every ten days or so. During the summer. You can’t really say that makes me a candidate for the President’s Council on Physical Fitness. (I also eat more than I need to because a snack is always a good excuse to stop painting, or mowing, or cleaning, or writing. [Almost anything is a good excuse to stop writing. That is going to have to change! One step at a time, however.])

I thought I would walk a lot down here. It’s the Sunshine State, right? Decent weather year-round. My plan was to wander the neighborhood every day. Even, perhaps, walk to local stores or the library. Nobody really does that here, but it is certainly possible. They are no further away than many of my NY destinations were. No reason I couldn’t take a hike.

I was reckoning without the humidity, however. All those places are walk-able, but holy cow! I never intended to do laps in a sauna. Plus, there are two big dogs roaming my neighborhood that are bigger than the Shetland ponies my grandfather raised. They seem friendly, but… And there’s another dog—smaller, but ferocious—that charges the fence in an extremely loud and business-like way every time I walk by his house. (I like dogs. I just prefer their owners to be around when they are taller than I am and I am encroaching on their territory. The first time, at least. And that fence—it looks awfully low when there is a snarling, snapping and all-too-powerful bundle of unfriendliness on the other side.)

Outdoor rambles were clearly not going to become a regular thing.

So, after a week or two of mining Craigslist, I acquired a treadmill and an elliptical. We set them up in the laundry room. (We have a big laundry room.) And we already had weights, which my husband had set up in the garage.

Our own gym!

Kind of cool, right?

The trick, of course, is not only to have the equipment but to use the equipment.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, I decided that I was going to walk to work–like in the old days. The idea was that I should get up, have breakfast, spend 20-30 minutes on the treadmill and only then check my email and Facebook and all the million other time-wasting sites I lived without for an unspecified number of decades but which are now indispensable.

It was working.

Then I went to Maine.

Even in Maine, I managed to get to the fitness room at the hotel twice. Twice! That, in itself, was a miracle.

But I came back from Maine, and the fitness schedule fell apart.

I’m back on the treadmill, though. As of last Wednesday.

This is a good thing. In and of itself, it’s a good thing. I feel better, and I will probably live longer. (No cracks, please, about it just seeming longer.)

It’s also a good thing because discipline in one area reinforces discipline in others. I heard an acting career coach once talk about how the actors who were working were all actors who went to the gym. Her point was not that they looked better, although they probably did, or had more energy, although they almost certainly did–but that the same things required to make it in show business are the same things required to keep you going to the gym.

Commitment, discipline, a willingness to suffer. Dedication to a result that isn’t immediately apparent.

With apologies to the lyricist of New York, New York,* if you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere.

And if you don’t make it the first 800 times, that’s no reason not to try again.

So…I’m back on the treadmill.

* Fred Ebb of the fabulous Kander & Ebb.

My life is like a Rube Goldberg machine…

…and not in a good way

If you don’t know what a Rube Goldberg machine is, click here or here.

They tend to be vast elaborate, multi-step methods for achieving a relatively simple outcome. And see, that’s what happens to me. Things that should be easy just aren’t.

Take the Moderncat Cover Cat contest.

I don’t have a cat. But I have a friend who has a cat–as well as a lot of other friends. And we’ve all been mobilized for the last few weeks to vote for Bingley.

Now, I don’t know Bingley personally, but he’s a very photogenic cat. Plus, he’s a therapy cat. A do-gooder. He totally deserves to be a Cover Cat. I was happy to vote as often as I could. (It’s not like a presidential election. They encourage multiple votes in this contest.)

Everything was going smoothly until the other day. I tried to vote on my Blackberry. I’ve done that before. There was no reason for it to turn into a two day ordeal.

But the trackball was sticking.

That’s happened on previous occasions, as well.

The last time, I googled for the instructions on how to remove and clean it, and it was easy-peazy-one-two-threesie. I popped the trackball out, took it apart, cleaned it off, and popped it back into the phone. Why would I think it would be different this time?

Shows what I know.

I popped it out, took it apart, and that’s when things began to go to hell.

It kind of fell apart, instead of coming apart in an orderly fashion. You know, in such a way that you could take note of how it goes back together? So, I had to google for the instructions again, because I had unaccountably failed to save them the first time. Take note, and heed this warning. If you find an explanation on the internet that makes sense to you—for whatever it might be—trackball cleaning, how to make ice cream, the meaning of life, etc.—save it! Because it will disappear the next time you want it. Maybe the website moved, maybe the google search order has changed. Whatever. But you won’t be able to find it when you want it.

I found a different set of instructions.

They were not clear.

I tried to follow them anyway.

And the little magnetic thingies* that look like rollers kept popping out. And sticking to each other.

And that was bad enough, but then they popped out again. And bounced off the desk. Onto the grey carpet. These things are tiny. They have light grey spindles and black magnets on the head. I can barely see them when I’m holding one on the tip of my finger. Do you think I can find them on the grey carpet?

But I did.

I didn’t even really need that flashlight for which I now had to climb the stairs– or my husband whose sharper eyes I had enlisted.

Having bounced separately, the two of them experienced a magnetic attraction on the way down. They had miraculously turned into conjoined twins, now twice as big as they would have been had they fallen separately. Twice as big made them at least ten times as visible. I found them!

And then I went through the same thing all over again.

Googled for better instructions.

Fumbled and fiddled around with floundering fingers.

Lost a magnetic thingie and the trackball.

We will draw a veil over the rest of the day. After all, this blog would like to preserve a family friendly atmosphere.

