Lucy, I'm home!

I discovered YouTube. I watched stuff. And more stuff. And more stuff. I glutted on stuff. Wow. Sam? I'm disappointed you didn't tell me. Is there anything else out there I should know about?

Julie, my often writing partner, showed me a book about tiny houses on wheels, so for the past while I’ve been mentally touring Europe, stealing chickens from rich people, and watching sad-eyed women dancing around the evening camp fire. Sometimes I think I was born about 400 years too late.

I discovered comments from you were no longer coming to my email, but were now being stored in an inane section of my blog called “comments.” I published everything I read, and sent Blogger a few comments of my own in the best tradition of Mel Gibson. (Speaking of which, Kari, you are absolutely correct. I wasn’t trying to excuse anything, just pointing out that we love to rush to judgment. Malmesbury, you constantly enrich my blog with your visits. I’m humbled by your astute observations.)

And I’ve been busy with what is supposedly my vocation/avocation (depending on who’s paying at the moment.)

My play on commission is finished. I hate parts of it with a genuine purple passion, but in re-write I’ll improve the work and annoy actors at the same time. It’s a win-win situation.

The other play I’m writing is going much slower. This is a work of love, so I’m purposely caressing it, sometimes with one single word nestled carefully behind another.

For those who tuned in late, I’ve been hired to direct a production of RICHARD III for a local theatre in November. Rehearsals will start in a few weeks, and already a number of performers have started breathing heavy. (It’s going to be a truly scary play – several of the characters carry real daggers. Hopefully they will only stab each other or themselves, and not anyone who paid to see the show.)

This same theatre has now asked me to direct two other plays. The first is called ZACK, scheduled for production in May of 2011, and – to my surprise – one of my own plays, to follow in August of 2011. Okay …
And that’s about all for now. I feel greatly unburdened. Thank you so very much for hanging in there with me.


j

In Case You Were Curious ...

... this is what the front of my house looks like when eight MORE inches of snow are suddenly dumped in the front yard.

At lease my dog likes it. See him jumping up and down in the front yard? No?

"Willie! Jump up and down so people can see you!"

"Woof! Woof woof yap yap !" ("I'm a dog. I have pride. I do not jump up and down like a ... never mind.")

"Like a what?"

"Bark snarf." ("Like a rabbit. No offense.")

"You aren't having fun playing in the snow?"

"Brk? Sniff sniff grrrrrrr." ("When I was curled up asleep on my rug in front of the heating vent, did I LOOK like I wanted my fuzzy self thrown out into a snow bank?!")

jb

Yes, Julie

I could be quite happy here.

j

New Year

New Year’s Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual. – Mark Twain


It’s New Year’s eve. I’m home, and not going anywhere. It’s not that I’m anti party – far from it. Ask me next week and I’ll be there. Just not tonight. A dozen years ago tonight a friend was killed in a head-on collision. That was enough for me.

So I’m here instead of there.

I spent most of today thinking about this past year. Thumbing through old theatre programs and notes, I submitted a “year-in-review” article to a theatre website, and in the process I’ve revisited more than just shows.

This past year I was often angry. I can see elements of this in my writing. I have no idea where it’s leading. But I’m aware …

There were times when I reacted but should have been quiet. There were times when I was silent and should have reacted. This year I’ll try to have less fear and more resolve.

I need to tell my friends more that I love them. They know, but I need to say it more often.

There are those with whom I have no future. I need to let go.

I’d love to win the Pulitzer prize for literature. This would be a good year.

I need to finish the projects I start – at least more of them.

And that reminds me. I think I’d like to do something new this year. Maybe I’ll run for governor of Alaska. I meet the qualifications. I’m breathing.

Or I could just run away with gypsies. That’s been on my short list for years.


jb

The library

I'm fortunate - my house is large enough to have a library room. For the past year it's been used as junk storage ... to the point where I couldn't get in the door.

So I cleaned and put away ... and pitched.

Come on in, have a look ...

Here's the stairway going up.

I have lots of plays. Lots and lots.

