Leapin’ Lizards

At long last.

The conclusion to the great saurian saga of 2013.

If you recall, I was relating my adventures in pursuit of a solution to an enormous lizard problem. Enormity is a relative concept—relative, basically, to your level of cowardice in the face of non-humanoid beings. Mine, historically, has been high, but I am striving to overcome that, and I welcomed this opportunity for growth. (Welcome may be too strong a word. I…accepted…it.)

When we left our story, the lizard was on the windowsill, the gardening gloves were in the drawer and Elaine was in an unusual state of courage and determination.

Which lasted about two minutes—or the total amount of time it took for me to get the gloves, put them on, and reach for the lizard.

The lizard, being a lizard, was not one to sit like patience on a monument* (Flapdoodle!) while rescue was effected. At the first touch of a gloved finger, it leapt!

Leapin’ Lizards!

Every girl’s dream start to a day.

Now, bear in mind, when I say “leapt” that you must consider the source. I have a level of…discomfort…with rodents and reptiles (and spiders) that tends to lend connotations of warp speed to their movements and Japanese horror movie magic to their size as I relate my adventures.

This poor little thing “leapt” all of two inches. There was nowhere, after all, to go. On the one side, the window. On another, the window frame. On the other two sides, my advancing hand.

A little more ruthless effort, and I’d have had him.

Incipient bravery only takes you so far, however.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to grab. (Who wants to end up with a tail in her hand and half an escaped lizard wandering the halls?)

We retreated to our respective corners. Or, the lizard did, anyway, skulking in the corner of the sill, window, and wall. I took a step back to catch my breath.

The prospect was dim.

Failure loomed.

Was I going to have to…oh, the shame…wake up the MotH?*

Just when that horrible prospect seemed inevitable, victory was snatched from the jaws of defeat!

The lizard was sitting on the window sill!

Window sill.

Window.

Window!

I am thankful this Thursday that my brain woke up to the realization that windows are designed to be opened, that these particular windows do not have screens, that I moved slowly enough not to spook the lizard into further flight, and that the lizard was brave enough to wait for me to open the window and smart enough to get the hell out while the going was good.

So, okay.

It wasn’t my finest moment.

On the other hand, the MotH slept on, the house is lizard-less, and the lizard roams free in its natural habitat.

Things could be worse.

Next time…well, I’ve found some things we’ll discuss tomorrow to deal with the next time.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, sc 4

** MotH=Man of the House

Organization is the key

to lizard extraction

In yesterday’s episode, our heroine (me) made the momentous decision to remove an interloping lizard single-handedly.

For those who are not troubled by reptiles and/or other small scurrying creatures, this may not seem a sea-change* (Flapdoodle!) But for someone who once (long ago in a galaxy far, far away) spent a terror-filled night tortured by a cricket and, somewhat later in life, nearly fell off the rocking chair she had leapt onto at the sudden appearance of a hamster in an apartment previously hamster-less, it is, indeed, the miracle which warranted beginning the story yesterday as part of our series of Monday Miracles.

In a state of mingled what-am-I-thinking and how-brave-am-I as I contemplated reptile removal, I considered the options.

The MotH** just picks them up. As, in fact, had my grandmother and my mother, in the past, so that’s pretty much all that occurred to me, and clearly, that was what I was going to have to do.

Now, visited by sudden bravery I might be, but I am also a person with a certain amount of self-awareness. I knew it was extremely unlikely that this resolve would be carried through bare-handed.

And this is where today’s Tuesday Tip comes into play.

Always know where your gardening gloves are!

I have several pairs of work gloves and gardening gloves, and none of them are kept in the garage (me having a healthy—some might say ‘elevated’—sense of self-preservation and no wish to encounter a brown recluse spider being reclusive alongside my index finger). In fact, my best gardening gloves—the ones with the rubber fingers allowing for more manual dexterity than the leather work gloves—are in a drawer next to the side door.

Now, this is the important part. Not only are they supposed to be in the drawer next to the side door, they actually are there.

Look out, lizard.

