Creatives

A semi-big announcement!

2011-10-16T21:36:00.000-04:00

Announcement to subscribers, followers, casual readers, and mega-celebrities:

This blog has moved to wordpress and can be located at:

www.zahndrew.com

or

http://zahndrew.wordpress.com/

See you there!

Friday Light: Big, Superfluous Words Make Us Seem Smarter

2011-10-14T07:29:00.004-04:00

As creatives, we'll often bend toward the serious side of life. Our temperaments embrace the melancholy, rainy day, James Taylor-esque "You've Got a Friend" sadness that, for some reason, makes us feel comforted. Not happy, but comforted.

Sometimes we gotta chillax. In an effort to blend balance into our creative lives, I introduce to you Friday Light. This will be a weekly series each Friday to smack the melancholy in the tooth, laugh a little, and deliver a non-acholoholic buzz.

Let's get chuggin'.

Confession: I sometimes like to appear smarter than I really am. Rather than using colloquial language, I'll toss in some three, four, and five syllable words to dazzle. Have you ever used "big words" just to impress someone?

Words like these...

Pretentious. Even using the word 'pretentious' is, in itself, pretentious.
Colloquial. See above. I used it a few sentences ago to make myself appear shiningly brilliant.
Nebulous. I'll toss this one into a sentence when describing concepts and ideas that aren't specific. As in: "I like the direction of this project Fran, it's just a bit nebulous at present." Just saying the word 'nebulous' raises my IQ. I'm sure of it.
Any Medical Terminology Picked Up from WebMD. As in "yeah, it was a post-roital laceration on my dorsal vertex." Of course, peons who haven't read WebMD feel their intelligence quotent drop with each and every syllable of our verbiage.
Verbiage. It's pretentious to use the word 'verbiage.'
Moot. Like a judge on Law and Order, we'll refute irreveant information and use the word moot. Check this out from the dictionary: "it is moot whether this phrase should be treated as metaphor or not." That sentence doesn't even seem like English.
Ambidextrous. I get a one-two punch out of this one by both saying the word and demonstrating as well. For some odd reason, I have no trouble shooting pool with either hand. Though I'll probably not win the game, my opponent is astonished with my vocabulary and my ambidextrousness. Makes me feel better about myself... just like listening to James Taylor.

How are we going to keep it light today? Suggestion box below... just leave your tips in the comments.

***

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10 Reasons Your Current Job is Creative. Really!

2011-10-12T07:00:00.002-04:00

In a couple hours, I will don my costume for the day. I call it 'business casual.'

I will sport a professional, corporate look.

I shall spend the morning and afternoon teaching sales methodology, basic manners, paperwork procedures, and a few 'closing' techniques.

Ladies and gentlemen: I am a corporate sales trainer.

Yet, I still consider myself a creative. Are you in the same boat? You're waiting tables at the diner. You're answering phone calls in a cubicle. You're picking up endless messes from the kiddos.

We are all creative.

Today, our jobs are creative because like every prolific artist:

We will influence the way people see something.
We will share joy.
We will connect rather than just exist.
We will employ our mediums, whatever they may be, to communicate our ideas.
We will think as creatives think.
We will bring life to our workplace.
We will entertain.
We will believe that our work is good.
We will help.
We will contribute.

Time to put on that costume now, and I'm thankful. Thankful that it's my choice to see this day as an artist does.

How do we, as creatives, change our thinking to make our jobs more than a mere paycheck-generator?

Would love to hear your tips below in the comments!

***

This post brought to you by Quitter: Closing the Gap Between Your Day Job and Your Dream Job. Jon Acuff (read his blog here) put to words what I've only felt and thought for many years. I highly recommend it.

Hot Air Ballooning in Amish Country: Six Facts

2011-10-11T06:55:00.001-04:00

Last week I had the great fortune to do this:


"Balloon with a View" This balloon launched with ours.

*It costs money. Fortunately, for me, this particular trip was a gift. Thanks Dad.

*Fear of baskets is a no-go. If you fear floating around in a human-sized Easter basket, this isn't for you.

*It's not like Pixar's movie "Up." Wasn't "Up" a sad movie? I didn't cry once while on this ride.

*It's hard to catch a football from a balloon. A few kids tossed a football up to us (while flying much lower, of course, than the pic above) and we missed. Twice. Leaning out of a basket to catch a football = not a good idea.

*People love balloons. It was fun to see all the people waving, cars crashing from watching us and not the road, and the dogs freaking out.

*Amish people love balloons too. Here's how some arrived in their Amish "car" to scope out our balloon landing.

"Amish Auto"

Time to check something off your bucket list?

Slightly Embarassing Creative Quirks

2011-10-10T06:57:00.001-04:00

As creatives, we all have idiosyncrasies. I'd like to know your creative quirks that play into your art and creative process. And by 'your art,' I mean: getting the kids ready for bed, conducting a non-boring sales meeting at work, making a meal, or designing a dream from concept to fruition.

We're all artists.

I'll start the ball rolling before you divulge your foibles.

On the cusp of writing this list, I'll just say this: if you could see me, you'd describe the look on my face as chagrined. (I had to look 'chagrined' up to make sure I was using it correctly. Geek-factor.)

Weird music tastes. My 5 most recent iTunes downloads:

"The Edge of Glory" by Lady Gaga. Just embarrassing, but I love it. There, I said it.
"Tightrope" (featuring Big Boi) by Janelle Monae. So. Very. Good. It's like hearing a good preacher expound on the Bible. She makes it come alive. Joy-singer. Here's the video on youtube.
"Bennie and the Jets" by Haley Reinhart. Yes, she was on American Idol. And yes, this version is awesome.
"Forever" by Chris Brown. I first heard this while watching NBC's "The Office." It was featured in the Jim/Pam wedding. Celebration music extravaganza.
"Make Your Own Kind of Music" by Mama Cass Elliot. Butter-voiced Mama Cass (of Mama's and the Papa's fame) belts out this lovely anthem to artists with pinpoint croonery skills.

OCD Watchdog/Mild Participator. 3 weird things:

I like shows like "Obsessed" and "Hoarders." At times, I can identify with the people on the shows. That scares me. Then I realize I'm not like them. That relieves me. Emotional journey.
A 'thing' with odd/even numbers. When turning up the volume on the TV, I'll often want it to be an even number. Why? I dunno. But then I think of the people on shows like "Obsessed" and I flip it to 13 or 17 and throw caution to the wind.
Supersonic ears. I often wear earplugs to concerts, theaters, even churches at times. Sensitive ears.

Randoms.

I usually sleep on the floor. Actually, I start in the bed and then, around 2 or 3 AM I end up waking up and moving to the floor. Why? I like it. It happened last night.
I don't call my wife 'dear' or 'honey.' We keep it simple: we call each other 'babies.' 'Dear' and 'honey' never seemed right to us. Nor does 'deer honey.'
I was invincible once. I took a Starbucks Venti Iced Americano (I believe it has 34 shots of espresso in it) into the movie theater to watch The Dark Knight. Upon leaving the theater and finding my way home, the combination of the movie and caffeine told me that yes indeed, I too was a superhero. I was Batman until that buzz wore off. I've not had a Venti Iced Americano since.

Enough of my quirks.

Who's honest enough to share one or two of your creative quirks that make you who you are?

Fuel for Creatives: Time (Part 3 of 3)

2011-10-07T07:48:00.001-04:00

Coffee is morning fuel. Gasoline is car fuel. Sunlight is plant fuel. What is fuel for creatives?

Ideation + freedom + time = creative fuel. (Read Part 1, Ideation and Part 2, Freedom)

Time.

While training as an actor, our troupe garnered loads of great instruction from John Barton's video series "Playing Shakespeare." Actors such as Ian McKellen, Judi Dench, and Patrick Stewart played the text wonderfully, showing us newbies how it's to be done. Our English accents would have to come later. (Much later. Even now, my English friends say my faccent (fake/accent) boasts a Mike Myers feel. Ah well.)

One thing I took away from Barton's teaching is this: the word "time" is the most important word in Shakespeare. I've said that word differently for the past 15 years because of Barton's instruction.

Time.

The word itself is weighted with permanence and sobriety. It is not a flippant word.

Time.

The word is a gift, or a curse, depending on one's vantage point.

Time.

We must make time. We must guard this precious resource. We must take the time we have been given and use it doing what we love: creating.

Yes, we can come up with a great idea and have all the freedom in the world, but if we don't make time, our creative process stops short for a week. A month. A few years. Then decades. Then.... a lifetime.

Make. Time.