And props. My whole house is filled with props.

And Art. I love this piece. Love it!

so ... that's part of the one wall I can now reach comfortably. More later.

jb

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

The time is now 10:28 PM. I like to make note of these things. Sometimes I look at the official timestamp generated at the end of each post, and it says 5:13 AM, and I wonder if my collection of thoughts somehow transmitted to Mongolia on the way to being posted.

It’s been a long two days.

For the first time since July I’m not directing any plays, coaching any actors, holding or attending meetings, or writing furiously to beat real or self-imposed deadlines. Yesterday morning I spent almost half an hour just staring out my back door, zombie-like, willing myself to recognize the colorings of leaves covering my yard. When I turned back into my kitchen, the dog was asleep in a heated pool of sunlight. In closing the door, he muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t quite catch the inflection. Probably just as well.

I spent part of yesterday going through a collection of emails that had been ignored or set aside for far too long. Nothing earth shattering – those I had answered as they came in. Rather, here were requests of one kind or another – usually for information. And there were those friends who simply wanted to talk. I answered every one of these, often with sheepish apologies for not responding sooner. My friends understand.

One of the emails was from a close friend who has invited me and my wife to spend Thanksgiving with her and her family. Since I have no family who loves me within several states from here, I happily said yes. My friend’s daughter told me I have been adopted into the family. This brought me to tears. I miss large family holidays.

I have a project going. I tore out the carpet leading to my second floor, and am slowly refinishing the hardwood stairs. Right now I’m striping off old paint and varnish. The wood underneath – in a 60-year-old home, will be beautiful. When I finish. Some day. In the meantime, the dog is perfectly happy scampering UP the stairs, but, with no carpet to dig into, he’s afraid to come down. So he moans. (Did you know a dog could moan?) About fifty times a day he waits pathetically for somebody to lug his fuzzy … self … down to the living room. Man’s best friend? HA!

For most of today I read plays. I’m on the play reading committee for a local theatre, and – since I’m w-a-y behind in this commitment, today I played catch up. Here’s a couple of theatre facts for you; some theatres specialize in plays that are over a hundred years old. (Don’t ask me why.) Second fact – most of these plays are absolutely unknown today. Third fact – the reason they’re unknown is because they are bad. Bad! Bad bad bad! I suppose (I know) that there were good things written after Willie Shakespeare and before G.B. Shaw. Must be. Just my luck to be part of a theatre group that is trying to prove otherwise.

Tomorrow starts the third weekend of INHERIT THE WIND. As the director, I tell myself I’m there to make sure the show is consistent in presentation from one performance to another. In truth, that’s one of the tasks the stage Manager handles. Largely my job is to appear sage at the cast party. As do the others, I’ve learned to play my part well.

jb

Searching For The Words

There are arrangements of words on paper which evoke responses from a pliant reader; “I’ve seen what has been seen, done what has been done, dreamed what has been dreamed. With slowing or race of heart I recognize – usually only when I have no precedent for what I’m reading – that I’m vicariously experiencing someone else’s perceptions.”

With that premise in mind, I offer the thought that every good writing begins with a descent into madness; depth is never the result of a casual glance, but rather an unblinking stare, no matter how blinding that stare might become.

And behind the initial impression is always the question – “How do I feel about this?
How do I feel, how do I feel, how do I feel?”

And there’s the problem. Sometimes I get tired of “feeling.”

On the one hand, discovery is a wonderful thing. What does this mean? What is the subtext? Where would this or that naturally lead? To suggest answers, a writer will often step outside him or herself – an observer, rather than a participant, in humanity. Like an
intruding spirit, silently watching. To interject – anything – would alter direction of the story. And the writer, without substance here, would never do this.

On the other hand, there’s the gypsy thing. For months, late at night, I’d hear what sounded like sleigh bells. No kidding. I’d dream about being in a gypsy caravan, going I don’t care where. A friend suggested that I wanted to travel or perhaps move. Could be. This sounded like a real possibility. Strangely, after I started directing the play HARVEY in July, the dreams stopped. I hadn’t thought about that until right now.