Will Elaine find her gardening gloves? Will the lizard wait until she does? Will this story have a happy ending? And how did the lizard get on the window sill, anyway?

For the answer to these and other questions, tune in tomorrow to Wondering Wednesday.

* Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act I, sc 5 (Ariel’s song)

Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change,
into something rich and strange,
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell,
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”

** MotH=Man of the House

Nothing to fear

but lizards in the house.

And the miracle is that I’m getting past that.

Actually, lest my sister refuse to visit me again, let me hasten to explain that I don’t have many lizards in the house. Hardly any. In fact, I’ve been here nearly three years, and the one of which I am about to speak is only the second. That’s not bad considering the number that hang around outside. (I have named the house Casa Lagarto, after all.)

Mostly, we have chameleons (which are, probably, really anoles) and geckos and a few skinks.

The lizard in my story was, I think, a chameleon. Although I have an easier time distinguishing them from the geckos when they are their native green. Once they’ve decided brown is the color of the day, it’s a little harder. But, judging by shape, this was a chameleon.

I have long been accustomed—well, okay—I have for a couple of years been accustomed to seeing the lizards scuttle around outside without the need for a gasp and an eek. I don’t even have that zero at the bone* feeling when I come face to face with an enraged anole hanging head height on the garage wall and inflating its throat and glaring at me.

This does not mean, however, that I want them to come to breakfast. And thereby hangs a tale.

Fortunately, thereby does not hang a tail. You do know that many a lizard will just leave its tails behind if you happen to grab it, right? Then, if ever, is the time for “eek”—and likewise, “ugh.”

But, I digress.

The breakfast lizard did not actually come to breakfast. It was not, in fact, anywhere near the breakfast table. I, however, had come downstairs early in the morning with a view toward getting something to eat.

The first thing to do, in my house, when you come downstairs of a morning is to open the curtains. You want to see the creek in the morning. Often, the coots are there to offer matutinal greetings. (Hah! Never thought I’d get to use “matutinal” in a sentence!)

So…I opened the kitchen curtains. I opened the venetian blind on the side window. I opened the bay window curtains. And then, I went to open the curtains to the two big picture windows, creekside. At this point, since I don’t have the official, I-picked-these-out-and-I-love-them window treatments, this requires the use of a long stick to nudge the 4 panels of temporary curtains aside.

One slides left, a second slides right, a third…holy cow! There’s a lizard on the window sill.

Eeek.

Outside, I am accustomed to the unexpected—if that’s not an oxymoron. Inside, it’s a little different. First, there’s the involuntary gasp and recoil, by which time it never seems to me that there’s any point in a scream of any sort. (I sometimes envy the women who scream. My reaction is always too silent to awaken the MotH.**)

But, eek. There’s a lizard on the window sill—and a MotH who won’t appreciate being awakened and who is, properly, scoff-ful (is that a word?) of irrational fears.

And then came the miracle.

I decided I—I!— would catch (and release, of course) the lizard.

Tune in tomorrow to hear how I fared.

* Dickinson, Emily, The Snake—but the principle is the same.

** MotH = Man of the House

All I did

was walk out the door.

Honestly! The uproar in my driveway yesterday!

I just wanted to get the mail.

I walked out the side door and before I left the shelter of the carport, two rather large-sized doves took off from the driveway with much fluttering and flapping of wings and cheeps and squawks of panic such that you’d have thought I’d flung a cat into their midst. At the same time, one of the dang squirrels came around the corner, pulled a cartoon skid to a stop (hard to do on a bed of river rocks) and reversed course in a mad rush to escape that startled me just as much as I’d startled him.

(The squirrels, by the way, are no longer to be known in this blog as “the squirrels.” From here on out, they are always to be referred to as “the dang squirrels”—and, when especially irritating, as “those dang squirrels.”)

It seemed like a lot of unnecessary commotion for a simple trip to the mailbox.

Life is like that sometimes.

You set out in all innocence to achieve something of no great moment only to find everyone around you inexplicably horrified and upset by your (to you) harmless actions.

