Part IV Brussels

midlife

First off, travel this time went well. The bus from London arrived in Bruxelles 20 minutes earlier than planned. I got into Gare du Nord and was able to buy a metro ticket with no problem: “Un voyage, s’il vous plait.” Got on the metro. Made the connection to the next line with one minute to spare. Perfect. Two stops later, I run my fingers through my hair. Something seems strange about that act, and not just the fact that I’ve been experimenting with life without shampoo. I run through what I plan to do as a street act in Brussels: Will I be able to find the necessary rope for the ropewalking bit, or will I still have to do the cups and balls, the finale of which is where I produce a coconut under my hat?

hat-on-bus

My hat? My $120 Nils Poll Manipulator, the Mercedes Benz of jugglers’ hats? The one that is made in Denmark, shipped to California, then ultimately to me in Maryland? The one that would be a cat-and-mouse game of having no fixed address to ship it to? Did I cram it into my overstuffed luggage? Ohhh, shit! If I turn around now, will I be able to get back to the bus before it heads onward to Antwerp, and ultimately Amsterdam? I already realized that Eurolines does not have  a customer service phone number, so lost and found would be a similar clusterfuck of trying to catch up with my damned wayward headwear.

Carrying 70 lbs. of bags (thank Goo for rolling luggage – major testimonial for Porter Cases) back along escalator and staircases and moving walkways and construction and on trains and off trains, I got back to my bus — still there — to a sarcastic, mocking Dutch bus driver: “What, you miss me? You want to marry me?”

There was my hat, in the 6th row, under the seat. Whew!

Met up with Christo about 25 minutes later. Beers, rum, wine and hangover ensued. One of the coolest people I know, he regaled me with his exploits, sailing across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans have made him a “minor celebrity” in his native Bulgaria. You may purchase his wonderful quirky Joyceian book  of anecdotes (that is not really about sailing) here, (http://sailingserenity.org/press2/) … his precise talent for storytelling made it no surprise that his public speaking engagements are well-attended.

The next day I finally found the type of rope I need for my finalé: 20mm 3-strand natural fiber rope (actually, I found a synthetic substitute as the real thing would have cost twice as much, or nearly 4x the price in the USA. It was at the Belgian equivalent of the rope store in London. Its name? La Corderie.

Wednesday night, I went out into town, a notoriously difficult city for performing. There were a number of musicians out, but no circle-type shows like mine. Perfect! I scoped out my space. The best place would be the Grand Place, which was described by Victor Hugo as the most beautiful place on Earth, but the police are extremely efficient at preventing such activities there. I found the spot on a side street, which I had played with some success 20 years ago, but the façade had changed, making it a strange energy for foot traffic. It now is part of a church which I had not noticed in 1991.

The next best place was on the other side of the path. I started to slowly set up, still working out a game plan. Just as I was contemplating starting, a loud karaoke machine started up through a Fender P250: Two hundred fifty watts of power, pumping out the muzak version of “What a Feeling” as a gypsy trumpeter blasted out his attempts at the worst of Western music. After about 15 minutes, I decided it was middle-of-the-road enough to blend with and I put on my music, starting to gear up for the performance. Then I was approached by the Hungarian bubble guy. He stood up the inclined street from me, with a huge loop and a vat of bubble juice. He allowed people to make giant bubbles for tips, and he was worried that his floating detritus would be in my way. It wasn’t. But the loud “Yay!” and “hoot-hoot” and clappy-clappy every time he got a 20 cent tip was kind of distracting. I went ahead anyway.

The energy of the space was difficult; people were walking quickly, trying to get somewhere, and still I managed to stop about 20 people by changing my clothes (I made a 4×6 foot bag, which I can use as a portable changing room). Once I started playing though, I realized although I have the meat of the show reasonably thought out, I hadn’t worked out just how to hold a crowd long enough to make it a big crowd.