Our mantra:

We have all the time we need and more. We will spend our time doing the things we were created to do. We will not settle for excuses. We will not blame our schedule, our friends, our families, our jobs. We will use our time to create and share our expressions. Our creativity is a God-given expression that brings vibrant life to ourselves and to those with whom we share our creativity.

In Steve Jobs' much quoted 2005 Stanford Commencement speech:

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life."

***

Fuel for Creatives: Ideation (Part 1 of 2)

Fuel for Creatives: Freedom (Part 2 of 3)

Fuel For Creatives: Creative Freedom (Part 2 of 3)

2011-10-05T08:04:00.004-04:00

Ideation + Creative Freedom + Time = Fuel for Creatives. Read part one on ideation here.

Now that we have our idea, we gotta mix in a little freedom to create the idea and add a healthy dose of time to let it steep and brew.

Freedom first. A picture = 1,000 words. So here's my words on creative freedom:

"Freedom" by Zenos Frudakis

Zenos Frudakis's vision for his sculpture "Freedom," now roaming the streets of Philadelphia:

I wanted to create a sculpture almost anyone, regardless of their background, could look at and instantly recognize that it is about the idea of struggling to break free. This sculpture is about the struggle for achievement of freedom through the creative process.

Defining 'freedom' would be a daunting task even for Webster... we'll not even bother looking it up. Instead, we'll ask ourselves a few questions in regards to the Frudakis sculpture.

What do you see in this picture?
What do you see in the four figures?
Where do you picture yourself?
How did that last figure finally break out of the 'mold'?

I have to first want freedom in order to put in the word to get freedom. We must define creative freedom for ourselves, otherwise it's someone else's freedom... and that's not freedom at all.

So if we all desire creative freedom, what is holding us back?

Leave a comment below and we'll converse on it a bit.

***

Read Fuel For Creatives: Time (Part 3 of 3)

Fuel for Creatives: Ideation (Part 1 of 3)

2011-10-03T07:04:00.002-04:00

My wife got me thinking. It's one of her gifts.

We chat about her skin care line, Sugared Beauty, and sire some some ideas for the fall season.

I come alive.

Last week, an executive of a multi-million dollar company asked me for some ideas for his business. A new plan emerges from the brainstorming session.

I come alive.

I sit down to a blank computer screen to write a silly little story using a kit called The Writer's Toolbox.

I come alive.

Are you the same way? Do you love coming up with new ideas, fresh perspectives, and that movie-plot twist on a hum-drum, same-story approach to life and business that put's you on a thrill ride at Six Flags?

If you're reading this you are. There's a word for idea generation: ideation. (Spell check just told me that word doesn't exist. You're behind the times Mr. Spell Check.) My thoughts on ideation here.

As creatives, ideation is the starting point, the spring board, the appetizer to sharing ourselves, via our creative expressions, with the world.

A bit of boldness: that unbirthed idea, the one that you have that just needs to be unearthed, may change the your home. Your community. Heck, it may change the entire world. That is why it is so imperative to get your idea out.

It must be shared.

What if...

Your idea saves a business and thousands of jobs.
Your painting changes the way people see the world.
Your parable resonates with people, metamorphosing them into believers.

It all starts with that idea. We'll chat about part two and part three of this creative fuel process later this week. Hint: part two doesn't involve fear. Just sayin'.

What change can you bring today with your gift of creativity? To your kids, your business, your spouse?

***

Read Fuel For Creatives: Creative Freedom (Part 2 of 3)

The Creative Lifestyle of Tenacity

2011-09-30T07:17:00.001-04:00

These words speak for themselves... I suppose all words do that, don't they?

Ira Glass, of NPR's This American Life, offers some advice. Rich. Inspiring. I wanna eat this it's so good.

Can I get a "Do Over"? Remember Rosanne Barr?

2011-09-29T07:05:00.002-04:00

Ever want a complete 100% do-over?

As in...

I totally botched that (fill in the blank) project.
That was the most embarrassing thing I've ever done. What was I thinking? Hmmmm. I guess I wasn't.
I wish I were never born.

After nightmare experiences like these, we'll sometimes make a slimy, nasty vow. Not the wedding kind, but they're just as full of commitment, and they can stick to us like leeches. Leeches I say!

Enter Rosanne Barr. She's well known for her crass 1990 version "sung" at a San Diego Padres game. Barr humbled herself this past summer, took a few singing lessons, and debuted a respectable version of the Star Spangled Banner for a small group of spectators at a girl's softball game. Read the Huffington Post article here.

Her do-over version is quite touching. Wait, gulp, is that a tear starting to well in the corner of my eye as I watch this? There, I said it. I 'might' have cried a little when I saw the video. I was happy for her. Happy that she made things right. Happy that she learned from her mistakes. Happy that she knew it needed to be done and she did it. Barr admits she wanted the do-over to show her grandson that even if you make a huge faux pas, you can make it right.

As a creative, you've been there right? I know I have. Projects gone wrong. Job opportunities missed. Disappointing people. Man, it's depressing even writing just a few things that needed a do-over. If we're all honest with ourselves, there's a lot of things we wish we could do over.

But then there's that leech-like vow that tells us:

You botched it once--don't do it again loser.
Remember how embarrassed you were? You'll feel the same way if you do it again. Don't do it!
Just go sit in your cubicle like a nice kid, don't make waves, just get through the day.

And a day turns into a month, then a year, then a decade, and before we know it, that nasty vow keeps us from our do-over. It took Rosanne Barr about 20 years.

Why not begin your do-over now--before this week turns into a month, then a year, then a 'never?'

Time to make a new vow. . . and smash that other one to bits while singing "oh say can you see..."

Big Fat Loser Confession: The 'I'll Try' Enemy

2011-09-27T21:13:00.000-04:00

I've said it at work while training sales consultants: "I'll try" is a disease.

After teaching, coaching, and seeing an employee experience a eureka light-bulb moment, I'll sometimes hear two dreaded words: "I'll try." I honestly wish they'd just say "I won't and I can't." No commitment, no change, no results. Just be honest with your life.

Now the confession: I'm sitting on my can, watching NBC's The Biggest Loser. I often feel a bit guilty watching this show. Shouldn't I be burning some calories, learning something, working on that project, I'll think. Heck, at least I'm not downing chocolate and pizza... yet. Anyway, there are a couple big losers on the show and I'm not talking about their weight; I'm talking diseased minds.

My blood boils when I hear one of them say "I'll try." As in:

I'll try to do the workout.
I'll try to finish.
I'll try to eat better.
I'll try to make a change.

One of the participants just ate 37 mini doughnuts. Thirty. Seven. Doughnuts. That's where the "I'll try" willpower gets us--nowhere.

As creatives, let's harpoon the "I'll try" from our vocabulary and our mindset.

I've had a number of readers mention the encouragement they get from these posts. Fine folks who've hung up the paintbrushes, the pen and paper, the auditions etc. As they say in High School Musical, "We're All in this Together." I'm so sorry I just wrote that last sentence. My apologies.

If I'm honest with myself, I have to spear the "I'll try" every time I seek to ideate and create. That's why I'm writing this right now. I will write. I will contribute. I will inspire.

No more "I'll try."

I will. I can. I have something to share. I can bring a change. My work comes to good.

A heck of a lot different than "I'll try."

Why do you think we like to say "I'll try?" What's your new mantra to replace your "I'll try?"

Give Life to Ideas and Creativity by Killing the ADD/OCD Demons

2011-09-26T07:04:00.000-04:00

I sometimes get distracted easily.

To write, create, or ideate I'll often need to get away. Do you ever feel this way?

So, off to the coffee shop I go. My favorite writing nook vacant, I now inhabit this space:

Now I can write. Finally no distractions. Fast forward about an hour. Here's the rundown...

Checked the four other posts I'm working on and added a scant thought or two to each.
Texted my wife twice.
Consumed some soup.
Watched a youtube video.
Sipped the coffee.
Talked with some friends who sat down and surprised me.
Posted on said friend's Facebook wall.
Checked Facebook . . . a lot.
Looked around aimlessly to try and avoid completing this blog post.

I'm for serious on that list. Those things actually just happened. To make matters more unproductive, I just wrote it all out and am still yet to (actually) begin this post.

Luckily I'd already started a blog post about short attention span disorder (SASD). I don't know if it exists in the medical books, but I know it exists whenever my creative juices get flowing. It's as if our subconscious doesn't want us to contribute and share our gifts and talents. Could this be true?

Not for us it's not. Relinquish Your ADD/OCDemon. Say 'yes' to focus and 'no' to distraction.

What are we looking for in the distractions and false accomplishments anyway? The main reason we run from our ideas is fear. Fear of failure. Fear of looking foolish. Fear of risk.

A challenge:

1. Take ten minutes to write out that idea you've been working on for work, home, or school. Turn the iPhone off. No distractions.