During the time I’ve been in rehearsal for one play and then another, even a pretense of observation became impractical. (Other than drinking heavily, nothing isolates you from the attentions of actors.)

Life moves from passive to active. And this is a good thing. Isn’t it? Problems are addressed, insecurities seem somewhat farther away … life is skittles and beer (Don’t ask me. I heard it somewhere.)

But then, with the veneer of humanity imposed, something happens to sensitivity, ya know? No matter how hard you try, the will … hardens, and …

The process starts all over again.

Unless …

Do you know something I don’t?

jb

THE TEAPOT COLLECTOR

Okay, so I've been telling you for awhile now that I've been heavy breathing over the completion of this play, right?

Yeah, I did. I remember me doing it.

What I may not have mentioned to you is that I entered the first 15 pages of the play in The Writers Digest national play writing competition. (I know I didn't mention to them that I'd only completed 20 pages at the time.)

So ... anyway ... yesterday I received a letter from them, informing me that my play had received an "Honorable Mention."

(Profound relief here. They didn't actually want to read the completed work.)

And, in case I should consider "Honorable Mention" as less that a memorable consolation, the editor of Writers Digest further defined my play as judged to be in the top 100 of the 13,581 plays that had been entered in the competition.

So ... don't get me wrong. I'm honored by their recognition. (I'd rather have won, but I'm still honored.)

And I can't help but wonder if there was any prize given to the poor soul who had to actually read 13,581 plays ...


jb


And how was your day?

A puzzle laid out

I’ve learned that evenings are a good time for writing. I don’t know, maybe the darkness brings out the more mellow tendencies of my nature – if I can’t see the raw world, it’s not there. Is it that way with you?

Today was not a good day. It wasn’t a bad day, in that nothing occurred that would have triggered genuine loss. But it wasn’t a good day.

There are days when I can avoid being influenced by those individuals who are profoundly shallow and self-serving. There are days when I can actually avoid thinking about beloved projects I know I’ll never finish. There are days when the mere act of breathing doesn’t involve rasping dull pain.

Obviously, today wasn’t one of those days.

Two unrelated events occurred today which guided me unknowingly into this present reverie. Then again, perhaps, like Greek tragedy, nothing is perchance, nothing is unrelated.

I got an email today from Lenore P., casual, an everyday event – “let’s get together for lunch soon.”

Let’s get together for lunch. We WERE at lunch, my dear! Don’t you remember?! You were wearing that purple thing, sitting across from me in the little Armenian Restaurant downstairs from my apartment. Don’t you remember? If you’ll give me a moment, I can tell you what we had to eat. Greek salad for me, and a cold pasts dish for you. And we were in school together. College. It was May, I’m pretty sure. And warm. In 1959 the month of May was warm in Bloomington Indiana.

The second event was a comment aimed at my friend Julie’s latest blog. The post was on fear as a part of life, and the comment was, “The purpose of life, after all, is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly for newer and richer experience.”

I think all my realizations today have intelligent design behind them. A puzzle is laid out before me, if I have wit to see it .

Good thing I like puzzles.
jb

Out There

This morning I dipped my hand in the restless waters of Lake Erie. Like an old friend the waves eagerly rushed to caress my outstretched fingertips.

I was back.

Many things were exactly as I had held them in fond memory – the promise of shore buried in the rubble of unimagined boulders – remnants of a long abandoned amusement park – now jealous guardians of the surf-gouged shoreline.

Looking past the beach it was easy to see where glaciers had advanced, irresistible mountains of another age. Forward they had arrogantly marched, forward, only to be halted by capricious nature, within inches of where I was standing. Now only their shadows and the myriad creatures they once held dear remain, the only notation they had ever existed at all.