In other words, I gained and lost a crowd. So back to the drawing board; all part of the process. So still, I’m a week in Europe now, took me this long to get to “the beginning.” And I see I have a loooong way to go. I know I have all the parts for a show, but they are scattered in my brain and bulging prop case.

There are those performers that say, “the first 20 minutes is not the show; it’s the build. The actual “show” is when I start the finale.” Of course, once I asked one of these performers, “what if you are hired to do a corporate function to do a show?  Do you just do “your show, the last 20 minutes?” “Uh, no;” he said, “Then I do the first 20 minutes…and the last 20 minutes…”

The next couple of nights were spent hanging out with Christo, swapping stories, reluctant to go out again for a repeat performance, but he also wanted to introduce me to his Italian partner in crime, Fernando, with whom he used to twist horrible balloon animals next to a huge animatronic puppet rig they had created. Laughs
were thrown around the boiled taro root and intestine-blistering piri-piri sauce at their favorite hole-in-the-wall Congolese restaurant, one of the beautiful things to come out of the brutal practices of Belgian imperialism.

Brussels busking total: €0.00. Visiting old friend: Priceless.

Rationing in the failures slowly to keep my ego from melting like so many water-drenched Margaret Hamiltons.

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London Part III

midlife
Monday, I spent running around London, in a more “salty” part of town, to locate that stupid freaking *proprietary* Sennheiser microphone cable. Then down to Covent Garden for round two. Since I’m still new to Cups and Balls, I wanted to brush up, so I went back to the flat to run through it a few times. While practicing, Dave came back with two-year-old JJ, who was fascinated by my sorcery. I was good to go!

covent-garden-hatThis time, I got into the rotation, then ran up to the rope store while Dan the magician finished up his show. The delivery had not come in. “Come back at 5:50, ten minutes before we close.” I ran back to the pitch, told the next guy to go on, and returned to the rope store at 5:55. “Nope; sorry. Sometimes the delivery guy doesn’t show, and he doesn’t pick up his mobile phone while driving.” I didn’t even bother asking, “well, if he’s not driving, he’s answering the phone, therefore not making the delivery. If he is driving, he’s not answering the phone, therefore making the delivery.” They closed at 6. *sigh*

Fortunately, now that I think about it, my Brussels host Christo runs a charter boat. I imagine he knows where to buy ropes.

I ran down to try doing a show: cups and balls. I got six teenagers to stop, another 4 people stopped, and as I tried to get a bigger crowd, they got impatient and walked away. A very fickle pitch. Very humbling. The guys on the pitch (sorry; “blokes”) made some recommendations: On a Monday at 6pm, people are more hurried; get to the substance faster… So a couple more people did shows; I tried one more time. Got a crowd of about 20. Did my cups and balls. Various things could have gone better, but I got through it. Passed my hat. For four show attempts, I only tried to collect money once. My take? £7.28. Tube fare plus an ale. Absolute crap money, but woo! If this keeps up, eventually I even might be able to pay for food!

Off to Brussels.

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London Part II

(if you want to start at the beginning of the saga, start here)

midlife

After giving my bottle of duty-free booze (a guesting gift for Christo in Brussels) to the stupid fucking Frankfurt

‘TSA agent,” he also wanted to take away my skin cream because it was “more than 100 ml.” I pointed out the 120 ml jar was only half-full, but he would not budge until I said “it is medical.” Problem solved. (I should have told him the booze was medical, too).

I arrived in London on Friday morning. The plan: stay a couple of days and then head off to Brussels, to connect with my original plan. I didn’t really want to spend time in London. Immigrations figured out I’m an entertainer (I stupidly did not lie to the man) and I had to prove I planned to spend money rather than earn it. Two debit cards and a credit card plus a pile of old travelers checks and a couple hundred US dollars paved the way for that. I should have just said the word “medical,” since it seems to be a kind of magic word with brainless automatons.

Getting acclimated in a strange land that speaks my language: a plus, especially when two props broke in transit, and I still have to find a rope for my ropewalking act.