Example: I want to think of a new way to start the meeting at work, the class at school, or the decorating project at home.

2. Write out at least three entirely different ways you could accomplish your idea. Write out the really dumb ideas too. Nothing is off limits.

3. Pick one from the three, do it, and drop me a note to tell me how it went!

What ideas do you have that you need to share today?

Writer Has Sore Throat, Loses Voice in Social Media Frenzy

2011-09-23T19:42:00.004-04:00

I was performing at a theater. Acting. Costumes. Makeup. The whole nine yards. Livin' the dream and getting paid to do it. Unfortunately, the toll of doing multiple shows a week did not agree with my vocal folds.

They wanted a voice rest vacation.

The ear, nose, and throat doctor-guy informed my talking parts that they got to get the vacation they wanted: two weeks of no talking while they rested and I learned to communicate with no phonation. It was odd being at the checkout in Wal-Mart, trying to communicate with the cashier that (using gestures and read-my-lips word-mouthing) "I'm not talking." Like an English-speaking American in a foreign land, I was treated like a non-native right there in my local Wal-Mart. She proceeded to talk louder and slower, assuming I was deaf or didn't speak Wal-Mart-ese.

As creatives, haven't we all been there?

We're standing at the checkout line in life with insights and ideas we want to share, yet we can't seem to find our voice. We stumble around, make a few mistakes, and start to feel emotionally flooded. We don't often know how to get our creations into the world.

Do I blog? Should I tweet more? What about making a video? I gotta get an agent...

Welcome to the land of Overwhelmed. Overwhelmed-land takes us on a journey similar to a roller coaster ride: quick thrills, getting nowhere, back to where we began, no real progress.

Too many choices often leads to no choice at all. I think the glory of all this social media stuff is that we have multiple ways to express our ideas, rants, and opinions. At times, our intense desire to express them amounts to sitting in front of a television as one show bleeds into another; we watch other people's handiwork rather than creating our own.

If you're reading this, you are a creative. You have something to express. The only way to so it is to dive in. Right now.

Make all the mistakes you want. And keep making them. Maybe your blog posts will stink. Maybe your next ten auditions will get you nothing but rejection. Maybe your painting will never be in a gallery.

But what if your writing didn't stink, you got the job, and your art changed how someone saw the world? What if you moved forward? What if you got off that roller coaster and took a step in a new direction? What if your movement created momentum?

"Half of the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it." Thank you Mr. Robert Frost.

You and I have a voice. Even if we don't know how to fully use it... yet.

***

What do you have to share with someone today? How are you going to express it?

The sky is not the limit.

When Peter Pan Makes an Appearance in Grown-Up Land

2011-09-19T19:53:00.002-04:00

Recently, my wife and I had the incredibly great fortune to see the real, live Peter Pan.

His name is Cathy Rigby.

Yep, you read that right, 'the boy who wouldn't grow up' is a grown woman who is nearly sixty years young. Read more about our experience here.

Ms. Rigby gets paid to act like a child. It's her job and she does it amazingly well. Many adults have adopted the same role as Rigby's: grown-up Peter Pan's. Not pretty. Especially since most of us aren't paid to act like children.

I'm not immune to this "Peter Pan syndrome" myself, but I am aware that childish ways can creep into my adult ways. It can be a fine line... knowing when to be child-like rather than child-ish.

Keep the wonder. Keep the excitement. Keep the joy. Keep the freedom. And be a grown-up about it.

The Writer's Toolbox, an Exercise in Creative Bravery

2011-09-15T21:05:00.005-04:00

My wife, ever the cheerleader (thanks babies!), bought me a wonderful gift that I didn't bother to even open. How rude. Yes, but the time had to be right. Tonight's the night!

The gift, The Writer's Toolbox, by Jamie Cat Callan, is both a book(let) and several simple inspiring exercises to get the brain jogging into the land of twists, turns, conflicts, descriptions, and plots.

Today's exercise: using the sticks!

1. Draw a "First Sentence" stick." Write for a few minutes.
2. Draw a "Non-Sequitur" stick. Write a bit longer.
3. Draw a "Last Straw" stick.

Here's what came out... my 'sticks' sentences are underlined.

***

On Tuesday, Margaret told me she liked the little oranges with the seeds better than the ones I bought.

I hated her for that.

Her distaste for anything ‘unnatural’ drove me to commit mind murder, the likes of which I’d not experienced since grade school. Kenny Malich, not Margaret, was the object of my half-rage then, but it felt the same now as is did back at Glen Heights Elementary in Canton.

We were celebrating Thanksgiving. My parents made me a pilgrim-like collar out of four sheets of thick black construction paper cut to form a circle around my neck. Sticking out awkwardly from my shoulders, the collar looked like a umbrella missing a few strands in it’s DNA. I pulled my socks over my pant cuffs and half way up my calf to further compliment my colonial-ness. There’s a shadowy memory of a hat and an odd belt buckle, but I can’t be certain at present. My costume, though complete, was anything but authentic, real, and natural.

Kenny was an indian. Oh yes, he got it all. He had the moccasins, the war paint, and even a hatchet. So cool. They were all the read deal too. Even the hatchet.

So why did I hate him and why did Margaret’s comment about the seeded clementines set me reeling back to childhood?

“You could make a living doing that kind of thing.” I suppose I could, but I had never thought about it, until then.

Produce aisle. Frozen for who knows how long. Holding oranges. I didn’t even know if I was blinking. It could’ve been five seconds or ten minutes. From the looks of my meager audience, my journey to elementary school and back to my seeded clementine selection had transformed me into a stick-figured mime.

I should’ve passed a hat and collected a few bucks.

“Yeah, well, woulda coulda shoulda ya know.” It was the first thing that came to mind. I would’ve felt more comfortable walking out of the grocery store half naked.

Maybe she felt that way because of the oranges, maybe she just didn’t like me because I forgot to pay her back for one too many lattes. Perhaps she even felt the same way I did about Kenny.

The past seems to be sinking down on all of us Margaret.

****

Got the creative juices going!

Try it. I dare you.

Two Sides of the Communication Coin

2011-09-14T22:27:00.000-04:00

"After all is said and done, more is said than done." Well said Mr. Aesop Fables.

OK, so here's the big secret. . .

I do not enjoy talking.

If you're with me, stand up and say . . . nothing! Yeah, you know who you are. You're the person at a party who does a lot of listening. How do they know us? By 'they' I mean the people who see us as walking ears.

Problem #1: I majored in speech communications and vocal music.

Problem #2: Virtually everything I have done in the 'make a buck' compartment of my life has had something to do with speaking.

Although I don't love talking, I love communicating. Big difference between mere chatter and actual communication.

I love seeing that moment of connection when mutual understanding, energy, and clarity takes preeminence over just the sound of rambling words. Communicators, like myself, may not love to talk, but we do love to convey ideas, plant seeds, and foster freedom that brings a change in someone else. We also love sharing mutually in a gentle tennis match of ideation, synergy, and positive consequence.

True communication. True connection.

To Write, Not to Write?

2011-09-13T22:09:00.000-04:00

No one wants to read a blog post when a person is just writing to write a blog post.

Right now, that person might (just might) be me. I have nothing to say, therefore, I am done.

So many people have something to say, and no physical voice to say it.

Like Roger Ebert.

Sarah told me about his story tonight. How thyroid cancer had ruined his voice. Consequently, for some time during his recovery, he wasn't able to eat food properly. One of his requests: to have his friends/family describe food to him--the bubbles of soda, the heat of the spices etc.

Vicarious descriptive sensory image extravaganza.

To write, or not to write? Just do it. Write.

Ok--now I'm done. Hmmm. I guess I had something to say.

It's a Privilege to Work, to Love, to Create

2011-09-11T20:15:00.001-04:00

Today, on 9/11, I am thankful...

We are a privileged nation filled with everyday heroes who love, work, and create.
We have everything we truly need. If you are reading this, you have everything you need as well.
We are loved with an Everlasting Love.
We are free to innovate, free to share, and free to move.

As the thunder clouds roll into town this evening, I know and feel that we are not, and never shall be, alone.

We are surrounded at every moment by a great cloud of witnesses; some of whom took their lofty place a decade ago.

How Creativity Can Backfire in the Workplace

2011-09-10T20:07:00.000-04:00

Want to get a job or want to keep your job? There, that ought to cover just about everyone between the ages of 18 and 120.
As Obama and the rest of Washington draw up job plan after job plan, let's make sure we do our part rather than waiting on the government to do their part; it may take them a while anyway.

I love being creative and coming up with the next 'new thing,' being adventurous and trying those 'new things' out(www.acouplecomments.com), and just having fun. Yet, at times, you just have to get back to basics and follow the instructions. Here are a few...

