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March 30, 2005

Silence

While waiting for my (very late) lunch partner, I sketched two people sitting across from me. They did not say one word to each other, but they enjoyed the most loving, SILENT conversation.

Sometimes the best words are those not said.

Posted by trevor at 07:42 PM | Comments (8)

March 29, 2005

Nudge Nudge Wink Wink

I saw a young man in the coffee shop today with Down Syndrome. His infectious smile and joyous demeanor reminded me that all the worries I had assigned myself for the day, were not worth worrying about at all.

He also reminded me of a time in my life when I thought I was the most important being on the planet. I was about sixteen and thought I knew everything. I had the world by the horns and I was riding it like a bull at a rodeo. Until one of the Campbell sisters (I think it was Janet) signed me up (without my knowledge) as volunteer at the Avril Elizabeth Home for kids with special needs. (Most of the kids were Down Syndrome kids.)

Yes, Janet Campbell took it upon herself to “save” the wayward neighborhood kids who were in her eyes, ‘wasting their lives’.

She sentenced me to community service without me even committing a crime. (Other than being full of myself and… well…I did steal candy from the Orange Grove Café and…I did steal a chemistry set from Brendan Gaylis.)

I tried my best to get out of going to the home, but my parents would hear none of my excuses.

So I went. I hated being around those kids!…for about five minutes. Then my whole outlook changed. I had an absolute blast. Volunteering at the Avril Elizabeth Home was one of the highlights of my life.

What an experience. I learned the meaning of the phrase unconditional love. I learned that giving is far more rewarding than receiving. I also learned that there is no letter ‘I’ in the word team.

Thanks to a nudge from Janet Campbell, I was helped off my pedestal before it was kicked out from under me.

I remember one day at the home a kid named Darren came up to me in tears. Someone in his neighborhood had been teasing him. He put his arms around me and sobbed. He was a big chap and he almost smothered me with his pain.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Some kids made fun of me.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

“They said I’m a monster from a movie.”

“You’re not a monster.” I replied. (My heart hurting with his pain.)

“I’m not?”

“Nah. They are the monsters. Snot-nosed little monsters.”

He pulled back and clapped his hands with glee. Then he suddenly turned serious.

“Are you my friend?” he asked, looking me dead in the eye.

“Always Darren.”

“Thank you my friend,” he said, almost bowling me over with a second bear hug.

“Hey Darren,” I said as he turned to leave. “You are too cool.”

He paused, tilting his head. He looked at me for a few seconds.

“No.” he said, earnestly. “You be the cool one. I’ll be the hot stuff. My mom said so.”

Sometimes little nudges can motivate us to do good things. Things we might not do without a little push. As Socrates said, “A man who would move the world must first move himself.”

Like the story my dad once told me about billionaire businessman who had a party at his mansion. To add drama to his event, he filled his swimming pool with sharks. He then told his guests that he would give the first person to swim across the pool the choice of a brand new home or the position of president of one of his companies.

Before he could finish his announcement there was a large splash in the water and a man swam quickly across the pool.

The billionaire approached the man and said, “That was an amazing performance. What prize will you choose?”

The swimmer caught his breath and replied, “Right now I don’t really care about the prize. I just want to find the person who pushed me into the pool.”

Posted by trevor at 06:36 PM | Comments (2)

March 28, 2005

Too Bad

So I’m walking through my neighborhood and I notice that my neighbor is having a yard sale. Sitting right in front is a brand new easel. On a small table are countless tubes of very expensive oil paints. (Un-opened I might add.)

Knowing I paint, the neighbor sees me and sheepishly tries to blend in with the lamp shades his mother-in-law gave him as a gift this past Christmas.

He does not blend in with the lamp shades. To be honest, he does not resemble a lamp shade at all. He does resemble a chicken however.

I ignore his attempt to hide from me.

I need answers.

“How about this weather?” he says, herding me away from the easel like an English Sheep Dog.

“That easel is brand new,” I say, pointing at it. “It’s a good one.”

“Well, you know how it goes,” he says. “Need a lava lamp?”

“Spill the beans,” I say.

“The guy at the gallery on Sixth Street says my paintings are…how shall I say…not good,” he says, shrugging.

“Did he say that?” I ask, knowing full well that gallery owners NEVER say art is not good. (They say, ‘I don’t know if it will sell’ or ‘that’s not the type of art we display’.)

“He said my art was different.”

“It is,” I say. “That’s what makes it so cool.”

“Nah,” says the neighbor. “In my books ‘different’ means he hasn’t got the nuts to say he hates it. And my brother-in-law, you know him, the gutter guy. Well, he just laughs when he sees my paintings.”

“Was your brother-in-law sober at the time?” I ask.

“Probably not,” he replies.

“Have you taken your stuff to another dealer?”

“Nah,” he says over his shoulder as he walks toward some new customers. “I get the message. I give up.”

I walk away firmly clutching the hand I want to use to slap him upside the head. But I am not his keeper. It’s really sad though because his work is very refreshing and exciting. It’s minimal and simple, but powerful.

I wish he had a different attitude.

I have popped over to his house a few times to encourage him to paint, but he won’t hear of it. He’s now into collecting video games.

It brings to mind the swimmer, runner and mother of six who decided to try cycling in the hopes of being the first person in her family to enter and complete a triathlon. She had a major problem though, she could not keep her balance on the damn bicycle. She just kept on tipping over. No matter how hard she tried, she could not master the art of cycling. After one particular mishap, when she crashed into the back of a parked car, the mother threw the bike to the ground and kicked the tire.

"You're not going to give up are you? " asked her daughter, who was riding with her.

"Oh yes I am," yelled the mother. "I'm hopeless. I'll stick to baking brownies instead."

"I hate to tell you this, but you’re brownies are not very good," said the daughter

"You see. I'm a failure. Screw this. I'm giving up this stupid idea."

"But you can't give up," argued her daughter.

"Why not?" said the mother. "I'm a failure. At least I tried. That’s more than most people."

"You know mom," said the daughter, "nobody will remember what you TRIED to do. They’ll only remember what you DID do. Dr. Seuss 's books were rejected but he kept writing. Babe Ruth struck out a zillion times but he kept on batting. Einstein was dyslexic but that didn't stop him - and what about Seddick Bufkin?

"Who's Seddick Bufkin?" asked the mother.