It’s worth remembering, I guess, that there are probably always doves and dang squirrels along the way—whatever you’re trying to do. And their reaction may seem silly to you, but it seems life and death to them.

And it’s also worth remembering—if you happen to be the one squeaking and squawking when the monster is coming up behind you—that maybe she just wants to get the mail.

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.

Daunting Deadlines

Daring to dream

I’ve been thinking about deadlines a lot lately. Not surprising, really. After all, I’ve just started a blog. People can talk all they want about “blog” being short for “weblog.” It’s really short for “OMG! I haven’t written today’s post yet!”

The really ironic thing about this plunge into blogging is I hate deadlines. I don’t join writers’ groups because I have such a horror of them. The idea of 10 pages a week freaks me out. I can’t imagine being a journalist with a story due every day.

And yet…here I am.

I didn’t think about the deadline part of the blog when I began. I thought about the social media aspects, the marketing possibilities (eek!), the opportunity for self-expression. And, yes, I thought about giving myself a reason to write regularly.

This never translated in my mind into having to write regularly.

You know.

A deadline.

The odd thing is that when I have a deadline, I am more than capable of meeting it. I have pulled all-nighters to write papers and computer programs, to get a website up, to learn software and/or 17^th Century French history (L’etat c’est moi – and that’s about the extent of my French¹), to learn lines, and to drive to Charleston.²

So, why does a writing deadline seem such a burden to me?

I honestly am not sure.

But I guess I’m going to get over it, or crash and burn here. And I guess it’s also true that you always invite into your life that which you need to learn.

So, today’s Monday Miracle is that I made this deadline. And I haven’t run screaming into the night at the thought of all the other deadlines to which I’ve committed. (We used to call them “drop dead dates” at one place I worked. It doesn’t make it sound any better.)

I’m giving myself this opportunity to get past my dread of deadlines. It wasn’t what I thought would come out of this blogging adventure, but it should be useful. After all, as Napoleon Hill once said, “A goal is a dream with a deadline.”

Deadlines are good.

Only, let’s think of another word, okay?

(Comments open for suggestions.)

¹ Except for that tour I did of The Little Prince and those few scenes I learned phonetically.
² Charleston. Also The Little Prince tour. Van broke down, transmission had to be rebuilt overnight, 8 am curtain at a school – long story.

“We don’t always KNOW how it ENDS!”

Ain’t no crystal ball

Ok. So the headline of this post is a quote from one of my favorite TV shows ever. The West Wing. Specifically, it is from the episode ‘NSF Thurmont’ from Season 6 which I happened to watch again just the other day.

In it, there is a whole lot of political stuff going on (no kidding, right?), and the amazing John Spencer (as Leo) is talking to the equally amazing Martin Sheen (as the President). Actually, he is yelling at the President.

I didn’t know people could do that, did you?

But that’s beside the point.

The point is Leo wants the President to bomb some people, and the President doesn’t want to do it–because nobody can tell him what happens next. “He doesn’t like chaos,” Leo says.

And I realize that some of my procrastinating about submitting my script is because I don’t know what happens next. I mean, often not much happens. Except a rejection letter. And I know how to deal with that. But there’s always the possibility it could be accepted. And that leads to an awful lot of questions and decisions and problems.

Chaos.

What if it’s the wrong place? What if the production turns about badly, when there was something around the corner that would have been the right place if only I had waited? What if… well, actually, all the other ‘what ifs’ stem from that one, so there’s no real need to go into the fears about casting, about contracts, about directors, etc.

But here’s the thing.

If I don’t submit, it ends right there.

It’s important to be able to live with the uncertainty that comes with the possibility of something better, instead of clinging to the security of knowing all about the nothing that’s going to happen if you don’t put your work out there.

We don’t always know how it ends.

A lot could go wrong.

A lot could go right, too.

And, by the way…the President in The West Wing? He didn’t bomb anybody, and he managed to pull off a major peace accord.

The lesson, I guess, is you step into the unknown and do the best you can.

There could be bombs. There could be peace in our time.

Why aren’t you writing?

The obstacle course

You say you want to write. You start a project. And then you stop.

Why?