To Get a Job:

Research the company. Employers often ask questions to guage your interest level in the position and the company. No research, no interest, no job. Sorry Charlie, you just shot yourself in the foot.
Follow the instructions. "Please fill this out and when you're done, let me know," the job screener says. Then why are you sitting there waiting for someone to call your name after you filled it out? You'll probably hear something similar to "we'll let you know" when they snatch away the clipboard you should've handed to the proctor. If you can't follow very simple instructions at an interview, here is what an employer thinks: he doesn't listen well. She won't follow procedures. I can't trust that person. Let's not waste our time.
Be real. Enjoy the interview, rather than dreading it. Show genuine interest in the company and the people who are interviewing you. Rule of thumb: you will always communicate proportionate to how you feel. Feel scared? That's the way you'll come across. Feel under qualified? They'll smell it with every word you speak. Be you (unless you're a hot mess, in which case, be on the lookout for people just like you in places you spend money and try to work there. You'll fit right in).

To Keep Your Job:

Listen to your boss. Listen to what he says. What he doesn't say. Act accordingly.
Keep your promises. If you're not going to do it, or capable of doing it, don't do it. If you say you're going to do it, then do it. If you don't know how to do it, but want to do it, then learn to do it.
Take responsibility. Don't blame others for your failures, but give others credit when you succeed. Ouch, that may seem painful and humbling. It is, but heck, you'll still have a job and people will respect you for it.

Not a lot of creativity in those tidbids. It'll come later after you have the trust and respect of your employers. Maybe then they'll want to listen.

Lady Gaga + Warren Buffett = Tips for Business Artists

2011-09-09T23:13:00.000-04:00

She is hanging from a chandelier, covered in stage blood, dressed in. . . what is that?

Welcome to my brain when I first saw Lady Gaga perform on an awards show several years ago. I looked over at my wife, who's also a business artist like myself, and noticed her jaw in a similarly dropped state.

Warren Buffett. Ever heard of him? Well, apparently he's a big-wig businessman, although he doesn't consider himself one. "I am not a businessman. I am an artist," Buffett once confessed. A wealthy artist at that: he's worth over $47 billion according to Forbes. Some say his net worth is over $60 billion. That's a lot or 'illions' either way.

We may not all be aiming to net illions with an 'm' or a 'b,' but I think we can all agree that creativity must thrive and breathe in everything we do. That said, here's some tips brought about by inspirations of Gaga and Buffett, the unlikely dynamic duo.

Tips for Business Artists:

Be passionate and sell what you're selling unapologeticly. Whether products, services, or consultative information.
Be confident and convey your love for what you do. Your prospect will only buy it if you do first.
Grab attention and don't let up.
No limits. Pandora's box what? There is no box. Let 'er fly kiddo.
Keep creating, reinventing, and work. I could rant on this, but I already did: creativity might be painful work. That's why it's called 'work.' Get to work, and then don't stop. Ever.
Don't be afraid of what people think of your beliefs.

Now go. Do. Create. Enjoy. Share.

Get to Work

2011-09-08T20:14:00.002-04:00

It’s about time.

It’s about time that all the workshops, webinars, e-mail subscriptions, cd’s, podcasts, speeches and preachers and teachers and keynote feature speakers' talk

Stops.

It’s really about where the rubber meets the road and becomes our own with the practical hands on, real life, tried-and-tested, true to form, hands-down, read deal, easy to understand, and easier to do.

It’s about time.

It’s about time that getting by, inching on, just ‘getting through the day,’ one step forward two steps back, and lack of concern or lack of attack, ‘cause it just makes nothing but a life of naps and dilapidated crap.

It’s about time.

It’s about time that all reservations, inclinations, and tentative conversations take a back seat to implementation, vitalization, and radical transformation because complacency and apathy have no part of who we are, what we do, or who influences you and me. We’re better than that and we've got to give up blame because it's a steady rain that leaves a stain that's name is "not my fault."

It’s about time.

It’s about time that we stop hugging stress like it’s our best friend and send it packing back to the pretend land where it has no upper hand.

It’s about time.

It’s about time to stop making excuses cause they’re useless. They leave us nowhere in life but clueless and in duress, held captive by their false sense of security. See, it’s just you stopping yourself telling everyone else that it’s their fault that you’re not free to succeed.

It’s about time.

It’s about time to stop starting over and wasting time because we have no guarantees for tomorrow so why not make the most of every today.

Make the most of every day.

Of every.

Single.

Moment.

Why Ideas and Ideation Give Me a High

2011-09-07T19:58:00.000-04:00

I'm hooked.

I've always loved ideas, brainstorming, coming up with a plan, thinking abstractly, imagining 'what if' and the like.

Case in point (let's see where this takes us):

What if . . . we all didn't use air conditioning for an entire day during the heat of summer. We could donate all the money saved--just for having one relatively uncomfortable day. Hmmm. If each home cost an average of $3-5/day to cool.... if 1,000 people jumped on my what-if bandwagon, we could contribute around $4,000 to a good cause. If I doubled my energy-saving crusade, $8,000 saved and given. And let's just say I got (now I feel like I'm hatching a pyramid scheme) 10,000 people to do this next summer and collected the $4-$5 saved from each of those people. Around $50,000. Maybe I WILL do that. Would you join?

But here's the thing: coming up with that instantaneous idea came about by asking 'what if' and man, it gives me a slight high to see those ideas start to germinate, take form, and possibly grow. Even more, when those ideas are shared with other ideators (see post on ideation if you need clarity on that word--I did) the ideas take a new shape. Ever-new!

My joy is to string those mini-eureka moments together to form a lovely, creative life for years and years to come. Sarah, my wife and lovely ideator partner, inspires me daily to do just that.

What if....

What if . . . we weren't afraid to think in new ways. To come up with solutions to things that we DON'T think need to be fixed--just to make it better.

What if . . . ideas are God's gift to us and our gift back to God is to share the idea, enjoy it, ruminate on it and see what it becomes.

What if. . . your spark of ideation changed your city, your country, or your world.

What. If.

Time, The Grind, and Ben Stein

2011-09-06T19:37:00.002-04:00

A friend's Facebook status:

"My curfew was the street lights. My mom called my name, not my cell.

I played outside with friends, not online. If I didn't eat what my mom cooked, then I didn't eat. Sanitizer didn't exist, but you could get your mouth washed out with soap.

Getting dirty was OK, and neighbors cared as much as our parents did. Repost if you once drank water out of a garden hose and survived."

Were those really the 'good old days?'

Face to face. Not Facebook.

Dumbphones. Not smartphones.

C:>diskcopy. Don't even try it now or you might get sued.

During a recent episode of CBS Sunday Morning, Ben Stein noted, in his Buellerish way, that perhaps the reason time and workplace productivity seem to escape us is due, in part, to our extraordinary gadget usage.

Rude.

I can connect in ways never before. I can spend time commenting on how cute my 3rd grade teacher's dog looks with that vest. I have over 800 friends on Facebook! I can fritter hours away and have the appearance of being productive.

OK, Mr. Stein, you win.

But what if... What if we didn't have those gadgets? Would we be better off? Would we connect with each other more regularly?

I suppose we'd have more time on our hands.

We could innovate and create make more gadgets. Nice.

Gold Bits

2011-09-04T22:53:00.000-04:00

These little babies

Tiny heaven bites

Pure, clear and simple

Childhood wonder

Summer gently fades

As autumn descends

Bringing tender treats

Echoes of my past

New Favorite Word: Ideation

2011-09-03T19:30:00.003-04:00

When I grow up, I wanna be an ideator.

Realization #1: I love and thrive on creativity, ideas, and innovation.

Realization #2: I get bored easily.

Are you like this too?

While at the gym today, I was listening to a podcast I'd downloaded nearly a year ago from Ideasicle.com. Gaurav Suri, a philosopher, author, fMRI specialist (no, I don't know what an fMRI specialist is) was speaking on what happens in our brain when we create. The podcast, though a bit dry at times, was tremendously inspiring and made me forget my workout--always a good thing.

Listen to it here.

Suri, through his research and other smarty-pants things, deduced that the 'ah-ha' moment an idea is birthed in our conscious (though often unconscious) mind, massive amounts of dompamine are released into the brain. In normal people language: when we have a cool idea we feel awesome.

(Side note: cocaine and nicotine have the exact same effect on our bodies.)

People actually make a living of doing this idea-making thing. Some license products, or even ideas, to companies who desire to produce the ideas, market them, and sell them to the public. Apparently the process of formulating ideas and concepts is called ideation. And it's my new favorite word.