And it turns out that, for $1.67 plus $0.50 shipping, you can just buy a new trackball at Amazon.

* remember–‘thingy’ is a technical term used in this blog for that for which I cannot immediately recollect the name

Choices — aaaagh!

‘Life is in the minding.‘

Saturdays and Sundays in this blog don’t have a theme. They are wide open.

Any subject.

Any subject at all.

Consequently, with the universe from which to choose, it is sometimes hard to think of anything to write.

Why is that?

I’m not sure, but today I think it has something to do with some lines that have always resonated with me from Tom Stoppard’s The Invention of Love.

Will you be a poet, or a scholar?
I don’t mind.
Oh, it helps to mind. Life is in the minding.

There is something about choices. It’s great to have them, but they can be overwhelming.

Have you ever walked into a library or a bookstore and left without any books? Or a video rental store and gone home to watch reruns of Law & Order?

Maybe it’s just me, but I enter such establishments with anticipation. I’m going to find something great to read or watch. And I wander up and down the aisles looking at everything that is on offer on the shelves. Picking up this movie, flipping through those pages. Do I feel like watching a comedy or a thriller? Do I want to read Jane Austen or Maya Angelou? And as I ponder these choices I begin to hyperventilate.

Figuratively speaking.

I mean, I don’t have to breathe into a paper bag or anything.

I just find myself thinking sometimes, when I have a lot of choices, “oh, just forget it!” and walking out without anything.

It’s not an option when you have a blog post to write.

Or…I guess it could be. We could declare Silent Saturdays. Seems like a cop-out, though, doesn’t it?

I was reading something somewhere (I have got to start taking writing things down! The old memory is not what it used to be) about practicing making choices. The idea was that you should never say “I don’t care” or “It doesn’t matter.” Even if you really don’t care which restaurant you’re going patronize tonight, you should make a choice. Voice a preference.

Art is all about making choices. We better get used to it.

Moonrise Kingdom

Big stars, little movie–good fun

The Find for this Friday is Wes Anderson’s new movie, Moonrise Kingdom.

Over on the island of New Penzance, one of the Khaki Scouts is missing. Within hours, it is discovered that Suzy Bishop, the daughter of local lawyers and lighthouse residents, is also missing. Could Sam and Suzy be together? And where are they?

Young love, New England eccentricity, the mob instincts of children, broken marriages, and Social Services are all satirized and celebrated in this sweet and silly and brilliantly-acted film.

Newcomers Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward hold their own with Bruce Willis, Frances McDormand, Bill Murray, Ed Norton, Harvey Keitel, Tilda Swinton and Bob Balaban. In a world where budget considerations often limit a movie to one star, I’m not sure how this one ended up with seven who are not only “names” but honest-to-god actors, but I’m glad it did. Their presence is reassuring in such a wacky atmosphere.

And as a side note, I defy you to find any movie in which Frances McDormand appears that is not worth seeing.

This one is funny and moving and put together with meticulous care.

I don’t know much about the technical jargon of cinematography, so I may not be describing this accurately, but the film stock, the color palette and the camera work–while clearly professional–are all highly reminiscent of the old 8mm cameras we used back in the day. That, almost more than the blue eye shadow, the battery-operated record player and Bill Murray’s Madras pants, anchors the story in the sixties.

The score, largely Benjamin Britten with some telling Hank Williams songs thrown in, is gorgeous. The island is sunny and scenic. The story is both recognizable and brand-new. The actors are so good that you will not notice how good they are. And if you think that is easy, you don’t know much about acting.

Reviewers call it “dreamlike,” “endearing,” and “a near perfect balance between humanism and the surreal.”

So do I.

Southern Style

Myrtles and Turtles

(Actually, there are no turtles in this post. Just stretching for a sub-headline. Sorry. We might talk about turtles in a future post, though, so don’t give up hope.)

Today, on this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for Crepe Myrtles. And generous neighbors.

When we bought Casa Lagarto, there were already six Crepe Myrtle trees in the yard. Now we have ten! (Generous neighbors.) Two of them have white flowers, four are various shades of pink and red, and four of them are mysteries.

The mystery myrtles haven’t bloomed yet, but the others have flowered, and two of them are flat-out gorgeous. Those last four–well, they could be anything. I can’t wait to find out!

There are two things I love about crepe myrtles:

They are easy.
You don’t have to do much besides leave them alone. Some people prune them drastically every year. Others call that “crepe murder,” and–needless to say with a name like that–frown on it. Being a Libra, always seeking balance, I, once again, walk the middle ground. A little pruning for shaping, but not scalping. So far, they have weathered both drought and deluge, the grasshoppers (and other pests) seem to leave them alone, and they haven’t needed any fertilizer or other intervention.
They are Southern.
I think they actually come from southeast Asia, but the sight of a crepe myrtle always says “the South” to me–by which I mean the southern United States. In other words…home. Sure, palm trees are more recognizably Florida, perhaps–but a crepe myrtle is Southern style. Delicate, lacy flowers. Thriving in warmth. Blooming anywhere from Virginia to Miami. Nowadays, there are some cold-hardy varieties, I think. And maybe they grow in California and other western areas. But you tend to stick with what you learned as a child. Driving down I-95, it was the sight of the first blooming crepe myrtles that meant we were headed south. To me, it still does.

Easy. I like that, because I am the world’s worst gardener. And it’s nice to have the epitome of Southern Style on the property.

I’ve got a palm tree, you know. but it’s the crepe myrtles that I love.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: July 2012