It was important for me to be here. The play I’m writing deals – in part – with the blessed/cursed wanderlust that surfaces within me from time to time, fevering my imagination. Only yesterday I wrote:

“I am a presence in an imagined gypsy caravan. Like fog, we float silently through the forest gloom. Away, away, dreaming past massively aged trees – witnesses to my good and bad intentions. With each mile – each yard, each step – more of the myself I know is left behind. New valleys beckon. I am slowly rushing to quiet.”

For a long moment I'm vaguely aware that I'm holding my breath, distracted, almost crying, absorbing as much as I can. Who knows when I’ll stand here again? The illusion of fleeting peace passes over me. I tell myself that I’m being “one with nature,” and do my best to embrace all the other contrived nonsense that defines my generation.

The simple truth, and I know it, is that I’ve taken a step in a direction.

jb

The Life That Late I Led.

I’m still here. Not much voice, but I’m still here.

It’s been an interesting few weeks. Fortunately I’ve had Wednesday and Thursday off, as well as the week-end. (Good thing. Thanks to the dog I must now rip up what remains of the carpet on the stairs and upper hall.) I planned on refinishing the wood floors in about a year from now … The dog decided that now would be more appropriate.

(Have you ever heard of a dog that EATS carpet? I mean, for real?)

The play INHERIT THE WIND is moving along. (Okay, so that’s not the smoothest transition in the world.) I presently have 31 people in the cast. When you consider that the stage of this theatre is 26 feet wide, it makes for creative directing. (Contrast that with the show I just closed, HARVEY, with 11 in the cast on a stage 38 feet wide.) For the past couple of weeks we’ve been thrashing around in a rehearsal hall. Tuesday we move onto the actual theatre stage, and I’ll give you the blow-by-blow as it occurs.

Tomorrow (actually later today) I’m going to Cleveland Ohio for a three day writer’s retreat. This is a good thing. Directing plays written by other people is fun (and pays well), but during these periods I write very little, if anything. I was reading The Inflammatory Writ the other day, and commented to the author that her subject matter would make a good play, with the implication that she should write it. She simply replied that everything is a play. That hit me, because she is so right. It also occurred to me that if I truly felt the material was worth developing, why was I asking someone else to do it? I need to get back to writing.

In mid October I’m conducting an acting seminar to benefit a struggling theatre in a city about thirty miles east of here. It’s a petite facility. Although they stage wonderful productions, they seat at most 30 people. Consequently, they are always hungry (And – let’s face it. They are interested in producing one of my plays, and if a seminar will encourage them in the right direction, well …) I received a copy of their ad for the seminar, and was jolted. They are charging 40 dollars a head for people to hear me speak for three hours. Uh … I, uh, certainly don’t expect to see many from the crowd I run around with …

And then there’s that. I miss the people I follow and those who follow me. They haven’t left – I’m the one who pulled away, to swat for a period at theatrical windmills. Suddenly I feel the loss. I do miss you, and I will be back …until the next flight of fancy takes me in another capricious direction.

But you know that, don’t you?

Okay, I wasn't gonna do this, but you forced me. The first twenty of my friends who respond will receive, at no additional cost, one slightly chewed square of carpet ...

jb

.....

Oh-h-h-h ...

I am sick. So-o-o-o sick. I have a sore throat to the point where I can't talk.

(Although I've discovered that if you consume an entire box of throat lozenges at one time, not only can you babble incoherently with no effort, but you can also fly for short distances.)

Problem is, I'm directing a show, right? I'm being PAID to direct a show. And I've learned that directing and conducting are not the same thing at all.

Directing is when you instruct people to move here or there, by example and by verbal instruction.

Conducting, I've discovered, is when you wave at an actor on stage, resulting in one of two reactions.

(1) The actor gets the standard "deer in the headlights" look, points to him or herself, and mouths the words "Who? Me?"

(2) The actor drops out of character, smiles because you've singled him or her out ... and waves back.

Ya see why I like writing plays better than directing 'em? I only fight with myself!

(But that's another story altogether.)


jb

And how was your day?

Intermission.

It’s Tuesday, a few minutes before eleven. The night is quiet. Once in awhile I can hear a car go by on the main road, a block from my front door. I’m looking forward to writing for the next four hours or so …

HARVEY opened this past weekend. Smallish audiences. I expected nothing more. Note to potential theatrical producers – don’t open a play on Labor Day weekend and expect large crowds. Next week they will come …

Held one private audition yesterday for INHERIT THE WIND. Officially, auditions for this play aren’t scheduled until next weekend, but a possible lead player will be out of time then, so …

I miss my writer friends. I do. Directing HARVEY and INHERIT THE WIND is grand fun, but it’s not the same as creating a work, and sharing that creation with others, and hearing – for the very first time – the works other people have created.

I really enjoy the company of writers. There’s a mixture of arrogance and vulnerability. They long to be accepted, and at the same time rush to solitude. They don’t see the world the way others do. I love science fiction/fantasy writers, because they believe there WILL BE a future.

Odd. For the past few days I’ve been writing like crazy. Odd how, when I am overly busy, overly tired … that’s when the time I do have is precious …

I met an interesting man about a month ago. From the way he stood and moved, I could tell he was military – and he was, having retired from the Navy after thirty years. His final tour of duty was aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise … (Did you know a ship can have more than one Captain? I didn’t know that.) Since first meeting him, he has told me about at least a dozen adventures, each more fascinating than the one before.

“Why don’t you write these down,” I ask, with all the sincerity that’s in me.

Almost shyly he looks at me. “I couldn’t do that,” he replies. “I’m not a writer, I’m just a story teller.”

Uh-huh …

The first of October four other writers and I are renting a house on Lake Erie for a few days and just write – no television, no internet, just writing. And eating. And walking on the beach. Heaven. Heaven heaven heaven heaven heaven! (One of our writers is a potential chef who wants to write cookbooks. Now I ask you – can it get any better than that?)

The weekend after the retreat I’m conducting an acting seminar at a local theatre. The group in charge of the event is charging $40.00 a head for people to listen to me talk for three hours. (Are you kidding me?!) One of my HARVEY cast looked sadly at me and asked if I was including a dog and pony show.

Could be …


jb

Gypsy life

HARVEY opens Friday.

After being in rehearsal since late July, the opening night for this play is now just a few days away.

I suppose I should be glad. I mean, in the past – by this point – I would be more than ready to move on. As a director I would have by now proven my point (to myself), and, like many of the cast, I would already be anticipating my next project.

Still …

I’m working with an awesome group of performers. As an ensemble, they are a finely tuned instrument, and with every rehearsal we uncover and explore more shadings, more nuances.

Selfishly, it’s gonna be hard to give that up.

Still …

I’m directing INHERIT THE WIND next. Auditions are in two weeks. Already people have started calling, requesting information that, surprisingly, I’m reluctant to give. INHERIT THE WIND is a large cast show. I’m grateful for interest. I know I’m gonna need people willing to throw themselves into the work. I know this.

I’m also aware that HARVEY cast members have other work waiting for them. Two in our show already have been cast in other plays. They start into rehearsal right after our show opens. Several are planning to audition for INHERIT THE WIND. One cast member is starting his own drama school. Two others have film roles in their futures. All this I expected. These people are the best of the best. They are in demand. It’s unusual (and a draw) that they all happen to be together in any show.

This is good stuff. Good stuff! But it all reminds me that true theatre moments and performances are fleeting, illusionary. That is not only their very nature, but also their appeal.

Slowly I become aware of purpose. If we have presented the work properly, then you, our audience, our equal partner, will recognize these as moments as they are presented to you, and hold them close in memory for the rest of your life. Not too much to ask. We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

We freely admit that we are gypsies, melancholy and fatalistic. Ourselves are the only gift we have to give. Ah, but when the gift is accepted, the awareness and experience shared …

in those rare moments …

we are justified.


jb


And how was your day?

I'm free! (Well, maybe not free exactly. Cheap. Yeah, maybe that's a better word. I'm cheap!)

Whew.

I have a couple of days off.

I may take the afternoons and go to the theatre and work. The set construction is not progressing fast enough for me, and sometimes you can accomplish a lot when there are no distractions.



Or …

I may not do that at all.

I may take a day to mow the lawn and trim around flower beds and trees and other stuff that will not, with a sense of self preservation, jump out of my way.

Or I may take a day or two and sort (read mostly throw away) the dozen or so large cardboard boxes someone mysteriously placed in my den, effectively blocking the storage units this stuff is supposed to be in.

I could do that. I could. I really could.

But I won’t. I mean, just look at this stuff. Is this how you want to spend your free time? It’s depressing.

(You’re starting to detect a pattern here, aren’t you?)

I could work on the play I entered in a competition. I should do that – finish it. It would serve me right if somebody actually wanted to read it. Oh. I forgot. The manager of a local theatre DOES want to read it. Pressure. Hey! It’s my day off! Don’t give me pressure on my day off! (Besides. The dog won’t let me.)

There’s a charming restaurant on the Ohio river that serves the best pasta in the world. I’ve been thinking about that lately. Across the street is a paddle wheel boat with a tiny bar on the top deck. After a good meal you can sit comfortable in top deck lounge chairs and watch large ships waft up and down the river.

Only … both places require shoes. Not on my day off, Skippy!

Or … I suppose I could just post something. Yeah, that would be nice. I could write a paragraph or two. I've done it before. I can do it again.

Or not.

Ya see, the real problem here is

The Movie Bug

So ... I'm sitting there, innocently typing away on The Teapot Collector, with the (now fading) hope of getting the thing finished before somebody asks to read it.

And the phone rings ... (I don't like telephones. I have never liked telephones. If I wanna talk to you, I'd much rather drive over to your home ... or email. Yeah, I like email. Or posting on this blog. I actually feel pretty close to you on this blog. Is that strange? I dunno. But I feel comfortable by communicating this way, and you certainly don't appear shy in answering ...)

So the phone rings. It's Julie, my writing partner. Don't get me wrong,I enjoy writing on my own, but I also like working out stuff with people. In addition to everything else, I'm presently writing a play with Q - one line at a time! (Excuse me, it's a collaboration. Politically correct, that's me ... not.)


So Julie calls, and she says she has just accepted a challange from something called Script Frenzy. The idea is to complete (I assume) a 100 page script during the month of April. She intended to write a movie script, and graciously invited me to co-author, if that was something I'd like to do ...

And it was something I'd like to do. I've read a number of movie scripts, in fact edited a couple, but I've never actually written one.

I should, I suppose, point out a difference between Julie and myself. She enjoys challanges. We have just finished writing a play together - a pretty good one. This was something she had never done before. She also just finished a gruling competition where she was enjoined to post something every day for a year. So she enjoys a good challange. Me? I enjoy a good meal, followed by a good wine, followed by a good nap.

So we are writing a movie - a science fiction epic about time travel. If you would care to follow our progress, visit http://www.scriptfrenzy.org/eng/user/161690

And finally, I must confess that with my limited experience in movie writing, it seems to me we have enough material for several movies, a thick novel or two, certainly a computer game, and eventually toys that come with your double cheeseburgers.

I dunno. I'll think about it later - right after my nap.

jb

And how was your day?

For Everything There Is A Season ...

Identity.

There are people who love me. I never asked to be loved, although in truth I believe all people need at least one person to teach by example what we consider the best attributes of humanity.

There are people who think they hate me, not many, but a couple. In truth I think these people live in fear, and hate seems to momentarily quench a never ending thirst to be loved.

Ironic, isn't it?

Who am I?

This seems to be the age old question. Who am I? I learned long ago not to take my identity from what I do. If you asked me, I'd say I was a playwright, because I know that's how I'm most easily identified. But this is what I do, not who I am.

I'm directing two plays this year. I start with "Harvey" in June at a theatre about twenty miles from my front door. I'm following this by directing "Inherit The Wind" in September at a theatre about twenty miles in another direction. If this makes me anything at all, it would be temporarily insane.

I teach acting classes and have just started leading a quite active creative writers group.

And the list goes on and on. Honestly, I've done everything in life I've wanted to do, gone in every direction that appealed to me.

But none of this is me. I've learned that I'm one of those people who actually enjoys mowing the lawn, I enjoy being there when a friend wants or needs to share a thought. Genuine creativity makes me cry for happy, "adult" material of just about any kind bores me. I'm a product of my own morality and generation.

More and more I think that who I am depends on what is in front of me at any given moment. There are few constants . I take what I do seriously, but I never take myself seriously.

Maybe there's one constant.

I'm a child of God - not because I say so, but because He says so.

Yeah, I can live with that.


JB

Flint

I've shared this story with other friends.

Every once in awhile I hunt for arrowheads. A buddy who is very good at it will call me, and off we go to spend an afternoon stomping around in an empty field somewhere in northern Ohio.

Now my friend is very good at this arrowhead business. He would tell me about the glaciers that once covered North America. I can almost picture them. I've seen the dramatic gouges in the ground that created Lake Erie. (They are stll there, in case you are wondering just how old I am.)

My friend would tell me that 2,500 years ago most of Ohio consisted of forests and ponds. Arrowheads, he would tell me, are almost always found near the top of any given hill. At the time, these places would have been beaches. Being a romantic by nature, it's easy to see the former waterline in the ring of hills south of where I live. It's easy, once you know what you're looking for. Further, if you are a fan of the garden of Eden, it's no great stretch to picture it in ancient Ohio.

Okay, so maybe could be this is what the natives looked like. I've been told that they would gather in mid northern Ohio and make arrowheads by the thousands, and trade them for furs with other Indians coming down from Canada.

Sounds reasonable.

Who knows? I am one quarter Ohio Indian. This could have been my great-great-great-great .... Well, you get the idea. On the other hand I am three quarters German. This draw in my heritage insists on a warm bed, walls, a roof, and indoor plumbing (and has the urge to invade Poland on occasion, but that's another story.) What I'm trying to tell you is that an outdoor adventure for me is usually no farther than from here to the porch swing and back again.

And ...

In the maybe eleven or twelve years I've been doing this, I have yet to find an arrowhead. Not one. My friend finds 'em. Of course. I never find any. I've found horseshoes and an old medicine bottle once, but no arrowheads. (My friend even offered to give me one of his. I didn't take it. The rule is that ya gotta find 'em yourself.)

But I've found lots and lots of flint. It may not be an arrowhead, but it works for me. It's been chipped while chipping something else - a spearhead, an axe, maybe even an arrowhead. I pick it up off the ground, and rub the dirt off of it with my thumb. I realize the last person to hold my find passed this very spot 2500 years ago.

I get chills.

From somewhere, an ancestor smiles.

JB

Where Is The Life That Late I Led?

I like a quiet life - know what I mean? Quiet. I like it when the most important decision of my day is trying to decide if I HAD an important decision in my day.

A good day for me is when I don't feel I NEED to do anything. (Yeah,yeah, those days don't come along very often - I don't remember the last one - but those are good days.)

So these are my goals - good day goals. Boring days. ZZZzzzzzzzzz ... Happy happy.

So ... If these are my goals, why do I seem to go out of my way to get involved in STUFF? Not just stuff, but one stuff after another?

Do you do that? Please tell me you do that.

I'm teaching a series of acting classes. Starting tonight. Last fall this sounded like a good idea, But now it's TONIGHT. These people actually expect me to show up.

Yesterday evening I met with a friend who wants to direct a play at a theatre I know well. We met and spent a quite enjoyable time discussing the approach he should take. On the other hand, before I left the house I had to put on shoes! Nobody warned me that friends could cause such hardships.

I am presently co-authoring a play with a very talented creative writer. This woman constantly challenges me with her contributions. She also expects - I don't know why - every few months she expects me to contribute my own sentence or two. I tell ya, the pressure is getting to me.

And then there's this blog. Just because it's here, does that mean it's anticipated that I'm actually going to write something in it? Birdie was right. This deathless prose business ain't easy.

And then there's the play I'm writing because I entered it in a contest and it never occured to me at the time that if it won something, somebody might actually want to read it. (I can't remember. When you are in the middle of a panic attack, is it short breaths or deep breaths? Why is everything turning grey?)

Tomorrow evening I'm applying to direct "Li'l Abner" next season at a theatre that's not near my house. Why don't I just beat myself with a stick and get it over with?

And finally. Last night my agent emailed me, informing me that one of my plays is going to be produced at a theatre in Glasgow Scotland. How rude these people are - how inconsiderate! Don't they know what a long drive that's gonna be from my house?!

So ... I have a solution. I'm gonna move. I'm gonna change my name and move in the middle of the night to a town that nobody in their right mind would ever want to even pass through in the middle of the day. Omaha Nebraska sounds about right. Yeah. I remember a few years ago the Russians confessed that when their missile program was at its best, that maybe maybe on a good day maybe maybe they could have hit Nebraska, and everybody here went "whew," because it was, after all, Nebraska.

I'll let ya know where I land. I mean, it's YOU. It's no fun at all in being shallow and petty and whining if you're not there to share it.

JB

And how was your day?

You Know You Are Getting Old When ...

Okay. I'm now reduced to this; blatant stealing.

My friend Nicki posed the question on her blog - "You know you are getting old when ..." She commented on the new refrigerator that was installed in her apartment. It didn't have an ice maker. http://nickilovesdrama.blogspot.com/

I thought about that question. I thought about that refrigerator. (No, I am not seriously in need of a life ... at least not seriously. Not TOO seriously.) In case you don't know this fact about me, I'll tell you. At the moment I am deeply engrossed in writing a play. In short, there are people who think this play is completed. I have no idea why they think that. Well, maybe I might have a suspicion. In any case, I'm working away at this thing, and take a few minutes to breeze thru the blogs I enjoy. And there is Nicki's question - a distraction. So here's my secret. when I'm under self-induced pressure, I am drawn to distraction. The more pressure, the more I cling to distraction. It's like moss growing on the north side of a tree. (Does moss really grow on the north side of a tree? How does it know which way is north? I learned this bit of trivia from a John Wayne movie, so it must be true. John Wayne has never lied to me. Actually, I think it was William Holden who said it, but he was standing beside John Wayne at the time, and if it wasn't true, John Wayne would have corrected William Holden. I don't recall anybody ever correcting John Wayne.)

Where was I?

Oh. Yes.

Anyway, I was drawn to Nicki's question. I can easily remember a time before refrigerators HAD ice makers. Does that mean I know I'm getting older? (Don't tell anybody. When I was really young - I mean minus two or something like that - I can remember a friend of my parents who had a refrigerator that had no electricity. It was a big wooden box with ice in the bottom drawer. But that was in Chicago in the summer. In the winter they didn't even need the wooden box. They just put their milk and hot dogs out on the window sill, and whatever was out there stayed cold just fine. But that was Chicago - very progressive.)

In the meantime, I thought the question was a good one, and - being a writer, I'd love your response. How do you know when you are getting older? (And I'll make it easy on you - you don't have to talk about refrigerators, or even Chicago, if you don't want to. Personally, I think Chicago is a pretty interesting place, and I think there's plenty to write about, but not much of it makes me feel older. S0 maybe you shouldn't write about Chicago.)

On the other hand, I'm not at all suggesting that you CAN'T write about Chicago if you want to. I mean, if Chicago makes you feel old, I'd love to hear about it.

So. Ya got it? "You know you are getting old when ...

(And to make it even easier, the kind blogger people have provided a comment box for you. I'm not kidding. It's about three inches down from where you are reading at this very minute. If you don't believe me, go ahead and scroll down and see, and then come back. That's okay. I'll wait.

Do be do be dooooo ...

See? It's there - waiting for you. Ya ready? "You know you are getting old when ...'

Fun.

JB


And how was your day?