2014-06-13 08.47.15 UK BorderI popped down to Covent Garden, a mecca for buskers in the UK. First thing I see, as I walk up the street on a beautiful Friday afternoon? A crowd circled around a man who is telling jokes. EXCELLENT! I got closer and the guy’s doing Cups and Balls. With all the same jokes that were in the book I learned from. And then the next act goes on. Cups and Balls. With the same jokes that were in the book I learned from  (they are great jokes). I talked about it and pretty much each performer would like to give it up, but it just works so well as a street act. Considering the “stock” material in my juggling act, I felt quite the kinship.

And a subtle, cute routine featuring cute pieces of plastic which I specifically do not brutalize is a tough sell to the common slackjaw.

I asked around and found there was a rope store (no, really!) just up the street. It turned out to be yes, a rope store, servicing boaters and theaters (who historically use pretty much the same equipment). The very helpful rope salesman said they didn’t have the rope I need (“funny, you’ve got a lot of ropes here.”) but could have it by Monday. So I figured I’d grab it on Monday and leave for Brussels on Tuesday.

In the meantime, I’d do the other couple of routines I’d packed: Cups and Balls or the Baby Teeterboard. No worries. But the table one of the babies sits at broke in transit. And I needed to find a coconut for the Cups and Balls. Run around, find hardware store, figure out how to repair this thing without power tools, and knowing whatever tools I buy are likely staying in Europe when I leave. Hell; I need a single sheet of paper for one of my bits and I’m having trouble locating one without buying 500 sheets! I already have no air space in my luggage. My clown nose has been complaining it’s suffocating. Good thing there’s no sound in a vacuum.

In any case, day one busking: I got myself in the rotation with the four other magicians. I got two time slots. Both times I gathered a nice crowd, and then went into the baby doll bits. And I watched my crowd ebb and ebb until they were gone. It was AWESOME! One thing I think that is key for this journey is I have given myself permission to fail, and I got to do it on my FIRST TRY!

Fear of failure has too often kept me back from taking artistic chances. It’s kept me falling back on the familiar, the tested, the true. I have not grown as much as I would like because of that impulse to be perfect every time, leading to the safe, the mediocre. I gathered a crowd with no words. I got laughs with no words. And I lost that crowd with the same number of words. As a show, it was a failure. As an exercise, it was a success! My favorite moment? After everyone left in droves, I looked up and there was one couple still standing there; the final two people watching, and the man is just looking at me, shaking his head. I smiled and gave him two thumbs up. My only regret: I didn’t have the presence of mind to offer my hat for his tip.

Second attempt went about like the first, but I tried doing it with words, even though once I get to non-English Europe, I really hope to ditch all text from the show. Side note: when packing carefully to do a busking tour of Europe? Make sure you’ve packed your microphone cable. Fortunately the very hospitable magic buskers at Covent Garden hooked me up. You blokes are the best!

The following day, I got kidnapped and transported down to the white cliffs of Dover and Canterbury Cathedral, where people go to be closer to God and/or be murdered.

It was fun; I don’t get to see them much since they moved 3 hours away from DC, near Ocean City MD. Of course, little two-year-old JJ was having a cranky day and wouldn’t stop squawking. I stopped short of recommending he go stay at Canterbury Castle, since his parents still seem to want him around.

London, Part III brings me to the final day and departure.

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Next stop, Europe!

midlifeFirst of all, what the hell do I think I’m doing?! Starting about 2 weeks before embarking on this adventure, and up to this very moment, that question echoes periodically through my head.

As I sit in a bus in a train in the Chunnel (at the bottom of the sea), I think back to my last week, peppered with travel cluster puppies, props broken in transit, and sticker shock: here are some of the highlights. Photos to follow, once the internet on the bust starts up again.

I’m glad I’m only mildly claustrophobic.

