Too old to die young

That’s what I’m aiming for.

Although, it sometimes seems to me that I am already there—and that’s what I’m wondering about today. How did that happen? And, more importantly, when?

By some objective measurements, of course, I’m already too old to die young. Jesus only made it to 33. Lennon to 40. I am—what?—relieved? distressed? surprised?—to report that I have passed those milestones.

On the other hand, according to the actuarial tables, I’ve got a bit more time. And I read somewhere that those of us who could make it through the next twenty years had a good chance of living well over a hundred. That must have been seven or eight years ago, now, so I’m well on my way.

But I’m sitting here with more dental bills than I like to consider and wondering why it’s so much harder to lose weight than it used to be and, most irksomely, gearing up to do the physical therapy exercises for my frozen shoulder.

The only thing about the frozen shoulder that is remotely comforting is the number of stories that turn up on Google of people much younger than I with the same condition.

It is hard, however, not to feel like I’ve crossed some invisible barrier.

Over the Mason-Dixon line into old age.

As if the mere act of moving to the Sunshine State has flipped a switch and forced me to join the geriatric set.

I went from almost always being the youngest person in the room to often being one of the oldest—without ever having recognized a time period when everybody in the room was a contemporary of mine.

I suspect some of that is due to a long involvement in theatre. Even in high school, the drama club crossed age lines. Your fellow actors were just as likely to be seniors as freshmen. I don’t attend high school reunions for that reason. Most of my friends weren’t part of my class.

When I got to New York, it was even more obvious. Nobody was using shoe polish in his hair to play the grandfather. The producer had hired an actual grandfather—or, at least, someone who could have been one.

So, I don’t think about age all that often.

Except, now I do.

The guy at the auto parts store yesterday insisted on carrying the battery out to the car, “because I wouldn’t want my mother to have to carry this.”

And people “ma’am” me. Of course, I’m in the south, so that’s less horrifying than it might otherwise be.

The shoulder is the thing that’s most troublesome.

I was doing yard work. I was painting the house, moving furniture, scrubbing floors and shelving books.

And then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t.

When did that happen?

Ask

Don’t make assumptions.

Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.

~ Miguel Ángel Ruiz

Here’s my tip for this Tuesday.

Ask.

It’s the most amazingly powerful thing.

Just ask for what you want.

Remember that asking is different from demanding. You must be able to accept the word “no.” (It’s rarely life-threatening outside of medical situations.)

You can ask for a raise. You can ask for improvements in your living situation. You can ask for help, for information, for contacts, for instruction.

Now, I’m not advocating sitting by the side of the road and asking everybody who walks by for a million dollars. I think you have to be working hard for yourself before you ask. But if you are, it’s amazing how often people step up.

Luck is where preparation meets opportunity. This is my absolute favorite quote, and it goes all the way back to Seneca who died in 65 A.D. (That’s a while ago.)

By asking, I once got a very lucrative job working four hours a day. By asking, I got my first opportunity to direct. By asking, I was incredibly fortunate to have a famous (and, more importantly, absolutely wonderful) actress do a reading of my play. By asking, I got more readings and, now, a production.

Do I attribute all of that to asking?

No.

Of course, I had to be good at the job for people to be willing to work with me on hours. The play had to be the best I could make it. I had to behave professionally, respectfully and responsibly.

But, I could have—and, once upon a time, would have—been afraid to ask.

Now, I know:

The world makes way for the man who knows where he is going.~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

…and for the person who asks.

A strange and wondrous place

The universe, that is.

My play has had the most amazing life for a first play.

Readings at prestigious theatres, nominations, awards.

Participation by fabulous actors, not least of which is Linda Hamilton, whose extraordinary generosity was only exceeded by her stunning performance.

All kinds of miraculous serendipity and synchronicity on the long journey from page to stage.

It has been a long journey, indeed. Geographically, for sure—NYC, New Jersey, Virginia, California, Maine. Professionally as well—so many smart people sharing their expertise and their advice. Personally—maybe personally, most of all, as I’ve had to challenge myself to master new skills, to be more assertive, to stand up for myself and others.

I’ve learned so much along the way. Did a few things right and several things wrong. Had a fabulous adventure, and the play hasn’t even been produced.

Yet.

And that’s the miracle today.

I have signed a contract.

At long last, Angels and Ministers of Grace Defend Us, will be getting a production!

The specific time slot hasn’t been set, yet, but at some point before the end of 2014, you can see my work at New Jersey Rep.

I’m so looking forward to the opportunity to see the play on its feet. Costumes, props, a set! Maybe I’ll get to tinker with the script, make it better.

And what’s even more of a miracle is that maybe I will finally be able to turn my attention to writing another one. (Although, you know, I’ve never been sure how I came to write this one—so we’ll see. No promises.)

I’m just going to take a short break from worrying about all of it and enjoy the newest part of the ongoing miracle.

I’m getting a production!

But, first, I’m getting some cake.

Priorities, you know.

What’s a celebration without cake?

Alexis Smith

The power of longevity.

I have great partiality for the Smiths who are performers—as well as those who achieve longevity in show business. So, today, we recognize Alexis Smith.