Dreaming up ideas is a lot more fun, and healthy, that smoking a cigarette. Or using cocaine.

And it's cheaper. . . not that I would know. Just guessing.

Honest.

Dating Advice that Will Also Help Anyone in a Sales Career

2011-09-03T00:09:00.000-04:00

While Sarah and I enjoyed a 'Love Boat' of sushi tonight, we couldn't help but listen in on the conversation of the couple behind us.

First date? Probably.

Possibly a set-up? Seems likely.

Will there be a second date? Not a chance.

Sarah pondered what it would be like if we just sat down and offered some basic advice. How brazen! Though we didn't, we sure enjoyed discussing what we'd share.

Ironically, I'd just finished training some sales reps the past week and quickly realized that the advice I would give this guy is nearly the same advice I'd toss out to sales reps.

1. Ask a good question. Shut up. Listen. This guy would not. Stop. Talking. He was only interested in himself and learned nothing about his date. He's probably going to blame his friends who set him up with such a loser of a woman because she didn't kiss him goodnight. No dude, you don't know how to sell. Sales application: if one is excellent at asking questions the customer will naturally want to buy your product. The salesperson then learns about what kind of person their customer is and thus, learns how they like to be treated and how they like to buy.

2. What's in it for Me? If you're saying something (and remember, that's probably not a good thing--see point one on asking questions) it better matter to your customer. Dude, she doesn't care about how you can discern a truck's gas mileage by smelling it's fumes. Sales application: when doing your 'pitch,' make sure it's something that is going to matter to your prospect. Stop spewing meaningless information. You'll end up sounding just like Charlie Brown's Teacher, and you'll also end up not getting the sale.

3. Differentiation. Your date, like a customer, can smell your slimy desperation breath loud and clear. How are you different from any other guy? What makes you stand out? Why would she pick you over the other guys with receding hairlines? No really... why? She would pick you because you're the type of guy that she's going to tell her girlfriends about. "He's amazing. He's not like all the other losers. No, really Sharon. This one is different! He really listened to me. He also makes his own clothing. Now that's a little weird, but at least he's different." Sales application: if you are like all the other peddlers on the street selling the same product, why would I buy it from you? I'd buy from you because you're different. Simple rule of thumb: people do not like salespeople. Don't be one. Be different. Be a person who likes people, finds problems, and gives advice for solutions if it's needed.

Sadly, I don't think these two are going to enter into a profitable relationship. She's far too nice and he's far too enamored of himself to show any real and genuine interest in her.

He lost the sale.

30 Entries, 30 Days, Mini-Obama?

2011-09-01T21:09:00.003-04:00

Matt, my bro-in-law, offered a challenge on his blog. To write 30 things in 30 days--I believe he's choosing poems.

His throwdown. My pickup. Game on!

Day 1

I'm getting older. Not just the kind of getting older that happens when you're 18. But the getting older that older people used to talk about and I'd think that won't happen when I get to be their age. But it kinda does happen.

Apart from the gray hairs and a slightly slowing metabolism (hmmmm, these pants used to fit just fine. Woah. What the? Treadmill time) the most noticeable change has been a desire to live with purpose and intention.

Why do we really do what we do? What is the purpose? Who's life am I affecting? What change can I make to bring a difference?

Making money isn't rewarding enough, though having the bills paid is a tremendous blessing. Thankful.

Still, the greedy me wants more. To bring change.

Sounds kinda political.

Four and Eleven, Ballet, and Hot Dogs

2011-08-27T16:43:00.006-04:00

The following was written in 2005, edited recently.

ONE

Although instincts had led astray in the past, their candor and edge are, at present, unmistakable. Lincoln Center--yes, that’s it. I’d been there once to see Madame Butterfly. I remember red and gold, but I also recall that my nose actually bled from the altitude of our seats. I’d arrived by subway before, and now could only rely on my feet and compassless sense of direction while wondering if those big white buildings were east of Central Park or west. I was almost sure it was west. A street fair. Dairy-free ice cream? Really? Can they even call it ice cream. It was good, although I questioned how it could taste so cow-like without any dairy.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could point me to Lincoln Center.”

I imagine he’d lived in The City much of his life. Maybe he’s an author, actor or some unknown-to-me celebrity. I instantly profile him as a man who has ridiculous amounts of money stashed away because he eats only oatmeal at all meals with an occasional banana or apple a few times a week—the fruit being an extra special treat that he rarely allows himself to enjoy. Surely the apple or banana would be badly bruised, living on the discount rack—if he was indeed a miser. Why did he become so miserly? Why is he alone? Did his wife die? Or did he never marry? Or partner? Maybe he’s a loner. A rich loner. How sad that a rich loner ambles his way along The City streets, looking for something or someone or somewhere to make him feel alive again. Blame my overactive imagination, but I assume this of nearly every moderately dressed older person when I’m in The City. He is pleasant, at ease, and more than willing to help. Pointing at a hotel sign, he encourages me that I am, indeed, headed in the right direction. Lincoln Center is only a few blocks away. For some reason my mind tells me it is around 61st on the east side. I didn’t want to trust my mind, but now I had reason to doubt my doubts.

TWO

Three buildings coated in semi-white chalkiness. Stanchions of creative energies embodying beauty, strength, and artistry. Posters and brochures. September 27, October, November. But today, where is today? Madame Butterfly, but not again. I want to see bodies flying and twisting. I want to see worship. I want to participate in visual inspiration. I want to go to the bathroom.

Does Lincoln Center have a public potty?

Yes, but a few levels down, nestled into the underground parking arena. I wonder if Pavarotti had ‘used’ the public facility there. Why would he when he had his own? Perhaps he parked in the garage below and just couldn’t wait to get to his dressing room. Beverly Sills? Who else. Renee Flemming? My daydreaming mind shifts me into autopilot until the brick-wall end of my restroom search and I find myself upstairs looking at posters and brochures once again. To no avail. I exhaust my solo efforts at Lincoln Center and decide to ask for help at Information. Two ladies, older than I (much older than I) complain in nasal, east-coast accents about “the bathrooms. What are we suh-post ta dew, pee owr pants?!” She needs an elevator, and there wasn’t one at this location. I feel for her, but also think she might be a spoiled young girl who, after growing up, happened to become an elderly woman. A similarly aged woman in summer hat and thick eyeliner pulls my attention from the pee ladies. Her large blue button tells me she is a volunteer tour guide and hopefully helpful.

I blurt something about looking for a ballet of some kind and she informs me in a softness that The City hadn’t ruined that “the season starts in a few weeks. Have you tried City Center—the Met and the New York City Ballet used to perform there before they move here—they have lots of dance there. Do you know where that is?” She is almost apologetic—offering her condolences to the death of my hope of seeing ballet at Lincoln Center. “55th and 7th I think. Oh, have you seen Chicago?” I had. It wasn’t part of the assignment for the day, and I’d already made Movin’ Out a back-up plan if I couldn’t see a traditional ballet. I amble on after thanking her for her suburbia-style help.

After circling the block a time or two, I realize that I must be slightly askew in my quest to find City Center. I enter a NYC trinket shop, and quickly realize that this is not the place to inquire about directions. Why would a half-tourist ask a tourist directions? Hilariously foolish. I interrupt two women. One of them tells me she thinks it might be between 6th and 7th avenue. Ah. Hadn’t tried that … and there it was moments later. Spanish style almost. Oddly otherworldly. Billboards filled with tantalizing glimpses of excellent dances to come, but none today. Movin’ Out wins.

“It’s better to get them here. At TKTS you’ll pay about the same because all seats are $55 today. I can get you orchestra 13th row center section.” I pay with my credit card, and wait for him to hand me a pen to sign, but he is unwilling to relinquish his pen. The tattooed slender man points sharply to my pen outside the thick, Alcatraz imported glass. I sign, only mildly ashamed from not seeing the pen two inches from my hand. “Three o-clock,” he blurts, and hands me my receipt. I have about one and a half-hours, and the respite of Central Park calls me back via the subway.

THREE

Searching for a spot, the spot, I see a statue performer in white making her living. How often does she do this? Does she make her entire living standing still, then moving only a few mimed inches? She looks like she is making a meal or stirring a potion, but who would she be making it for dressed like that—maybe it’s flowers—cutting and arranging flowers. I stand upstage left of her. I want to be a voyeur, not any part of the action, and locate the respite that would house my book and me for the next forty-five minutes.

A green bench adjacent to a field of Frisbee players invites me to enjoy The City with my book. Temperate. Cool. Soothing words massaging my restlessness, taking me to yet another place within the park: a mind journey--a city within The City. Seeing and smelling the reality, but feeling and sensing the fiction simultaneously causes the voices to bow to mingling, making a “present and past” soup in my head. With pieces of the author’s mind, cheers from the nearby baseball game, and fragments of conversation from the painter to my right, I find the stories blending into one. I allow myself to fall immersed into the puddle of scripts emanating from the surroundings; the conglomeration inviting, not overwhelming.

“I like this one best.”

“Why? What do you like about it?”

“The colors . . . I just do. It’s appealing.”

I think I heard one of them say ‘Ansel.’ I wonder if this man and his friend/wife/lover/sister/co-worker should be sitting in a park relaxing. I surmise that they should be in a gallery. I think they know people I might never know. They’re fascinating in their simplicity, and so covertly inviting that I pretend to listen to music whilst eavesdropping. Thanks ear buds. It feels like a permissible sin. No names of the victims, and no ill effects, regrets, or severe intrusions; they speak freely and closely. I listen.

He shows her his works. At least, I presume they are his works; originals bright and thick with voluptuous acrylics. Her admiration of him and his work is amply apparent, but refreshingly simple. I think they might want me to notice.

FOUR

Book in bag and bag on back, I grab the cell phone. As I search for a bus to take me back downtown I invite a friend, via voice mail, into my day. He’d recommended the book I was reading, A Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin, and I want to congratulate him on an excellent suggestion. Not well versed in the art of the MTA in The City, I think I should take a risk and hop on a bus—these only go one direction, I convince myself. So I jump on the 110, or is it the 104 or 210. At any rate, I hop on a bus with an even number, crossing my fingers. While on the bus, I notice the riders look comfortable--no reason to complain. But American’s usually find a reason to complain—unfortunately, it’s become a hallmark for us.

“Too much ketchup on my cheeseburger—I hate this.”

“This line is forever.”

“My computer sucks.” All common phrases.

Unfortunately for us, myself included, we’ve spoiled ourselves into hating the things much of the world considers luxuries. The only complaining on this bus, however, surfaces in the form of a ho-hum glance from the woman sitting next to me. She’s reviewing some type of script—a student probably. Again the peeper, her paper told of a tower falling and a second falling shortly thereafter. We stop again and I feel I should rise and give my seat to anyone else, a woman, a senior, a tourist less tourist-like than myself. Chivalry, often seen only in the form of an occasional door being held open by someone who feels compelled to do so, is near death—it’s time I started performing CPR. So I stand. Unfortunately, in my zeal to treat others well, I position my backpack right in script-lady’s face. I imagine it was there for a good while until I notice and apologize. The ho-hum glance turns to a scowl on her face. Rightfully so, I think, but perhaps an “ ‘s OK,” or something to make me think I hadn’t ruined her day--or her entire life. Maybe she let me ruin her day. Sorry script lady on the bus headed downtown.

My shrouded chivalry is communicable! A man holds the door for a severely dawdling child. The mother exits the side door with her infant in hand, but Timmy (maybe his real name?--I’ll never know) decides to take his time. He was about to be left behind, yet a man stood in the gap, affording the toddler and mother to reunite after only six seconds of separation. I am relieved. I stop myself from applauding--might be a bit dramatic.

A slight, but very real nervousness tells me the bus will stop nowhere near the theater and that I’d spent too much time in Central Park.

Unfounded fear allayed.

Movin’ Out superbly satisfies the ballet need. The stage colored by superhumans soaring above ordinary jumping heights, vocals floating into every crevice thanks to an over-zealous audio operator, and classical training applied to modern compliments of Twyla Tharp. Oddly enough, there’s nothing else to say about the show. The City has more to offer today. I’d always wanted to go to Coney Island.

FIVE

My grandfather spoke so cherishingly of the glory of a coney island. He’d wanted to open his own coney island stand in the new New York: Vero Beach, Florida. (Aside: go there. Take a bike ride through a retirement village. It’s like being in New York only it’s sunnier, smells like oranges and salt water, and their color palate is made up entirely of pastels and gold/silver shoes. Aside done.)

Grandpa and Grandma. Lotsa love.

Grandpa assured us all that it would be an instant incredible addiction to all the easterners now living in Florida. “ ‘S nothing like it! You can’t even call them chili dogs, because that’s really not what it is.” He was adamant that magic was the main ingredient in an authentic coney island hot dog. My father, though not the son of the grandfather who worshipped the coney island, holds a similar fascination with missile shaped food products.

I expect the subway ride would take about a half-hour, and it does. Approaching the stop, I realize Coney Island has more than fancy hot dogs. I expected water, but somehow did not realize the water would be the ocean. So close to The City? What was I thinking--apparently not very much. Even though I’d seen its location on maps, until I smelled the salt air I didn’t believe. Sunshine. At nearly six PM, its rosy orange rays make the water, the rides, the side shows, and even the hot dogs shimmer with the soft, natural glamour of a summertime sprinkler soaked child. Passing the rides and food stands, the ocean’s cadence invites me forward, drawing me into it’s gentle churning. I sit, rest, and listen.

The surf lapping with strength and calm; ever changing but constant. Pulling with unseen energy that was as new as every breath. I wish for a hammock and a blanket, to rest at the shore’s side, letting its power and rolling rhythm lull and relax me into it’s arms. But I rise from the shore and do the ‘I don’t want to get sand in my shoes’ walk that makes me waddle like a human bird. After a few steps, I feel I should sit down again.

I soak.

Kites and a clear sun-setting sky make me want to stay and breathe in the air, breathe in the voice I feel guiding me, breathe in the life—the openness so converse to the concrete-country subway ride. The sun slowly sinks and begins it’s goodnight kisses on us all. I wait, wanting all the love the sun cared to give. Waiting with the kites. As they soar, responding so well to what is handed to them. Diving and soaring. Sometimes falling. There is a story in the wind today that reaches into the moment I was born, whispering in a supernatural language, reassuring me in places I was unaware I needed security and certainty.

I buy a hot dog. I am hungry, but I buy it to have a coney island on Coney Island. I eat it for Grandpa … and for dad. Perhaps I buy it to have with Grandpa?

Though the coney island is for Grandpa and dad, the dream of ice cream was for no one but myself. Numerous stands offer ice cream, but none seem right. I trudge back to Manhattan. While searching for the subway hole that would take me to Port Authority for the nine PM bus back to Pennsylvania., I see them, though they were gone. I wonder about attractions in the city on this day, as I’d seen relatively few except a street fair uptown. Searchlights? But they weren’t moving. Ghosts of towers from four years and eleven hours ago. I try to capture the moment on my camera phone, but the phone refuses to take the beams into its eye like a vampire in a mirror, they vanish from sight. I take several pictures, yet none realize the shadow towers. The hunger for ice cream intensifies, but suddenly dwindles when I see Canal Street is one of the stops. Gelato. Yes! A taste of Italy! Authentic. Creamy. Ice cream-like.

Most of Canal Street is like any other Manhattan concourse, but it connects several worlds—worlds of food. As I stroll, the shining garland and lights signal my arrival on Mulberry Street. Like Coney Island, and the streets in Florence, choices for creamy pleasures abound. I ask several times which is Italian ice and which is gelato before settling on a medium sized portion of vanilla loveliness. The more I eat, the more the medium grew to a large—an odd happening when consuming something so extraordinary. It is more than enough. Indeed.

I have everything I need. I have more than enough. Is this gelato talking to me.

Candy is Art, Candymakers Artists

2011-08-26T07:46:00.000-04:00

Walking into an old time candy shop is like walking into an enveloping fog of pure joy.

I think I’d like to own a candy shop like that. Maybe when I'm like 70 and am a weird old man. The kids would say 'let's go see that crazy candy guy.' Yeah, I wouldn't mind being known as the crazy candy guy with the cool candy shop.

My adorable nephew exemplifies how I feel about sweets. You do me proud Joshy!

Names for my shop:

Candy is joy.

Joy Candy.

I Candy? Maybe not.

Candy is a comfort. Seeing and feeling and smelling all the lovelies in the bulk aisle of a grocery store--too much. Puts me on the edge of acceptability. Almost can’t take it.

Look at it--it’s sole purpose is to tantalize the senses. The color, the texture, the carefully orchestrated scents and smells. Come on.

Candymakers are artists unrealized.

What’s not to love? How can someone not like candy? It’s like saying “I don’t like color, joy, and anything other than my job.” This person is an alien. Or they’ve divorced themselves from their true passions.

One of my passions is candy. Not that I sit around and eat it all the time. Sometimes I just look at it or think about it, and after an hour or two of that, it’s time to move on to something else. Maybe taffy instead of the chocolate.

Oh, chocolate. We live in a town where they make M & M’s and man, when the wind blows just right, we’re breathing in chocolate. Little bits of it.