My plan, if you can call it that, is to go to Europe, write a new show, work on a novel, relive some old adventures, and break some patterns. I figure I’ll also lose a bit of weight — I tipped the scales in February at 192 lbs, and although that’s not a problem for my skinny ass, — yet —I  figure it wouldn’t hurt to keep tabs on that. Traveling like I plan to will be a lot of walking, heavy lifting, and occasionally missing meals. Like the guy in my novel. I had packed three acts I wanted to somehow fit into a show, or have them split into 2 or 3 different shows, or whatever. This exercise is about the process; the results will follow.

What kind of street act do I plan to do?

The challenge: leave my entire juggling show in the USA and work on new things.

  1. The cups and balls (a magic classic, dating back 5000 years, to Ancient Egypt, at least) which I’ve always wanted to learn.
  2. A slack rope act, for which I’d run down to Home Depot and purchase the rope to save weight allowances in my luggage
  3. My beloved acrobatic baby dolls, a cabaret act I’ve been wondering if I could get it to work on the street. After all, in a theater, the audience inside are already predisposed to like what they see: they chose to pay money up front. The street is a harsher mistress. One with PMS.

…and some assorted other even more half-baked ideas…

Getting there: US Air

First off, let’s start with the positive: My Wednesday flight from Baltimore to Philadelphia was delayed enough that I would miss my connection to Brussels. So on their dime, they put me in a taxicab and sent me up I-95. I got in no problem. Thanks, US Air! 5 stars!

I arrived with plenty of time to get through TSA (where I left my belt and clown nose in a little bin, oops) and went to the Duty Free shop (Duty Free!) to purchase a nice bottle of booze (Amarula) for my friend Christo, who would be receiving me in Brussels. Or so I thought.

After US Air’s second announcement of an hour delay, I realized I’d left my clown nose and belt at TSA. I went to the information kiosk, right next to the TSA station, which was closed. “Can you tell me how to find someone from TSA? I left something in this station.” “Nnnope.” the guy replied, “Duh, derp, dorp, guhhhh.” Thanks, Information! 1 star!

So I walked on and found a TSA agent walking along. I asked her if she could take me for an eyeball-check at the closed security station (20 yards away). She instead took me back to another, open station, offered me a phone number to call, a form to fill out, etc. etc. Another agent heard what was going on and walked me back and found my stuff strewn on the floor, under a scanner. I thanked him. I figured cops have the “good cop, bad cop” routine. TSA must have the “reasonable human TSA agent, lazy, slack jawed imbecile TSA agent” routine. Thanks TSA! 2 1/2 stars

So in hours 3 and 4 of my delay, I considered going to the bar and tanking up, or running over to get some food, but stupid me figured, “they said we should stay near the gate, in case they figure this one out…”

After hour 5, at 11:30pm, they told us our flight was canceled. Then they told us we were on our own until 4pm the next day, and they would not pay for our hotel. Then they offered us FOOD! In the form of boxes of crackers, nuts, craisins, and other “shut up food” you give to children. I presume whomever created the canceled flight policies for US Air has made an in-depth study of Stockholm syndrome. Thanks, US Air! 1 star, just for the crackers, and it’s a brown dwarf.

I rebooked my flight for London on Thursday, to visit Dave, Kristen and 2-year-old JJ.

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Holidays are nuts!

almond


It’s interesting to watch people suddenly realize the world is bigger than they had previously thought.


The holidays are upon us. I was recently at a holiday party (uninvolved with the “War on Christmas,” I call the party what the host did). At such a party, I noticed a couple of kids sitting in the sun room of my friends’ lovely house, deprived of the electronic devices that distract them so effectively from reality. In other words, in keeping with time-honored tradition, they were bored out of their skulls. The only amusement in the room appeared to be a bowl of mixed nuts, still in the shells.


I remember these types of parties when I was that age. The grown ups may have occasionally addressed us, asking us boring questions about school or hobbies (not the cool stuff like TV or superheroes), but mostly, they wanted to go drink and laugh loudly, talking about stupid grown up stuff like jobs and history and sports and stuff. Our job as kids was to stay out of trouble, don’t fight too much, and eventually we would find ourselves sitting at the kitchen table, in front of a bowl of mixed nuts. We’d crack ‘em and eat ‘em. It was a great activity since the payoff was greater than say, a sunflower seed (way too labor intensive for the amount of food inside) or peanuts (too quick to shell, therefore too quick to fill up on) but the shells created an activity to keep us occupied: cracking the nut, picking the bits out of shell; spitting out the bits of shell accidentally eaten, sifting through the debris for little tidbits, sweeping the pile aside, repeat process. Pre-shelled nuts are too easy to eat mindlessly and move on. This was a keep-kids-out-of-trouble activity.


I recall every year for a few years, at some point, some grownup, Aunt Irene or Aunt Evelyn would pass by the table, see me and my siblings poking through the nut bowl and they would ask, “Do you know your nuts?” “No,” we would say, and they would lay out the five or six different varieties and tell us the names of each one. This is how I learned how to recognize my nuts.


(Pause for peanut gallery remark to run through your head.)


(Pause to realize a peanut has nothing to do with this story, as it is not a nut. It’s a legume.)


(Ready? OK, allow me to resume with my wholesome Christmas memory.)


I hadn’t thought of this in 30 years or so, when I walk through the sun room, a 13-year old holds up a walnut and says, “what kind of nut is this?” “That’s a walnut –” I say, then ask, “Do you know your nuts?”


“No.”


So I sat down gave them the tutorial. It was weird; like suddenly I was seen as a grown-up. It was spooky, passing on arcane knowledge that I just take for granted. We covered walnuts and Brazil nuts and pecans and (she knew the hazelnut) and … I held up an almond. “That’s an almond?!” she exclaimed, “Shut up!” (which, though it sounds rude, is merely Teenagerese for “I find what you just said to be somewhat remarkable, and therefore am uncertain of its veracity.” Quite erudite, these teenagers.)


She grabbed one and a nutcracker, hastily cracked it open and said — music to my ears moment — “ooooOOOOOoooohhhh!”


It may not be much, but the opening of her eyes on this one account … who knows; maybe this will get her interested in Botany. Or baking. Or the physics of nutcrackers. Or nutrition. Or maybe she’ll forget it all as soon as she gets plugged back into her computer. Which is kind of how I reacted, 30-something years ago. Now I am older and I know my nuts. What good is it to have that knowledge in my head? Will it get me a better job? No. Will it allow me to live till I’m 150? No. But, at least for one brief moment, it got a 13-year-old girl to tell me to shut up.

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Deadlines are deadlines.

Sticking with my schedule, here I am at the tail end of Wednesday. No real time to write, as I spent the day watching a good friend’s solo clown show at the Shakespeare Theatre’s Harman Hall, then planning the 2014 season for our theater show, delivered another speech at Toastmasters (about procrastination — I am fast becoming a world authority on the subject), and various housework projects I’ve been putting off.

My new book, “The Procrastinator’s Guidebook” will be written and available for purchase. Eventually.

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Step one: find box of to-do lists

to_do_box

Yes. Literally. I throw nothing out. Ever. I have gone to great lengths to stop accumulating things I don’t need. I discourage birthday and Christmas gifts. I live in a small house and constantly am redefining the razor’s width line between pack-rat and hoarder. Fortunately my wife hasn’t yet put arsenic in my toothpaste (one of my half-used tubes).


Speaking of redefining, I consider disorganization to be one of my super powers. Not that it provides any benefit toward vanquishing evil or promoting survival of mankind; I’d just rather think there is a positive spin to it. Every now and then, I get the termite in my sphincter to “reorganize,” which usually ends up with a quarter of my office temporarily habitable by more than just one adventurous, clumsy cat. Those are times my productivity increases. Those times don’t last long: another project comes in and disturbs the delicate ecosystem of my piles of papers, books, DVDs, art projects, clown props, costume pieces, shoes and shoes and hats and shoes, and the materials to make more.


About six months ago, I delved into the pile to organize, and I started to find various “to do” lists from various points of history. Not everything on them gets done, though without a list, far less normally gets done. I threw them into a box. Additionally, I’ve kept notes over the last 25 years. Notebooks, sketchbooks, scraps of paper, bar napkins, etc. full of funny observations, doodles, cartoons ideas, art project notes, etc. Then there are the computer files with the beginnings of novels, standup routines, theatrical ideas, short stories, jokes, and “wouldn’t it be cool if’s.”


About two months ago, I realized I had about a half dozen projects in my head, with subprojects, to keep straight, so (lo and behold), I went into MS Word and made a list. I realized I’m about halfway through my life and I have a lot of lists of things I haven’t done. So I gave the file a name: “Master List.” And I made the first item, “Find box of lists.”


I realize, as a scatterbrain (some would call that ADD), I don’t multitask well (though I can juggle fire on a 6-foot unicycle while telling jokes and dodging the occasional crazy drunk homeless person). What I do well is, once an activity/project has taken my my interest, I can go without food, sleep or human interaction for long periods of time. ADD specialists call that “hyper-focus,” whereas I call that “productivity.” So my hope, my aim, my overall project, is to get that master list made. Then I plan to prioritize (triage) into three categories: a) imperative; b) want to do; c) I can die happy without it.


How do you prioritize the stuff you want to do before you die?

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It’s Technically Tuesday


cutting_a_treeContinuing my struggle to do a “new post every Tuesday,” I realize my idea of Tuesday may be different from the rest of the world. As a night owl, generally I am the most productive after the world sets its sights on sleep. That is, if I’m being productive. I define Tuesday (or any day) as from the time I wake up to the time I go to bed. So I may go to bed 3am on Wednesday morning; that still counts as my Tuesday.


Today, I walked through the woods and encountered the tree that fell across the path a couple of months ago. Then, I had started to cut through it with my Leatherman’s saw, but it was slow going so I figured I’d come back to it and do a bit more. I don’t travel that route with the dog much, but today, I passed by it and took out a few minutes again. And next time I come by, if I have my knife, I will again. Maybe Nature will help me out with some termites. Until it’s done. And this is how I hope to write my novel.


I realize I have a novel to write and I’m not moving forward on it, and I have a blog which needs content, I have decided to “pet two kittens with the same hand” (my vegetarian peacenik wife doesn’t like that expression about the birds and the stone) and thusly move forth and do a twenty-minute writing exercise here. It may or may not end up in the book.


I realized, and I’m certain the science will back me up on this one: If you don’t work on a project,  it won’t get finished. So, here is 20 minutes of blathering. I hope something emerges. The story is of a late Medieval traveling performer, who is recovering from a “clothing mishap.”



The glow of the candles in front of the tavern beckoned Bimo up the path. The twilight added weight to his eyelids and feet.  Thusly, he dragged his rope and his rumbling stomach that much further from Framstadt. With his purse empty, he had no idea how to pay for a meal and a bed, but this was the place to find them.


The music and laughter warmed his soul. Two figures sat at a table outside the door, drinking and arguing. One silhouetted hand tossed a small crust of bread to the ground. Bimo rushed as quietly as he could to pick it up. Reaching under the table, he found a handful of dirt. He pawed around and found it, surrounded by fur and a cold, wet snout. The dog’s low growl put a chill down his spine. He drew his hand away, now wide awake. And dressed in a fern.


“Oy, Dungle!” said a low voice, “a little wood fairy wants to be stealin’ food from yer dog!” 


A mountain of muscles, leather and dirt (but few teeth) stretched skyward, and the table was thrust aside by an immense tree-trunk thigh. “What for ye takin’ ma dog’s food?” boomed his  greasy, crumbed, hairy orifice. He lunged  down toward Bimo’s neck, who rolled backward into a handstand. Dungle stopped in his tracks.


“Please don’t hurt me,” Bimo said. “I’m just a hungry traveler…” 


“Well, eat my liver!” said Dungle, “He really is a wood spirit! The gods must’ve built ‘im upside down!”