It’s pretty fashionable these days to attribute all lack of forward motion to fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear that your mother will be mad that you used her in your novel (she won’t—she won’t even recognize herself), fear that you won’t have anything to say (you will), fear that your writing will reveal something about you that you don’t want people to know (yes, but probably not the way you think).

Some of those fears can and will stand in the way.

But sometimes it’s other stuff.

You’re lazy.
You’re busy.
You’re tired.
You’re bored.
You’re on Facebook.

Set a timer for ten minutes if you’re lazy. You only have to write for ten minutes.

Are you busy with what you really want to be doing? Don’t let the urgent crowd out the important.

Resolve to get more sleep. Write first thing in the morning. Before you have time to get tired.

You’re bored? Best cure for that…tell yourself a story. And write it down.

You’re on Facebook? There’s no getting around that one. You’ve gotta get off Facebook. Just for a while. (You can always set up a blog and link it to Facebook. Two birds. One stone. It could work. When I’ve figured that part out, I’ll let you know. Except I won’t have to announce it. If you’ve already friended me on Facebook, you’ll see it happen.)

The point is there are always obstacles. Are you going to let them stop you? Or are you going to get past them?

Over, around, under, through.

Whatever it takes.

Touchdown!

Today’s Monday Miracle is that I am back home in Florida.

(At least, I hope so. This post was written ahead of time–so I wouldn’t forget. But unless you’ve heard of something unmentionable involving airplanes yesterday, it’s a pretty safe bet.)

And thank goodness.

Because I have a hard time believing in air travel.

And it is disconcerting to participate in something that seems so unlikely.

I mean, have you ever seen an airplane?!

Usually, I don’t really look at the airplanes I’m boarding. I walk down an enclosed jetway through a portal and sit down in a seat inside a tube (sort of). But when you travel to and from Maine, you get to be bussed across the tarmac, hand your rollaboard over to a guy with a cart (because even the carry-on won’t fit on the plane), and climb a set of stairs with the airplane attached.

Large as life and twice as natural.

Now, a plane to Maine is small. But it’s bigger than anything I know how to get up into the air.

So it seems unlikely that air travel is actually possible.

But it must be. Because here I am. Back home in Florida, when yesterday I was in Maine.

Whew!

And. . .we’re off!

Welcome to my very first blog post!

It’s a little scary to launch a new endeavor–especially one so fraught with narcissism as blogging. You know those voices in your head? The ones that like to shout–or, more often, whisper insidiously–Just who do you think you are?

Well, they are working overtime today.

Who do you think you are to start blogging? To have a website? A bookstore? Who do you think would ever be interested in anything you have to say? What’s wrong with you?

But I’ve decided to tell the Tyrannosaurus Chatterboxicus to sit down and shut up.

I would like to point out to that garrulous TC that I am interested in what I have to say, and that’s enough. If nothing else, this should get me writing a bit every day. And if other people decide to come along, that will be great.

There may be interesting things here.

I’ll be talking about writing and creativity and what gets in the way. I’ll be talking about theatre and what I’ve learned as an actor, a director, a playwright. I’ll be talking about computers and website design and the bruises I’ll be getting from beating my head against the brick wall of trial-and-error programming.

I’ll be talking about visibility–oh, the shame of poking your head up and saying, “Here I am. Look at me.“–and having to combine all manner of esoteric business-like disciplines (marketing, pr, research, compliance, data design, accounting, etc.) with all manner of other esoteric creative-like disciplines (plot, theme, structure, imagination) into the more or less coherent whole of an Artist Entrepreneur.

Sometimes I’ll be talking about how hard all that is, and sometimes I’ll be pointing out some tricks and tools that have made it easier for me–and might work for you. And sometimes I’ll probably just be talking, and we’ll all wonder what the heck I’m talking about.

I’m learning this blogging software as I go along. Weird things will happen. The TC wants me to wait until I understand it perfectly, but you know and I know that just means it will never get off the ground.

Leap, and the net will appear. — John Burroughs

I’m leaping.

Bookmark this site if you want to see what happens next.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Tag Archives: Fear