"He’s an amazing artist but you haven’t heard of him," said the daughter. "Because he gave up."

J.Paul Getty once said, "If you want to be a success, then double your failure rate. Only then will you double your learning experience to overcome future obstacles and defeats."

Posted by trevor at 06:05 PM | Comments (4)

March 27, 2005

The Process Of Saying No

Posted by trevor at 04:54 PM | Comments (6)

March 25, 2005

Sorry

Two people I know just made friends after almost ten years of not speaking to each other. And now you can hardly keep these two apart. They are enjoying the most fulfilling and incredible friendship. They stopped speaking over the silliest miscommunication. An incident that was quite easily resolved when they bumped into each other after ten years and both apologized for being wrong. What a waste of ten years of good friendship.

My mom had two cousins who were identical twins. (Okay, now I am opening family doors here that will certainly bring me some flack, but to tell you the truth I think it’s important to share.) Both were very clever and highly educated men. (Both men had sons as doctors.) Because of a miscommunication, the twins did not speak to each other for over 20 years. Shortly after they made up one of the brothers died of a heart attack. (A ridiculous fight robbed the two of them years of wonderful times together.)

Communication is one of the most powerful devices known to man, yet most of us don't know how to make use of this incredible tool. Sometimes a few words is all it takes to fix a tough situation.

A great example of communications breakdown is the story of the man who was walking down the road when he noticed his neighbor struggling with a refrigerator in the doorway to his house.

The man rushed over and began helping his neighbor. They both shunted and grunted for a while and stopped without being able to budge the refrigerator.

"Well, I guess we'll have to get a bunch of people to help us move this darn thing in," said the man.

"In?" replied his neighbor. "I'm trying to move it out."

A few words is all it would have taken to correct the breakdown in communication.

I saw a great example of communication breakdown in an old Peter Sellers movie called "The Pink Panther". Peter Sellers is playing the part of a French detective. He is walking down the road when he encounters a man standing with a dog.

The dog looks vicious and Peter Sellers is reluctant to pass the man for fear that the dog will attack him.

He cautiously approaches the man and in his wonderful rendition of a French accent asks, "Does your dog bite?"

"No," replies the man firmly.

"Merci," replies Peter Sellers, and walks past the man and the dog.

Suddenly the dog jumps up and bites Peter Sellers, almost ripping his trousers off.

"I thought you said your dog does not bite!" he screams, almost passing out with fright.

"That is not my dog," replies the man, nonchalantly.

I know there are people I have not spoken to in years because of petty unresolved arguments. If you by chance stumble across this blog entry, please accept my apology. Not for what I might have said or done, but for not valuing our relationship enough to make things right.

Posted by trevor at 03:35 PM | Comments (5)

March 23, 2005

Imagine That

Jeez, I was so disappointed today. I drove to south Texas to give a talk. The weather was beautiful and I was looking forward to taking pictures of a small town I had driven through a few years ago. This was the quintessential small town. The town you see in the movies. I wanted to take pictures of the main street to sketch at a later date. I recall this picture-perfect town hall with old western-type buildings on the town square.

No dice! My imagination had messed with my memory and re-created the town completely. The place was not quaint. It was gray and dull and actually falling apart. It did not look at all like I remembered.

My second grade teacher Mrs. Varrie said, “Your imagination is the gate to your future. It is one of the most wonderful gifts you have been blessed with.”

I agree. My imagination fuels my dreams but it also gets me in trouble sometimes.

With the help of my imagination I have an amazing ability to create great expectations. I also have the ability to develop unrealistic expectations. These expectations kick my butt every opportunity they have. Firstly, with my approval, my mind creates dreams that are sometimes almost impossible to live up to. Secondly, my imaginations can trick me into believing that something is a lot better or a lot worse than it really is.

When it comes to perfect dreams, the imagination is really good at helping us to visualize an ideal world filled with perfect people. We picture the dream date with the ultimate partner on a beautiful night. In reality, anything can happen. The day of the date you find you have been the recipient of a heavy zit attack. Then it snows and surprise, surprise, your dad takes a pee with the bathroom door open as your date walks in the front door.

Then there's the music. Every movie that has a perfect scene always has just the right music to set the mood. That doesn't happen in real life. There is no music gently piping from the sky during a perfect Sunday picnic, which suddenly turns into the hailstorm from hell.

I remember seeing a movie once that I thought was really great. In the film, a couple were sitting on the beach and talking. It was beautifully filmed. A cool song by one of my favorite groups was playing in the background.

During a vacation later that year, I tried to replicate the scene in real life. My real life. I took my date to the beach. As the sun set I tried to kiss her and I slipped. She got sand in her ear. I got sand in my eye. We both got sand in our hair. We went down to the water to try and rinse off. As she stood ankle high in the water, I looked up at the red sky and tried to hear the music. All I heard was a scream. She turned and rushed out of the water. I finally caught up to her and found that she'd been stung by a jellyfish on the back of her leg. The whole date was a disaster and wasn't even close to what I dreamed or saw in the movies.

I’ll never give up on my dreams. That would be foolish because my dreams and imagination have fuelled my success, but I am now conscious of the fact that the world inside my mind and the world outside is sometimes a little different.

Posted by trevor at 04:23 AM | Comments (3)

March 22, 2005

Dealing With Disaster

After yesterday's shooting at a school where ten children were killed, I received a number of calls from parents asking if i had any advice on how to talk to their young kids about it.

Although we don't realize it, the Tsunami, the war, natural disasters, terrorism can have a profound efect on children without parents realizing it.

Here are some insights I thought I'd share for those who have kids or know kids:

After September 11th, my niece who was six at the time, asked my sister for an easy reader Bible. “So, what is an easy reader Bible?” asked my sister.

“One with not so many words,” came the reply.

“What are you going to look for in the Bible?” asked my sister.

“I’m not going to look for anything, I just have to read it real quick,” said my niece, “because we’re all going to die.”

As I said, children are often traumatized by tragic events reported in the daily news without parents even realizing it. A quick scan through any newscast or newspapers and you’ll see tragedy everywhere. As much as we try to shield children for the news, they still get information, (sometimes dangerously fractured and more damaging) from their friends and even teachers at school.

After the Tsunami disaster many schools had fund-raisers to help those in need. This brought even more awareness of the tragedy. What most schools and parents did not do was talk about the people who died, leaving many kids silently grieving with unanswered questions.