Bimo stood, motionless, on his hands. “Uh, yes. Yes!” Bimo thought quickly, “I am a wood spirit! And I require crusts of bread! Bring them to me!” 


“Right away, wood spirit!” Dungle and his friend rushed toward the door. 


“And sausages!” Bimo added.


They went in. Bimo came down from his handstand. He cautiously put his ear to the door as he rubbed his shoulders. He could hold a handstand for just over five minutes on a good day, and today, he was tired. Inside, he heard laughter. The music stopped suddenly. The sound of fist on flesh and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Footsteps. Many footsteps. Bimo rushed back to his handstand.


The door opened and a crowd of people rushed out.


“Here ‘e is,” boomed Dungle, “like I told ye — the upside-down wood spirit!” Out rushed the tavern keeper, the musicians, three whores, townspeople and a few traveling merchants, all eager to see the wood spirit. A hushed circle formed around Bimo, whose fingers strained to keep himself erect. 


“Er, hello.” he said.


“He talked!”



And that was 20 minutes. Plus some extra time for research, a stop or two by Thesaurus.com, dreaming, and editing-as-I-go. Not much, but the wheels have moved, just slightly out of the mud.


What are you trying to get done that is a daunting task? You think you can sit down now and put in 20 minutes, to the exclusion of other distractions? Or ten? Or five? One step forward is one step further. No steps is no steps. A writing rate of 20 minutes a week may take 10 years to get the book written, but it’s a start. And maybe Nature will step in and help me along with random firings of the brain.

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New post every Tuesday, part 2

OK, nobody’s perfect.

I stated what I’d be doing (a new post every Tuesday), and I stumbled out of the gate.

I bet nobody else in the world has ever done that. So here I am, 28 hours late in the wee hours of Thursday morning, for my first deadline. I’ll try again next week. Until then, I leave you with this:

Procrastination is a dish best served cold. Because you didn’t get around to paying your utility bill.

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New Post Every Tuesday

Hello blogosphere.

I have nothing to say, just got back from the beach and am rejuvenated as I hit the ground running.


I just discovered this guy’s blog, “Wait but why” through his post on procrastination. And its sequel. It’s awesome. He is also awestruck by stars, but that’s another topic. Squirrel!

It’s weird; when I saw the two rather long posts on procrastination, I wanted to drop everything I was doing and read the entire thing. OK; maybe not so weird. Actually, tragically normal. One strategy he proposed was making little victories in the battle against self-defeatism through attention-deflection. Not grand plans; just little victories that become habits. One way to do this is what I’ve told other people for years: creating deadlines for one’s self is a great way to have that panic which creates productivity. He said, If you’re trying to write a consistent blog, put “new post every Tuesday” at the top of the page… Hence the title of this blog post.

deadlineIt reminds me of this beloved cartoon I clipped from … I think The New Yorker about 10 years ago and stuck it to my wall.

In addition to the “New post every Tuesday” however, (I paraphrase so it sinks into my brain in my words) “people who plan to write a book don’t. People who write just a page a day, after a year, have a book.” It’s funny because the day before I read that, I met my dog-walking friend John who thanked me for advice I’d given him a year ago. He was having trouble getting his second novel written and I told him, “write just 10 minutes a day.” After a year, he’s way into his second book and all I have to show for it is being able to say, “good for you.” It seems I give great advice, but don’t take it unless it comes from someone else.

So, this time, two someone elses have given me similar advice. I have a novel to write. I have a show to write. I have clients to call. I have paintings to finish. I have a couple of to-do lists to get to. I doubt I’ll get it all done in this lifetime, so I’d better go find a religion that guarantees I’ll have another lifetime or two. I’ll get right on that.

So, looking at the top of this blog, you will see a new blurb: “Updated Every Tuesday.” That is, if I can figure out how to change my WordPress settings before I see another shiny, pretty thing. Stay tuned.

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