Madam Smith—so-called, by me, at least, because she toured for a year as the Madam in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas—Madam Smith began as a Warner Bros. contract player in the forties. She appeared alongside many of the biggest male stars of the day.

In the fifties, it seems she began to make the transition to stage doing a number of touring productions throughout the sixties—including one of my favorites, a big hit at the time, although little known now—Mary, Mary by Jean Kerr.

In the seventies, she made it to Broadway and won a Tony for Best Actress in a Musical for her performance in Stephen Sondheim’s Follies.

She continued to work in film and television, with a recurring role on Dallas in the eighties and an Emmy nomination for a guest spot on Cheers in the nineties.

She passed away from brain cancer in 1993, still married to her husband of 49 years.

Personal and professional endurance. I admire it.

Here’s a clip, not the best quality video, of one of her numbers from Follies.

NSFW

Totally G-Rated, but Not Safe For Work!

Mostly because it’s silly—and there’s sound.

But, it’s Silly Saturday, you know. And this is in honor of my nephew, Wynn.

What you need to know about this is that my nephew, Wynn, acquired a tricorn hat on a trip to Williamsburg three years ago. He was six. Williamsburg is an educational opportunity, of course, and Wynn’s father told him he was now a Colonial boy.

Wynn’s uncle—the MotH*—had no such educational obligations, and he told Wynn that he, Wynn, was a pirate. The MotH and Wynn had a high old time stomping around, growling “Arrrrr” at all and sundry for the remainder of the week.

Now, surprisingly, this pirate business took an odd educational turn the following year. Wynn’s class was studying pirates, and the teacher mentioned how pirates used to make people walk the plank. The class was then asked to write down something a pirate would say.

Apparently, every other kid but Wynn wrote, “Walk the plank.”

What did Wynn write?

You guessed it!

“Arrrrr!”

The teacher was most impressed.

And the MotH’s shenanigans turn out not to be so uneducational, after all.

Therefore, in honor of Wynn, turn your sound on (but maybe not full blast) and watch this little Flash clip. (But, beware. It loops. And that way madness lies.)

http://cristgaming.com/pirate.swf

* MotH = Man of the House

October Project

Mythic music.

I found October Project in one of those weird episodes of synchronicity that happen in every life.

Once upon a time, I was an early-career director in NYC. I got asked to direct a lot of readiings. It’s a great way to gain experience in some, although not all, aspects of the directors’ craft.

Anyway, I landed a gig directing a reading of a short piece called A Play on Words by Eileen Weiss. Eileen’s play was funny and quirky and full of marvelous writing. We gathered actors and set to work.

One of the actors we gathered was a young woman named Julie Flanders. Julie and her husband Emil Adler had just started a band.

October Project.

And Julie gave me a CD of their self-titled debut album.

So, of course, I listened to it.

And wow!

Intricate vocal harmonies. Clear crystalline voices. Haunting melodies. And beautiful, evocative, even mythic words.

So, here is a link to a music video of October Project’s Return to Me from that album.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm9kQdIFObY

And another, Ariel, which I love because of the connection to Shakespeare’s The Tempest. (Flapdoodle!)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ga53vmcb2s

And you can find Julie, Emil and Marina here.

Oh, the reading?

We did it at Barnes & Noble. It went great!

OPF

Other People’s Flowers

I love them.

I do not have a green thumb. It’s not even faintly chartreuse.

Plants, typically, do not do well around me. (Except for a brief and inexplicable period in my thirties when I maintained seven house plants for a period of about four years. And then they went the way of all plants and died on me.)

Now, this is one of those things that is a mixed blessing.

When you are hopeless at growing things, you get to save a fair amount of money and muscle fatigue by not even attempting it. However, I do think I might look into a small herb garden—and maybe some radishes.

And I would like to have more flowers than I do.

The canna lilies that were here when we bought the house—they seem fairly indestructible. Likewise, there’s a vinca that’s held on rather well.

The redbud tree and the fringe tree both bloom yearly.

I have some crepe myrtles, too, that were here at the start and a couple that I’ve planted that may have made it through the winter.

On the other hand, my carnations croaked, the begonia may be frostbitten, the poinsettias bit the dust along with a couple of other flowering things I tried to grow.

But, the neighbors!

The neighbors have orange blossoms and azaleas and dogwoods and tulip trees and this hedge that’s full of big pink flowers. There are geraniums across the creek and rain trees in the surrounding developments and a bottle brush tree along the road I take for my (with any luck) daily walk.

And here’s the thing about other people’s flowers.

You can look at them and smell them and enjoy them just as much as if they were in your own yard.

So, today, I am thankful for other people’s flowers.

270!

I win.

Not a presidential election, unfortunately. (Or fortunately! Who would want that job?)

I’m not talking about electoral college votes but consecutive days of blog posts. 270 consecutive days! Three-quarters of a year!

Cake!

I look back, and I wonder how I did it.

I look forward, and I wonder what comes next.

Today, however, I wonder will I make my quota?

One post in front of the other. That’s how it’s done. There are no shortcuts.

If your goal is 30 minutes of exercise a day, you can’t achieve it in 25 minutes.