We cannot shield kids from all of the world’s tragic events, but we can help them understand these events, we can help them validate their feelings, give them extra reassurance and help them learn to deal with their fears and emotions.

Help your kids feel safe. Extra hugs, comfort, support and reassurance will help enormously. Children need to feel safe. To help them, you might explain that the odds of something happening to them are very small and that you will protect them to the best of your ability. A child may ask, "What about terrorism, or floods, or Tsunami’s?" You can answer: "The chance of our family being affected by terrorism, or war or a Tsunami is so tiny that we don't have to worry about it. There may be another terrorist attack, or a terrible war, but this is a huge world with billions of people and chances are we’ll be safe."

Monitor your television watching. Most people don’t realize how much information children glean from television shows watched by their parents. Research indicates that even children in the next room receive exposure to news programs. Quit simply, if your kids are around, get your news from another source like the newspaper or the Internet. This will give you more control over what your child is exposed to.

Take care of yourself before you take care of your kids. If you are upset, chances are your children will be upset. To help your children feel secure, try to calm down and relax as much as possible before you discuss the events with them.

Look and Listen Use your eyes and your ears. Even before kids have the words to express what they are feeling, their bodies and actions give us clues. Watch for changes in behavior: withdrawing, fighting, crying, clinging, listlessness. Be prepared to listen to them when they are more likely to talk just before sleep, in the car, reading time, even when you’re making dinner. Be accessible at their chosen time because they might not want to access that information later when it might be more suitable for you to talk.

Help your kids express their feelings. Emoting is not easy, especially in a culture that values certain feelings and shuns others. To facilitate expression, you can ask a question or offer a suggestion. "Tell me about your feeling?" or, "You look like you might be feeling sad," or "I wonder if you are feeling scared." Remember, too, that anger, can often be disguised as fear and helplessness.
Ask open-ended questions like: "What else are you thinking about?" "How do you feel about that?" "How do you think those people feel?" This will encourage your children to explore more of their own thoughts. You can also just wait attentively for children to sort through what they want to say. Give them the gift of your time and attention.

Remember talking and expressing feelings is part of the healing process. It’s upsetting to see our children in the throes of fear or anger. In response, we may want to try to distract them or cut short their expression of feelings. It is helpful to remember that positive (not hurtful) expression is the most empowering healing tool we have. Keeping feelings hidden inside only leads to confusion, misdirection, and poor health, not just for our children, but for us as well.

Posted by trevor at 08:19 AM | Comments (1)

March 21, 2005

Conversation

I was having lunch yesterday at a booth behind two college students. They were speaking very loudly. Their conversation went something like this:

“Well, my dad said I could have liposuction for graduation, if that’s what I really want.”

“But I thought you were going to get a car?”

“Oh I will. After the lipo. My dad’s awesome. He’ll do anything to make my mom and her new husband feel like crap.”

“I think I’m going to get a nose job and maybe some of that collagen in my lips.”

"No. You’re lips are really nice.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. But your nose. You could easily take that lump out..”

“Well it’s not really as lump. It’s like a bump. Here feel.”

“Oh yeah. You’ll look awesome with your nose fixed.”

“I wish I could do an extreme make over. I’d change my looks completely."

“That would be so cool.”

“I’d get them to make me look like Natalie Portman. I hate people telling me I look like Julia Roberts”

The waitress arrives with the food.

“I asked for no fries and no mayo.”

“And I didn’t want mashed potatoes.”

The waitress leaves with the food.

“Duh. Does the word Adkins mean anything?” the girl says, behind the waitress’s back.

“God, I’ve got to get to the gym this afternoon and get rid of this lunch after I eat it.”

“I’m taking the kick-boxing class at Gold’s Gym. You should take that class. It kicks butt.”

“That’s a cute top you’re wearing by the way.”

“I like it, but it makes me look fat.”

At this juncture I decided to tune out their conversation, but I did not forget about it. Both of the girls were extremely attractive. As far as I’m concerned, neither of them needed any type of make over at all. 90 percent of the people in the world would give anything to be in their Prada’s.

It was so sad to hear them talk.

It reminds me of the duck who looked like a duck.

Then one day the duck saw a swan and thought the swan was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

The duck decided that she wanted to be a swan. She went to a swan-wannabe seminar. She did swan pilates. She even went for an extreme swan makeover.

And, believe it or not. She did it. She became a swan.

Then one day, she met the man of her dreams. But, unfortunately for her, the man was into ducks. He was a duck man. Swans did nothing for him.

Posted by trevor at 07:28 PM | Comments (4)

March 19, 2005

Angst-so-on and so-on and so-on…

I don’t normally blog twice in one day, but I have something I wanted to share. I am just so amazed at how mean and disrespectful some people can be. What happened to the wonderful sense of sharing and caring that happened for about three minutes after nine-eleven?

Yesterday I flew back from Saranac Lake in upstate New York where I gave a keynote talk. It took me 11 hours to get there flying from Austin. I had to take four flights. Two of them, in ‘berry leetle’ airplanes. I arrived there at 9 in the evening. I gave my talk from 8:30 to 10 the next morning and was back on a “berry leetle” airplane by eleven. I got back to Austin at 10 pm last night.

The flight back was from Saranac Lake (in the very middle of a pretty no-where) to Plattsburg (in the very middle of another no-where) to Boston, to New York, to Austin. (No. There was no other way to fly. I swear.)

Okay, back to the point.

I was in Boston. The airport was jammed with Spring Break travelers. Mass confusion reigned. Especially when a number of gates were changed and the changes were not reflected on the television monitors.

So, there I am, happily sketching all the frenzied people in my journal (sketches to follow) when I realize that the flight I am waiting for is no longer going to leave from the gate at which I am waiting.

There is so much noise I cannot hear where my new gate is. So, smiling, I approach the man behind the Continental Airlines counter. He looks very official in his red jacket.

I smile.

He frowns.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I need some help.”

“What?” he barks.

I look around to see if this happy chappy is actually talking to me (a genuine 'paying-through-the-nose-for-my-flight’ customer). Apparently he is, because there is nobody behind me.

“I’m not sure which gate…”

He cuts me off. “I just announced it,” he says, with extreme irritation.

“I’m sorry. It’s so noisy, I …”

“Jesus,” he says under his breath.

“No,” I say, my name is Trevor.

He looks up at me and glares. “Gate C32.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll see myself to gate C32. You should C about an enema.”

No wonder Continental Airlines is going out of business.

To the man in the red coat. I apologize for my crass comment upon leaving your gate. I don’t normally let people who hate their jobs and their lives influence my positive disposition. I wish you and I could have sat down and had a cup of tea. I would have told you something my granny Sonia once shared with me.

She told me about a man who was having his car filled up at a gas station. After the attendant put in the gas and wiped the windshield, the man leaned out of the window and yelled at the attendant. “The bloody windshield is still dirty. Clean the damn thing again, would you.”

The attendant smiled, nodded and cleaned the windshield once more. He came to the window and handed the man his receipt. The man snatched the receipt from the attendant and drove off in a rage.

“Incompetent fool,” yelled the man. “The damn windshield is STILL dirty. These days, you have to bloody well do things yourself if you want them done properly.”

The man stopped at a red light, still fuming.

His wife leaned over and took his glasses from his face. She wiped the glasses with a tissue and put them back.

Suddenly, the windshield was clean.

I made my way to gate C32 and had a pleasant flight home. I chatted to the people sitting next to me and enjoyed a lovely nap.

I could have taken Mr. Red Coat’s anger with me and passed it on to other people, but I decided not to. It was a conscious decision. I did not permit him to ruin my day. If he wants to treat people the way he does, that’s his decision and only he can decide to change it. But one thing is for certain. I was not about to let him decide how I was going to spend the rest of my trip.

Posted by trevor at 03:41 PM | Comments (11)

Perception

I love catching up with my past, but sometimes my past catches up with me…

I was eighteen. It was a rainy night and I broke up with her. Right outside Charlie C’s in Orange Grove. A suburb of Johannesburg, South Africa.

I told her I wanted to do my compulsory army stint without having to worry about someone at home. I was a coward. I didn’t have the guts to tell her that even though she was really pretty, I did not seem to connect with her on a heart level. My brother said I was suffering from Emotional Constipation. I did not know what he meant. Still don’t.

I really liked her though. I remember the hours I spent watching her sun bathing through the small window in Mark Davidson’s basement.

She’s be sitting on her beach towel on the back lawn, listening to Pop Shop on her transistor radio.

I’d almost die as I clung to the windowsill watching her rub suntan oil on her legs. I’d watch until my knuckles turned white and I just couldn’t hold on anymore. Then I’d drop to the basement floor, swing my arms around until the circulation returned, and then pull myself up to the window again.

I adored her. It took ages for me to coerce her to go to the prom with me.

And then I broke up with her.

She moved away a few months after that.

I never saw her again. Not until my visit to South Africa last December. Twenty-nine years later.

I was having a beer at the Radium Beer Hall two blocks from where I ditched her. I was reading the Sunday Times. I recognized her immediately. She was the same. Just older.

My stomach tightened and I got a little light headed. Just like I used to at the basement window. I kept my head down in case she recognized me.

I sneaked a look around for the waitress. I needed my check. Time to get out of there.

I was embarrassed. Ashamed of what I had done. Sorry for my insensitivity.

She folded her newspaper.

I dropped my head even lower.

She stood up and slowly put on her coat. Too slowly. Then she picked up her purse.

I studied the foam in the bottom of my mug.

She paid the waitress.

Then she headed toward the door. And me.

I peered even closer at the foam in the bottom of my cup. I wondered if you could read foam like some people read tea leaves.

Her legs appeared in the top left hand corner of my field of vision. And disappeared as she walked by.

I closed my eyes. Waited for a few seconds in my own darkness. Then opened them again.

The shoes were back.

I looked up.

“I thought it was you,” she said smiling as though I had never broken her heart.

I braced myself for the onslaught.

“My god you haven’t changed a bit,” she said, still smiling. “I can’t believe it’s you. How’ve you been? I read your book. I didn’t know you could write. Your mom gave the manuscript to my aunt.”

She reached out and took my hand. I was in luck. She’d forgotten.

I smiled. Sat back in my seat and shook my head. My ego peeked out from behind my brain and was about to make itself available for stroking when she hesitated, and cocked her head.

My heart stopped. A cocked head, that slight tilt to the left. Always a bad sign in my books. She was going to let me have it.

My ego scuttled back into the darkness leaving me to face the music alone.

“I’m really angry with you,” she said, looking at me dead in the eye.

I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing else to do. I was guilty. Now for the sentence.

“The girl in you book,” she said. “The one you ditched outside Charlie C’s. That was me, wasn’t it?”

I nodded.

“You made her stutter? I don’t stutter. That pissed me off a bit. Why’d you do that?”

“Emotional Constipation?” I said softly, shruggging my shoulders.

“Now I remember why I dumped you,” she said, smiling. “Sometimes you just don’t make any sense.”

Posted by trevor at 08:22 AM | Comments (2)

March 17, 2005

I looked back at

I looked back at my writing over the last few days and realized that I needed some laughter in my life. (I think the craziness in the world put me in a slight blue period.) I love to laugh. It makes me feel good. So I decided to do a series of pictures that make me smile while drawing. The above portrait of the cat that visits my studio is the first.

Norman Cousins wrote a book called 'Head First: The Biology of Hope.' In it he reports that sustained laughter stimulates an increased release of endorphins - the body's own, natural morphine. We feel better when we laugh, because endorphins actually diminish physical and psychological pain. He also mentions findings that suggest that endorphins also stimulate the body's immune system to increase its disease-fighting ability. This makes laughter - if not the best - certainly the cheapest medicine we can get over or under the counter.

Dr. William Frye of Stanford Medical School says that laughter is a natural and invaluable means for strengthening the heart muscle. Research also shows that sustained, frequent laughter also helps some people lower blood pressure.

If you are having a tough day today, may I offer you the following prescription from Dr. George Carlin:

"If it's true that we are here to help others, then what exactly are the others here for?

You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive.

No one ever says, "It's only a game" when their team is winning.

Isn't making a smoking section in a restaurant like making a peeing section in a swimming pool?

If 4 out of 5 people SUFFER from diarrhea...does that mean that one enjoys it?

If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren't people from Holland called Holes?

Why do we say something is out of whack? What's a whack?

Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?

If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?

Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?

Why do croutons come in airtight packages? Aren't they just stale bread to begin with?

Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist but a person who drives a racecar not called a racist?

I am" is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language.
Could it be that "I do" is the longest sentence?"

I hope you find a little laughter in your day today.

Posted by trevor at 06:41 AM | Comments (4)

March 16, 2005

While I Was Sleeping

It seems that the world is filled with such angst and tension at the moment. I am pretty good at filtering most of it during the day, but it comes back like a tossed-salad of images in my dreams.

Last night I had a dream that was so vivid, I can still remember the details…

I dreamed I was in the country somewhere, walking along a tree-lined road between two fields. It was fall and thousands of golden leaves were swirling around my feet. I was carrying an old, brown leather suitcase and wearing a long overcoat. I was in no particular hurry to get anywhere. I was just walking along the road, minding my own business, swinging the brown suitcase as I went.

Then the wind turned cold. I pulled up my collar and shivered. The clouds started to roll in. It got dark too quickly. I suddenly heard the flapping of wings and an ear-piercing scream that turned my blood cold. Something sharp tore at my neck. I swung the suitcase over my shoulder to protect my head and in doing so, I tripped myself up in my coat and tumbled to the ground.

Then as quickly as it started, everything was quiet except for the wind and the leaves. I looked around, but couldn’t find my attacker. Then I saw it. A giant falcon, it’s claws fully extended and bloody. The bird circled a few feet above me and made a second pass at my head. I managed to fend it off with the suitcase once more.

As the bird circled again, I ran over to the side of the road and ducked under the fence. Like a ferocious ally of the falcon, the barbed wire clawed at my coat, gouging deep furrows into the material. I rolled under the wire and into the field. Five hundred feet away I saw a grain silo and an old barn. I ran a few steps and fell among the stalks and dust as the bird swooped again. This time I wasn’t so lucky, one of the falcon’s claws caught me, slicing into the skin just above my right eye.

After falling and scrambling a dozen times, I finally made it into the barn and managed to slam the door before the creature could rip my head off. Out of breath, I leaned my back against the door and slid down to the ground.

My comfort was short lived. The bird flew against the door and almost broke through the rotted wood. I climbed up the ladder into the loft, dragging my suitcase with me. I heard another bump against the door. Again the wood splintered and cracked. I knew the next time the bird hit the door, it would burst through. I climbed through the small trap door that led from the barn’s loft into the silo and pulled the door shut behind me. It was solid enough to keep the crazed falcon out. I pulled the suitcase over the railing and crawled along the narrow wooden catwalk toward the far side of the silo, where a ladder wrapped itself around a pole and eased itself down to the ground.

I was halfway across the catwalk when the skylight above me exploded into a million fragments of splintered glass. It was the falcon and it knew exactly where to find me. The bird swooped down toward me and as I leaned forward trying to flatten my body against the catwalk, my suitcase slipped and fell. I reached out and tried to stop it, but I was too late. The suitcase tumbled in slow motion toward the ground. Before it hit the earth, it suddenly sprang open and a flock of white pigeons burst out and flew up, escaping through the broken skylight in a mass of pumping and pulsating feathers. The suitcase hit the silo floor and bounced and writhed in pain as it twisted and buckled against the concrete.

A flash of light above me caught my eye. I looked up. A lone white feather from one of the pigeons drifted past me in a long, lazy spiral.

Posted by trevor at 10:03 AM | Comments (3)

March 14, 2005

If Only They Knew

My mum told me some bad news today about the lovely little cemetery where my grandfather Ted is buried. My friends and family know that I have always wanted to be buried there too. Not in a coffin mind you. I want to be cremated and sent back to South Africa where someone will dig a little hole right next to Ted’s grave and bury my ashes.

The cemetery is one of the most peaceful places I have ever visited. It sits just off the beautiful Vaal River surrounded by a grove of magnificent old oak trees. The trees are home to hundreds of turtledoves that coo in harmony all day long.

My mum told me the cemetery was vandalized last week. Apparently all the graves marked with the Jewish star of David were either spray-painted with red swastikas or pushed over.

My grandfather’s grave was one of those damaged.

I cannot tell you what a wonderful, kind man he was. He and my grandmother survived persecution in Lithuania and went to South Africa to start a new life. My grandmother’s mother was a refugee in Europe and was killed by soldiers on the side of the road right in front of my grandmother (who I believe was four at the time). They were fleeing with all the possessions on their backs. They trudged through the mud to freedom as their homes burned in the village behind them.

As you might have read in my earlier blogs, my grandfather was an amazing human being. He was kind, compassionate, generous and smart. He lived in a little town in South Africa called Vredefort. He was a farmer and owned a small general store. During the height of apartheid my grandfather was scorned by the townspeople. He was criticized because he was fair to the African laborers and treated them with respect. I never heard him put people down because of their color, sexual orientation or beliefs. Actually, I never heard him put anyone down, even the people who murdered his mother.

I wish those who defaced his grave could have sat down and had a cup of tea with this magnificent man. They would have experienced something amazing instead of the anger that is obviously squeezing the very life out of their souls.

I remember a story my grandfather once told me to illustrate the futility of hatred. I’m not sure who originally told the tale, but it took place during the war in South Africa between the Boers and the Zulus many years ago…

During the height of the war there was a skirmish and a Boer soldier, on his horse, saw a Zulu warrior in combat with one of his fellow Boer soldiers. The Zulu had a yapping yellow dog at his side as he fought.

The Boer saw the Zulu put his spear through his friend’s chest. As the Zulu stabbed the man, the Boer on the horse shot the Zulu dead. The Zulu collapsed on top of the soldier he had just impaled with his spear. Yelping, the dog ran off into the bush as the Boer spurred his horse away from a number of spear wielding Zulu’s.

Many months later, after the war, the Boer soldier came back to collect the bones of his dead friend. When he and a number of fellow soldiers approached the spot where their friend’s bones lay, intertwined with those of the Zulu warrior, they noticed the yellow dog sitting obediently next to the pile of bones. The dog took off into the bush as the men approached.

The soldiers had a hard time sorting the white soldier’s bones from the Zulu’s bones. The bones were literally mixed up because they had been stripped clean by wild animals. The Boers were hard pressed to figure out whose the bones belonged to who. They did not want any black man’s bones to be buried with their white comrade, that was for sure.

After discarding the dirty bones (which they were convinced belonged to the Zulu) they took the Boer’s bones back to a graveyard a few miles away, where he was buried with full honors.

On a full-moon night six months later, the man headed back to his farm after a bible-study class. He passed the graveyard where his friend, the Boer soldier, was buried. As he took off his hat in respect he noticed, in the distance, a yellow dog sitting by the graveside.

Posted by trevor at 09:33 AM | Comments (3)

March 11, 2005

It Was Twenty Years Ago Today...

Posted by trevor at 11:27 AM | Comments (6)

March 10, 2005

Always There

A number of my friends are going through a time of remembering those who are not with us. This made me think about my dad who died just a few years ago. I wrote a song in memory of my dad which is featured on my animated video “What On Earth Do You Do When Someone Dies?”

Always There

Memories of you
Embrace my sore heart
I feel you near
Even though we’re apart
When I close my eyes
I see your face
Your beautiful smile
I’ll never erase

You're not here
But you’re always there

When I feel empty
And hollow inside
I think of you
Sitting right by my side
Your soothing voice
Hugs my soul
It takes broken memories
And makes them whole

No you’re not here
But you’re always there

I share your memories
with joy and pride
I won’t let them wash away
With the tears I’ve cried
Your light keeps burning in my heart
I promise I’ll do my part

You comfort me
When I’m feeling down
And help me
when no-one else is around

No you’re not here
But you’re always there.

You’re not here
But you’re always there.

I think of you so much dad. I wish you could be here to share the wonderful life I am enjoying which started with the nurturing, caring and unconditional love you gave me as a child.

(If you would like to hear the song, you can visit my web site (www.TrevorRomain.com) and click on the parents/educator’s section and click on the music button or go to (http://trevorromain.com/pared.html) and click on the music button. My dear friend Carl Theil took my simple lyrics and turned ‘Always There’ into a stunning and powerful song. He wrote, scored and engineered the music. The song is beautifully sung by the incredibly talented Lisa Tingle. Carl has worked on the music for a number of movies including Miss Congeniality, Spy Kids 1 & 3 and Once Upon A Time In Mexico.)

Posted by trevor at 11:17 AM | Comments (3)

March 09, 2005

The Search

Oh my goodness. I just had a conversation with someone who has everything you could ever want, except happiness. He is not sick. He has a job. He has a nice family. Nobody in his family is dying. He has money. He drives a nice car. He lives in a lovely house. I discovered that he is using substances to try and help him find the happiness that eludes him.

I am not the person to tell him how to run his life, so I did the only thing I know how. I sent him one of my stories. I pray my words might sow some healing seeds deep within in his soul. I fear if he continues he will destroy his life and those around him…

Starla the Wishing Star woke up one day to find her happiness completely gone. It had simply vanished. Disappeared entirely.

She looked in her closet, she looked under her bed, and she even checked the attic, but it was nowhere to be found.

Starla spent days and days searching. She even visited the library and found piles of happiness, but none of it was hers.

She went to the doctor. He gave her some pills to help her feel better, but the medicine made her sleepy and she felt rather strange.

Starla bought a shiny red sports car in which she traveled while she searched. She thought having a brand new car would make her happy. It didn't.

She tried everything to get happy.

She ate too much.

Then she ate too little.

She took an adventure vacation.

She retreated to the mountains.

She drank many single malts.

But no matter how hard she tried, Starla could not find her happiness anywhere.

She grew so unhappy that she found herself crying all the time.
She was so sad she found it difficult to continue her job as a ‘Wishing Star’.

“How can I help others if I can’t help myself?” she thought.

That afternoon she decided to have one last look for her happiness. On her way through a neighborhood park she passed a homeless lady who was speaking to herself.

“People say I’m homeless, but they are wrong. I do have a home! My home is in my heart. Yes, I have a home and all I need is a house to put it in.”

The homeless lady stopped and looked up at the sky.

“Fools,” she said. “I wish people would judge me by my good soul and not my bad luck.”

Starla couldn’t help but smile at the lady. For a second she felt a wave of happiness wash over her, but it was gone in an instant.

"I think I'll have some hot chocolate and sit in the park," thought Starla. "If that doesn't make me just the tiniest bit happy, then nothing in this world will."

She drank the hot chocolate and felt no joy at all. Nothing!

"Perhaps life is not so great," she whispered to herself.

As she wept, two men from a moving company walked by her carrying a large mirror.

"Afternoon," they chirped. “Great day isn’t it?”

Starla did not reply. She just stared at her reflection in the mirror as they passed.

She sat for a few moments, completely lost in her own misery. Then she suddenly jumped up.

She dashed after the men and kissed each one on the cheek.

"Thank you, thank you!" she yelled and hurried away. She was so happy she almost burst.

The men did not know what they had done to deserve such a joyous greeting.

"I guess some people are just born happy," said one of the men.

Starla smiled as she made her way home.

Seeing her own image in the mirror the men were carrying helped Starla to remember where her happiness was. Inside herself. Exactly where she had left it. She was so busy looking for it everywhere else that she forgot to look in the place where it always is. Inside!

Starla picked up her wish list and with a happy heart, flew off to help other people reach their dreams.

Back in the park the two movers stopped to take a break. “You know?” said the first man. “It’s the holiday season and I love getting gifts, but to me the best present anyone could give is the gift of sharing and caring.”

“I agree,” said the second man. “The way that little girl shared her happiness with us earlier just made my day.”

“Let’s pass it on,” said the first man. He picked a flower from a nearby bush and walked toward an old homeless lady sitting on a park bench nearby.

He gave her the flower. The lady smiled for the first time in many months.

“Hey, can I get you a cup of coffee or something?” said the man, warmly.

“Thank you so much,” said the lady.

“We’ll be right back with coffee and a bite to eat,” said the man.

After the men left, the lady used her handkerchief to wipe her tears. “You heard my wish,” she whispered, looking up at the tiny star that twinkled way above her in the early evening sky. “Thank you.”

“No,” whispered Starla, “Thank you.”

Posted by trevor at 01:36 PM | Comments (2)

March 08, 2005

Like a blossoming flower

Like a blossoming flower in winter, I have a blogging buddy who inspires me every day. He has the guts to bare his soul to his readers without worrying about what people say. From drawing a beautiful quilt on his bed to sharing his ongoing battle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Michael Nobbs has taught me the value of life.

Michael’s struggle has made him treasures every breath he takes. Unlike him, there so are people who don’t value their lives at all. They cannot see that only THEY can decide whether their existence is a privilege and a joy or whether it’s sad and miserable. When they say, “What is the point? Is it worth the struggle?” The reality they create makes their life worth little.

It’s difficult to make these people understand happiness if they won’t jump for joy. (Even though Michael is sometimes totally exhausted, his writing and pictures still show his soul yelling with infectious enthusiasm.)

You and I may be moved by a passionate piece of music. We may be touched by a beautiful painting. We may thrill to the warmth of our lover’s breath. All of these pleasures are available to us, but it’s up to us to reach for them and include them in our lives.

Only we can decide, whether a swim in a mountain stream, the taste of a perfect peach dripping with sweet juice, a long conversation over a bottle of wine or a relaxing bubble bath, will add value to our existence.

Life is not awful. There are people who chose to make it so. As Andrew Matthews says, “Many people die at twenty-five and don’t get buried until they are seventy.”

Michael has reached up for the safety rope that hangs above us all and is pulling himself out of the quicksand. So is a young girl I know named Candice.

Candice is twelve years old and until she was diagnosed with cancer, loved playing softball. In fact, she was so good that she was the only girl on the boy's team. But childhood cancer left her with one leg, so she played on the girl's team.

Then radiation therapy zapped her energy and running became even more difficult, so she became a catcher.

Chemotherapy drained her even more and so she became a scorer.

Scoring became difficult and Candice got depressed. She loved the game so much yet there was no way for her to be involved.

"I'm sick of being depressed," she told me one day. "This hospital is driving me nuts."
So she did something about it. She found something to be passionate about and that passion became the rope she used to pull herself up.

Over the next month Candice told everyone she knew that she was collecting baseball trading cards and if they didn't mind, instead of bringing her candy, could they please bring her cards.

Candy got onto the Internet and spread the word. Soon her collection grew. People from all over sent her cards.

Professional sports people sent her signed cards, game companies sent her collector cards and Candice continues to score.

She is about to win the biggest softball game in history, the Guinness World record for collecting the most baseball cards.

Every one of us has an incredible amount of potential stored within us. The problem is that we cannot access this potential until we value our lives and put ourselves in the right frame of mind to succeed.

Success often starts as a longing for something that seems out of reach. At five years old, little Tiger Woods could hardly hit the ball ten feet. He was so close to the ground he couldn't even see the putting green, but he was determined. The clubs were bigger than he was, so his dad cut them down with a saw. At twenty-four, Tiger won the 100th US Open Golf Tournament with an eight stroke lead.

We all have incredible potential! Many of us have the exact same dreams that people like Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan, Oprah Winfrey, Bill Gates and many other successful people have, but we have not done anything about it.

We all enjoy hearing about people like Arnold Schwarzenegger who was told by his family to please get a respectable job or James Michener who was told that his book Tales of the South Pacific was really not that good. (Mitchener later won a Pulitzer Prize for this book.) Let's not forget Alexander Graham Bell who was told by the President of the United States that he didn't see people ever using a device like the telephone.

The dangling rope might represent success in losing weight, getting fit, giving up smoking, writing a book, making a marriage work, overcoming grief, or fighting depression.

To succeed we've got to reach for that inner strength and slowly, inch by inch, pull ourselves up to where we want to be.

So many of us fail to realize how close we are to attaining our dreams because we don't grab the rope and climb for our lives.

Thank you Michael for inspiring so many people and showing us the ropes.

(You can read Michael’s blog at michaelnobbs.com)

Posted by trevor at 08:18 AM | Comments (0)

March 07, 2005

Help Yourself

A woman called me the other day and begged me to help her get her book published. She told me she has a best-selling children’s book that she knows everyone is going to love. I told her it was difficult for me to help 'myself' getting published, let alone other people. I went on to explain that even though I have thirty books in print, my new books do not automatically get published.

She begged me to at least have coffee with her to talk about the book. Although my gut feel told me different, I agreed to meet her for two reasons. 1) I appreciate her belief in her own project and 2) I always tell people to be persistent and never give up.

“Okay,” I said at the coffee shop. “Show me your book.”

“Umm. Well, I haven’t written it yet,” she said. “But let me tell you my idea. It’s really good. Okay so there was this little bunny called Hoppity…”

It was tough for me to tell her this, but I told her something I find myself mentioning often. “Success is where preparation meets opportunity. You cannot expect to succeed if you haven’t put in the time and effort."

But you’re so lucky’” she said.

“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” I replied

Henry Ford once said, “You can’t built a reputation on what you’re GOING to do.”

It reminds me of man who went through an incredibly tough time and prayed to God for help.

“Please God, let me win the lottery,” He begged.

Two days later, the man’s car was repossessed. Again the man prayed. “Please God, let me win the lottery, they have taken my car.”

A week later, the man lost his home. Again he prayed. “Please Got let me win the lottery. My home is gone.”

Suddenly a deep voice came out of the sky and spoke to the man. “Would you at least buy a ticket?”

Posted by trevor at 12:06 PM | Comments (0)

March 04, 2005

Full Circle

Last night I had the privilege of enjoying an inspiring dinner with Horton Foote. (Pulitzer prize winning playwright and two-time Oscar winning screenwriter and producer. He wrote screenplays for Tender Mercies, Driving Miss Daisy and To Kill A Mockingbird, among many others.)

Horton Foote is one of the most poised, calm, warm and gentle people I have ever met. For a man of his stature, he is so down-to-earth and real. You would never know that he is one of the most respected playwright’s in the world. He counts people like the late Arthur Miller, Athol Fugard, Gregory Peck and Bruce Beresford as close friends. He travels in circles very few people in this world will ever travel, yet he had the time to ask me about my writing. At one stage he put his arm around me (see picture) and told me that he was inspired by what I was doing. (I just about had a thrombosis on the spot.)

After dinner I sat with Mr. Foote and we had a wonderful chat about inspiration and courting muses. I asked if I could flirt with his muse and he patted me gently on the hand and said “I don’t think that’s possible, she’s a one man woman.")

The host of the dinner has a delightful eight –year-old daughter. The young girl came over and sat with us. I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. “I want to be like you.” She said. I was flattered.

Horton Foote smiled and asked me the same question. “I want to be like you Mr. Foote,” I said to him. He nodded.

“What do you want to be?” I asked, winking at him. He looked over at the girl and pointed. “I want to be like her,” he said, smiling.

Posted by trevor at 06:38 PM | Comments (1)

March 03, 2005

Once More With Feeling

I was cleaning out my studio the other day and I found a bundle of rejection letters I received years ago. It was actually fun to look back at the people who once rejected my work and now publish some of my books. I’m glad I never let those early rejections stop me from reaching my goals.

Ignoring rejections reminds me of an encounter I had as a young man in Johannesburg, South Africa. I often use the experience in the form of a short story to illustrate how I soldiered on, despite unforeseen setbacks:

He arrived at the front door a little early. It was the first date and he wanted to make a good impression.

He was glad the wind was blowing because he had overdone the cologne. He closed his eyes and had visions of the television commercial advertising the scent he was wearing.

Black and white slow motion. The girl running toward him. White cotton summer dress. Arms outstretched. Hair flowing behind her as if in water.

The vision was wrenched from his mind as the door opened.

"Yes?"

"I'm..."

"Oh, you must be her date," said the man at the door. "I'm her father."

"Good to meet you, sir."

The man extended his hand. They connected.

Firm, thought the man.

Soft hands, thought the boy. Must have a desk job.

"Lemonade?"

"Sure."

"Have a seat," said the father, pointing to the porch swing.

The boy sat, his legs swinging under the seat.

The door opened.

The boy stopped swinging his legs.

The man had two lemonades. They drank and talked.

They had something in common. They both loved art. The man was an illustrator.

They talked about Winslow Homer and Sargent, both great artists. They bonded.

Knows his stuff, thought the man.

Knows his stuff, thought the boy.

The man went back inside. The boy sat. His legs swinging under the seat.

The man talked to his wife.

"He's the nicest kid she's ever brought home. I like this guy."

"Nice looking too," said the mother, peering through the side of the drapes. "He's
got an earring, though."

"Pah! They all have earrings."

"But you hate..."

"Where the heck is she?" said the father.

The boy waited.

The door opened.

The boy stopped swinging his legs.

The man came out. He looked over the railing and waved at the approaching car.

The girl got out and climbed the stairs.

The boy stood up. He looked at the girl nervously. Their eyes locked for a
second. No connection.

"Shoot!" said the boy under his breath.

"What?" said the father.

"I'm at the wrong house," swallowed the boy.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

The father and the girl went inside.

The boy swallowed hard. His body told him to run. His head told him to hide. His heart told him to battle on.

Two blocks away the boy found the right house.

He walked up to the door.

He was late.

He paused for a second. He was glad the wind was blowing because he had overdone the cologne. He closed his eyes and had visions of the television commercial advertising the scent he was wearing.

Black and white slow motion. The girl running toward him. White cotton summer dress. Arms outstretched. Hair flowing behind her as if in water.

(Thank you Kate for being at house number two.)

Posted by trevor at 02:54 PM | Comments (0)

March 02, 2005

Ditto

" I would rather be a failure doing something I love
than being a success doing something I hate." - George Burns

Posted by trevor at 11:33 AM | Comments (0)

March 01, 2005

Taking Chances

I had a cup of tea today with an acquaintance who is a wonderful writer. He works in the advertising business and writes brilliant copy. He has always dreamed of what he calls being a ‘real writer’. Today he told me he was getting very close to his goal.

“What do you mean very close?” I asked.

“Well, I have written the first draft of a book of poetry,” he said.

“That’s great!” I replied. “When can I read it?”

“I won’t let anyone read it,” he said. “It’s too much of a risk.”

I told him that taking criticism and using it to better my work has helped improve my writing dramatically. He shut down completely and actually became rather off-ish when I told him risk-taking is an important part of being a published writer.

To achieve any goal there is always a risk involved. People say things like, “I’m not taking a risk. I’m not going out on a limb.” What they don’t realize is the fruit is on the limb. If you don’t go out on a limb you don’t get the fruit. It’s that simple.

We can learn so much about risk taking from kids. To kids, risks are new adventures in learning. When children first start to walk, they take the big risk of falling on their heads. The don’t stop trying to walk just because they might fall. Risk taking is an important part of growing up.

I’m not sure exactly when it stops though. But it does. Somewhere between being a kid and an adult, risks start influencing our creative attitude. We stop going out on a limb and start becoming careful and safe. We stop being adventurous and we retreat into our living rooms and become numbed by the television. The only risk we take is watching a new sitcom.

Looking for comfort in the ‘known’ stifles creativity. We cannot do great things if we are afraid of taking chances.

To walk, we must risk falling on our arses.

To ride a bicycle, we must risk crashing into the back of a parked car. (Which I have done…twice!)

To be a world-class gymnast, we must be prepared to risk an embarrassing crash landing. (Ice skater Tatiana Totmianina of Russia fell headfirst onto the ice during the free skate at Skate America last year. Her partner, Maxim Marinin, had just lifted her into the air in a one-handed lift when they lost their balance. Totmianina tumbled to the ice. She lay motionless for about five minutes before being carried off on a stretcher. U.S. figure skating officials said Totmianina was "stabilized well" by an attending physician and taken by ambulance to the trauma center at nearby Mercy Hospital. Two weeks later the pair took a huge risk and completed the same exercise. And yes, they went on to become world champions.

“If you don’t risk taking a shot, how can you score a goal?.” – David Beckham (Bend It Like Beckham)

“People who win take more chances than people who lose.” – my mum (bless her heart).

My friend has a choice. It is a choice between living his dream of being a ‘real’ writer or merely existing in his safety zone as a copywriter. (Which is not a bad profession mind you. I was a copywriter for years until I risked being a ‘real’ writer. Thank God! But that’s another blog unto itself.)

Starting to paint is a risk.

Going to the gym is a risk.

Taking any medication is a risk.

Owning a house is a risk.

Trusting the weatherman is a risk.

Buying a used car from a man with a bad hairpiece is a risk.

Crossing the road is a risk.

Eating sushi is a risk. (Especially in the Mojave Desert.)

Life is a risk.

So let’s go out on a limb and enjoy the fruit.

Posted by trevor at 08:57 AM | Comments (1)