Incidentally, that’s what always grossed me out so much about farts--the thought of where that smell came from and the science of why I’m smelling it--too much. Particles from that place are floating around and entering into my nose. Actual. Particles.

So I’d rather be smelling chocolate. Or fudge. But not that other thing.

Free Breakfast

2011-08-17T07:15:00.001-04:00

Being depressed and moping around, Peter and a few other guys jump in a boat and go fishing in the dead of night. They thought fishing would take their minds off their sorrows and cheer them up.

They fished the whole night. They caught nothing.

Not a real successful cheer-up attempt.

So, in the early morning, their Mentor and Teacher comes to the shore, just a stone’s throw from where they are... but they don’t recognize him because ...

they’re focused on what they don’t have.

“Boys, you don’t have any fish, do you?” The Teacher calls out.

“No!” they blurted. “But thanks so much for asking weird-guy-at-the-shore that’s making us feel like failures.” They didn’t say that last drippingly sarcastic remark, but they thought it.

Long story short: their Mentor gives them some fishing tips, the listen, they catch a ton of fish and bring them to shore where the Teacher is making a breakfast.

They sit down to an incredible spread where the Mentor has a fire of coals, fish cooking on the fire, and some bread.

They all have breakfast and a pretty transparent conversation.

John 21:3-9 (in-my-own-words-version)

***

I was shocked when I read this passage. I thought:

So they’re upset that Jesus is dead. I get that. Their lives seem over. Everything they had lived the past two or three years is completely over.

Time to go back to work. What do we do when we’re upset. We try to get what we need to fill a void. Just keep working. Just keep working. Just keep...

It’s interesting that this same pattern continues today. Sometimes in my own life.

What makes the story so fun and so surprisingly ironic, is that Jesus had the fish all along. He had prepared a table for his laboring friends.

At that moment of realization, I hopped out of the boat, onto the shore with Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, James, and John and had a stellar little breakfast that I’d been working for during a seemingly hopeless night.

Jesus always has that for which we’re working.

Sometimes He seems to call out to us as if to say “did you get it yet? Did you find the (insert need here)? That’s OK, why don’t you just listen to me, I’ll tell you how to get what you really want. Even better, hop out of your boat, I’ve got it right here, and I’ve had it all along. I always will.”

Shivering in the Heatwave

2011-07-22T07:11:00.000-04:00

Air conditioning

A quiet morning

The shiver of God

Colorful veggies and fruit

Hmmmm. I just wanted to list a few things I was thankful for and that ‘the shiver of God’ is sticking with me and I couldn’t really write anything else... well, except “colorful veggies and fruit.”

The shiver of God...

It’s a cold-hot chill when His tangible pleasure can be felt. The sense is that glitter bits of heaven have been sprinkled just over head, and they dance around in enjoyment.

It’s truly heaven on earth.

The shiver happens unpredictably. It may be when reading a passage in a book that forms a connection between the temporal and the eternal. I’ve felt it when I watch people do what they were made to do: teach, dance, sing, preach, garden, run, greet, or simply just smile.

The common denominator is that it’s felt (or rather, God’s stamp of pleasure is felt) when there is a connection that brings the mundane day-to-day-ness of daily tasks into the eternal realms of the One Who never sleeps.

What if there was always this connection? What if it wasn’t just a moment from time to time?

What if everything I did and said at every waking moment had those glitter bits of heaven showering down-- all. the. time.

God is good.

Shared Dessert Haiku

2011-06-23T22:13:00.000-04:00

Sarah brought dessert.

She counted exactly half.

Here's my lovely share.

Soak it All Up...

2011-06-16T18:08:00.000-04:00

Tucked. Fresh. Old. New. Creative. Multi-colored. Salty-sweetness.

Peace and relinquishment seeps from the surf into the streets, enveloping natives and newcomers into the arms of it’s two-hundred year Scandinavian history.

Kudos to you, Danish Maid Bakery, and your 25 cent lemon pockets of sheer wonder. . . and your butter bars. Oh, and the macaroons.

And that shortbread that you’ve made there since butter was invented. The sense memory took me back three years to when I first experienced four simple joys for a buck.

Thanks also going out to the folks at the Columbian Café. For your garlic, jalapeño, pepper and who-knows-what-else homemade jellies for the toast.

And for keeping it kitsch-less but still artsy.

Oh, and for the amazing breakfast burrito with the super-smoked cheddar. Who’s your daddy?

Mr. Hotel Elliott with your motto of ‘wonderful beds’ emblazoned throughout (including the floor of the semi-working elevator); we slept well. So well, I sneaked in a nap before checkout at 1.

And thanks for the late checkout.

This is our first visit here in three years since traveling the Columbia River as singers on numerous cruises. Each Friday, we’d stop in Astoria, Oregon to spend an afternoon soaking in the lovely that is this town.

Memories.

I suspect Sarah and I will come back here from time to time. We’ll bring a few more wrinkles with each new visit. And that makes me very, very happy.

We’ll never stop revisiting the old, and we’ll always experience something new: this is the way to create memories.

Sarah admires the Columbian Cafe--Astoria, Oregon

Bikes and Ice Cream Contribute to Happiness

2011-06-05T17:44:00.000-04:00

It's a fact. People who ride bikes and eat ice cream are happier...

I've no stats, metrics, or petitions to prove it--we'll save the spreadsheets and data for work.

But it seems quite true. Today we rode from our home to the wonderful Mt. Gretna Jigger Shop. For well over 115 years this place has been serving up treats and goodies to passersby like ourselves.

Lovely.

Trapped Last Winter in Snowmageddon...

2011-06-05T11:49:00.000-04:00

So last year, Sarah and I were held captive in our own home by winter's wrath...

Like two kiddos freed from the prison of school, here's what we came up with.

Yeah, I'm only a year and a half late in posting this... alas, I forgot I had a blog! Time to rediscover this lovely little online beast!

August 2009

2009-08-23T11:22:00.003-04:00

I've frittered my internet time away on facebook (which I've taken to calling 'fakebook'--seems a 'surrogate' to actual connection, though I know it has it's place).

Freewriting...

Been at my job for about 6 months now. Doing well. Want more creativity, more freedom. The prospect of starting our own business is extremely exciting to both of us. I feel the Lord is preparing us for this by me being in sales/business right now. He's good to set us up with all that we need for the days ahead.

He's good at setting us up.

Period.

He has such purpose to the way He leads. Knowing that there is purpose to each moment in the day, makes each moment a cherished one. It's just a matter of actually REALIZING that truth, even in the hum-drums of life. In the frustrating moments as well as the thrilling moments.

Life is rich and full right now. A bit too much of work, but that's the baby in me complaining about having to be an adult--truth be told, I work about 40 hrs per week.

In the midst of work, play, marriage, friendships, and good food is Jesus holding it all together. He's tangible at times; a holy gravity that attracts blessing and favor.

Create

2009-02-15T16:15:00.001-05:00

February 15, 2009

I’m excited about staring a ‘real’ job tomorrow—working in sales for a remodeling company—but I know I need to keep performing.

I need to keep churning that fire inside to keep the brightness alive.

My words will burn with life no matter what the stage or where I am, I will keep growing and I will keep creating.

I will still sing and I will still dance. My body has always been and will always be a living sacrifice for my characters and my character. Jesus knows it best.

Words and song will seep from my pores even when no one has paid the ticket price. Even when there is no camera, stage door, or gaggle of grateful retirees applauding themselves awake for the final bow I will be a creator. I cannot help but reflect and shine with the goodness of God. Even though I know it’s true, it feels strangely boastful to say I’m made in His image.

Most of all, I feel grateful. I feel heaven’s open doors swinging wide.

I see the children inside.
All of them so young in their timelessness.
I see them soaking in the limitless goodness.

And I know that I have that same thing here—on earth—just as it is in Heaven.

-----

Boy, that was pretty dramatic. But it's true and I liked writing it.

Get a job

2009-01-21T23:27:00.003-05:00

I've been auditioning a lot... a lot.

I thought I'd share a recent audition notice I saw that exemplifies how crazy this business is:

"I would just like to announce a casting for hand models for Wednesday (tomorrow) January 21st from 10am - 12noon
Open audition, please bring your hands."

I skipped this one...

In other news, I HAVE been writing, but it's just not content that I wanted to post. I hope to get blogging a little more in the days to come :-)

Life and Peace,
AZ

Grip

2008-07-06T13:48:00.004-04:00

Here we are at home.

I’ve enjoyed being home so much that I really haven’t written. It has been—hmmm, let me find an array of adjectives to set my emotions on display: restful, pleasant, colorful, fun, tasty, serene, creative, prayerful, expectant, enjoyable, super-duper, yippie doodle dandy. OK, now I’m getting silly.

Sarah is singing a piece she’s working on for an audition, and the birds outside are whipping out some tunes of their own. With the open windows, Sarah and the tweeters are making a lovely duet. The dog sits to my right, the coffee to my left, the couch hugging my back, and I think I’m just spoiled rotten. I think back to my time in Mozambique—I do this daily—I honestly don’t think there’s a day that goes by when Africa doesn’t cross to ocean and invade my American mindset. I try to reconcile how I live and how billions of others live. It’s almost like these moments of joy are interrupted by the reality of the third world.

And it makes me more grateful. How can it be that I am this fortunate? To love and be loved. To be fed and able to feed. To have such freedom? All this in a time when the news keeps telling us about the housing market plummeting, ridiculous price of oil, and depressing stock market numbers. How does that affect me? How does that affect my brothers—my sisters—in other countries? I’m definitely waxing poetic and melancholy, but there is truth here and I’m determined to find it. What does it mean for Sarah and I?

One of our continual prayers is that we would be ever transformed into a more generous couple. I daresay that second to our prayer of “loving each other better today than we did yesterday,” the prayer of generosity is our most common petition. It’s quickly becoming one of my favorite words: generous. Generosity bleeds into every area of our lives. How we treat one another. How we tend to other’s needs. How we listen. How and why we acquire wealth. How we rehearse, work, and perform.

It’s times like these, when I feel and experience the intense generosity of Father God. And I’m grateful. But I don’t want to just feel His generosity, I wanna live with the same generosity.

Eugene Peterson wrote a paraphrase of the Bible called The Message and I love digging into it. In Matthew 5:16 of that paraphrase, it aptly states my heart:

“Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.”

OK—opening up to others. That’s nice. I can do that. I can open up. Sure, I can share my heart with friends. I can do that. Hmmm. But then, later in the same chapter in Matthew, Jesus takes this generosity idea a bit far—almost uncomfortably far.

“Here’s another old saying that deserves a second look: ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ Is that going to get us anywhere?”

That phrase causes me to stop each time I read it: ‘is that going to get us anywhere?’ It’s a question that begs to be answered. It a rhetorical question—of course that’s not going to get us anywhere. He continues on:

“Here’s what I propose: ‘Don’ hit back at all.’ If someone strikes you, stand there and take it. If someone drags you into court and sues for the shirt off your back, gift wrap your best coat and make a present of it. And if someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.”

Do we really know what we’re getting into here. Yeah, we say we love Jesus and then He says something like this. If we say we love Him but don’t live the way He says is a generous way to live, do we really love Him?

Does living generously mean that we’ll be beat up, spit out, walked over. Human-doormat love?

I’m asking Him what it looks like—I’m asking Him that question daily and have been for about two years: “what does love look like?”

Looking at the ultimate example of love, the love of God, I see that He gave up all His rights to see a superior Kingdom come in power— but why? To become a religious superstar? Naw. To grow rich? Certainly not? Why did He do this? Because He loves us.

He gave up His life: ultimate generosity. There is no greater act of generous, unhindered love than to give up one’s life. Right now, in this moment, I feel Him answering some of my questions, and this is what He’s telling me:

This isn’t about letting people walk all over you. I didn’t make you to be a doormat. I made you to display my love, who I am, to others. There are times when you will feel walked on. There are times when you will experience incredible pain. I’m saying be generous always. You ALWAYS have something to give, even if you feel everything is being taken from you. Always give, and you will always receive enough to continue to give.

Give us courage. Courage to believe that what You say is true.

Courage to live generously.

Between Yes and No

2007-12-18T12:14:00.000-05:00

I’ve heard a lot of the power of ‘yes’ and the power of ‘no’ recently. I actually can’t stop hearing it. It’s blazing in my ears like a wildfire. Few moments pass when I am not confronted with the ‘no’ and the ‘yes’ of this grand gift called life.

The 'yes' is trust in the character of God despite circumstances.

The 'no' is a distrust of God as a result of our circumstances and seemingly true facts.

In everything God tells us, we have a response. Yes or no.

I can’t stop hearing it in broken families.

In hurting friends.

In sailing victories.

I’ve heard it in nature, in sermons, in music, in literature, in movies.... yeah. A lot.

And at Christmas... I hear it in Mary’s faith-filled “yes” response to the angel Gabriel in her “let it be done to me according to your word.” And Zechariah’s doubt-filled “no” response when he said “how can I be sure of this.”

Between the ‘no’ and the ‘yes’ is a place where faith (pardon the similar slang expression) ‘hit’s the fan.’ Or ‘rubber meets the road.’ Or... well, take your pick.

Is God a liar? Are His promises true? When the angel shouted ‘good news’ when Jesus came, was that merely figurative?

I am an actor. I’m a deep feeler. I can be moody—sometimes for seemingly no reason. In many ways, I’m more of a ‘feeler’ than most men out there.

Correction. Than most men would ADMIT they are. Most men are deep feelers—extremely passionate feelers—violent feelers even... ok—so that’s a tangent.

The point is this: I do feel and feel very deeply.

The crisis of belief comes when my feelings do not line up with my faith. What do I do then?

Who is telling me the truth? Will someone tell me the truth? Who is more reliable? Are my ups and downs to be trusted as the truth? Where is the truth in my feelings? Do I just deny what I’m feeling all the time? Do I fall headlong into my emotions and become an introspective wasteland?

Who will I give my 'yes' to? To God? To myself? To my circumstances?

Is my God a trickster telling me to do what I cannot do? Telling me to believe what I cannot believe? Who is the impossible God?

For the ferociously passionate believer, this is where ‘yes’ must triumph over ‘no.’

All the time. In every choice. Every decision.

‘Yes’ must triumph over ‘no.’

A ‘ferociously passionate believer’ is one who knows God is not a liar. Ever. And everything He says is true. I admit that I am one such believer—or hope to be becoming one such believer. I choose to believe that God is a truth teller. He tells me the truth regardless of how I may feel, or rationalize, or question that God is not true and spits half-truths at me to play around with me.

But we’ve got questions that send us into tailspin—many times we can’t pull out of it. Most of these questions stem from one thought:

My experience isn’t agreeing with my faith.

To put it another way...

What I’m feeling and what is happening right now is more powerful than the truth.

It happens. It’s happened to me. It might even today. And all that is ok... I guess. But why waste time on what is not true? Why should I meditate on lies, even if they feel true...

It’s just a detour to faith. I know people who’ve spent most of their lives living between ‘yes’ and ‘no.’

I’ve been one of them. Believing God but also trusting myself. A deadly duality.

Believing God = yes. Like Mary’s “I believe you, what you have said is true, though it seems completely ridiculous.”

Trusting myself = no. Like Zechariah’s “I’m old, this can’t happen, either I’m crazy or God is a liar. Hmmm. I’m gonna say my reasoning is better than what God has said.”

A dangerous place to live. I don’t wanna go there anymore.

Simple.

And to bring it home, let this video wash over you. I recorded it at Dollywood (I know, I know, but it's fun) and put it up on youtube. Some great performers and a great song for Christmas, and ultimately, for your life. There are two people saying a blazing YES to the Lord in this video--even against all the odds.

Yes Lord. Always yes!

Ring and things and life to come!

2007-08-28T15:53:00.000-04:00

Yes yes yes! That day has come--here are a few pics from our day at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. We headed out there (Sarah didn't know where we were going) and had a lovely day--good food, great company (heh heh), beautiful surroundings, and ending with a time ALL TO OURSELVES in the Biltmore Gardens. Very special indeed. Thank You Lord!

Hurdling

2007-07-20T21:29:00.000-04:00

Been wondering lately about jobs... am I the only one who just has such a hard time seeing the purpose in storing up all kinds of junk junk so I can get more junk junk. Meanwhile, life is passing us all by. I really have to leap over this hurdle--the job hurdle.

I just can't seem to get over this one. And, ironically, no one ever told me that the things I'd studied in college (theater/music) were most likely the things I'd have to do to make some cash.

So now I've done those things--those things I went to college for--those theater/music things. And I kinda feel like I'm done. Yes, as in the fork in me done. Done. The odd thing is, I still wanna be creative--I still wanna do new things--challenging things. On one side of the hurdle--staying there, wondering if this is what God made me for. Why do I have the abilities I have if I'm not supposed to use them... somehow.

I wonder if I can jump over, and jump back and then... jump back over again? Somehow, that doesn't really seem like that will get me further down the track--rather, it will keep me that that hurdle.

These thoughts--though entirely introspective and semi-nauseating--are good ones. It's this point of pressure that forces us along the way--so there's little danger in stagnating.

Time to jump? Or....