It’s an interesting point. And something I will remember in future goal-setting endeavors. A goal based on churning out some regular quantity isn’t subject to streamlining. I mean, you can shave minutes off a distance goal. All you can do with a time goal is add distance to it. It still takes the same amount of time.

I foresee a review of my monster To Do List to see which projects are open to efficiency improvements and which just take the time they take. I suspect the latter would be good candidates for outsourcing. You know, if I had a staff—or the money to pay them.

I wonder how such a review would turn out. I think I’ve already gotten things down to where I’m as efficient as I can be—but maybe not. Maybe there are a few more hours for mumblety-peg.*

I also wonder if that really loud sighing noise my air compressor makes is okay, but that’s probably a whole other topic. It does seem to be working very hard on this cold, cold morning, though.

That’s one thing outsourced to technology, however.

I don’t have to cut firewood.

Instead, I can sit here in moderate warmth, plotting my 271st blog entry and wondering when the heater can take a rest.

* mumblety-peg = whatever you want to do. (It comes from Cheaper by the Dozen, by Frank B. Gilbreth, Jr. and Ernestine Gilbreth—a wonderful book about their family life with Frank B. Gilbreth, Sr., a pioneer of motion study. )

Someone once asked Dad: “But what do you want to save time for? What are you going to do with it?”

“For work, if you love that best,” said Dad. “For education, for beauty, for art, for pleasure.” He looked over the top of his pince-nez. “For mumblety-peg, if that’s where your heart lies.”

Opposition research

Work on it.

Opposition research is a term that generally carries a somewhat negative connotation. It’s the research political candidates do on their opponents to look for areas where those opponents might be undermined in an election. Sometimes, they have their staffs conduct the same investigations on their own backgrounds. It’s known then as a “vulnerability study.” What makes a vulnerability study necessary is the same sleazy maneuvering that makes opposition research a political tool.

But today, I’m inventing a new term. Opposition thinking.

When things are going well, it’s a good idea to remember those for whom life may not be so good. It’s a good idea to think about what could go wrong. Not in a spirit of fear and anxiety, but as a way to recognize and acknowledge the goodness that surrounds you and, maybe, to take reasonable steps to preserve it.

When things are going badly, it’s even more important to think of the opposite, to recognize the things that are good. Even in the worst disasters, there are helpers and extraordinary acts of kindness and bravery. And, truly, if you have a life where you can sit at a computer and read this blog, you have it pretty good.

Sure, there are things we all want. Possessions we covet, goals we want to achieve. And there are obstacles and hurdles. Some of them loom large. Perfection is an unattainable goal. We get the “pursuit of happiness,” not necessarily the happiness itself.

Except that part is a choice.

It’s not always easy, and we are conditioned in many ways not to recognize it, but we have a choice. We can do our own vulnerability studies and minimize the risks to our inner peace. In the moments of struggle, we can recognize the places where we are stronger than that which opposes us, or, at the very least, where there are miracles to offset the stumbles and roadblocks.

The very fact that we can choose to do this is one of those miracles.

Choose wisely.

Abundance

Even when you can’t tell.

Here’s an interesting little fact. Interesting to me, anyway. Maybe not so interesting to you. But this whole blogging process is a challenge. (That’s not the interesting part. It’s not even an unexpected part.)

One of the things that has helped me keep it going this long is the little bit of structure I’ve set up. If you follow the blog, you know we have a different general theme for each day of the week: Smith Sundays, Monday Miracles, Tuesday Tips, etc.

I can’t tell you how much easier that makes it to come up with a specific subject for each post! It totally supports the idea that you need to have a few rules and regulations in order to be creative. Inspiration needs a few boundaries, or it just escapes into the ether.

The interesting thing to me has been the discovery that certain themes are harder to keep cranking out than others. I try to keep a little ahead of blog posts. Just in case I want to take a day off. Somebody might want to fly me to Paris for lunch, you know. (Well, you may not know. I do. That’s not gonna happen, and I’d rather go to Rome, anyway.) Or there might be a hurricane that knocks out all power for a week. (That could easily happen.)

So, I’ve got a few posts lined up in advance.

It’s easy to keep ahead of Smith Sundays. Nobody will ever run out of Smiths. There’s always something to wonder about on Wednesdays, and Friday Finds—there’s a lot of good stuff to share. Books, music, interesting websites. Not usually a problem to find something. Tuesday Tips are a little harder, but they usually pop up.

The hardest days, sometimes, are Mondays and Thursdays. The “happy” days. (Saturdays aren’t so easy either, but silliness is a special case.)

In the beginning, the Monday and Thursday posts were relatively easy to turn out. As time has passed, however, it begins to seem harder and harder to find a miracle or something for which to be thankful. Which is odd to me, because I have been and (knock wood) continue to be pretty lucky in my life. Many good things have happened, continue to happen and I am thankful for all of them.

It seems, however, that there is a miracle even in the difficulty. When the miracles start to run into each other, and I have trouble picking one out, it might be that I am unobservant. But I prefer to think that I am living in such abundance that it’s just that the whole thing is a miracle.

The trick is to remember it.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants