“No, I don’t think you’ll get a headshot from me, that’s not going to happen.” He was aghast, how dare I go against his common marketing wisdom? “You don’t understand,” I said, “we do everything we can to avoid looking like securities sales people, we are the anti-Wall Street firm.” He laughed, almost crossing the line to mocking me, so I took the bait, “In fact, I am wearing an Occupy Wall Street tee shirt today.” If disgust were an odor, I would have had to leave the room, so palpable was his reaction. Well drum me out of the Young Republicans, I guess I disturbed him. But after 30 successful years in business, I wasn’t about to let him (or anyone else) stick a label on me.

I like to think of myself as the George Carlin of financial guys, if you remember, when the comic got his first break he wore suits and a crew cut, he was someone middle America could be very comfortable with, the darling of the Mike Douglas show. But George wasn’t comfortable as a member of the silent majority and reinvented himself as this counter culture curmudgeon who found humor in disturbing others. Doing it his way made him, arguably, the most successful stand up comic of his time, and he did it by breaking the mold. He questioned our words, our politics, and our most commonly held beliefs, he was an artist and a hugely successful one. He died five years ago this month and I would love to hear him rant about our government looking at all of our phone records or about the cult of Justin Bieber and other quasi celebrities. I didn’t always agree with Carlin, in fact I often did not, but I knew what he was doing: he was holding up a mirror to society and pointing out our zits and nose hair. Artists do that and George Carlin is missed.

Being a gadfly has its pitfalls and being true to yourself is not the same as striving to be someone who annoys people. There has to be authenticity or your act won’t get to Broadway, there has to be a consistency too, you can’t just be an artist when it suits you. Being an artist in my professional life means that I try to look at everything with fresh eyes, that I don’t automatically accept everything because everyone else is doing it, in fact, I get suspicious when everyone else is doing something. An old timer once told me to be very accommodating as an investor, when everyone wants to sell: buy from them. When everyone wants to buy, sell to them. Whenever I find myself on the side of the majority, I begin to doubt myself and it is that artist’s sensibility that keeps me in that place where driving against traffic is more interesting than just going with the flow.

Some of us have jobs where conformity is expected (or even required) but its possible to look like Drew Carey on the outside while being George Carlin on the inside. Bringing your Creative Beast to work helps to avoid becoming a dullard. Anyone can put numbers on a spreadsheet, its the creative person who can see the trends in them, who can give those numbers significance and meaning. Being creative means you don’t willingly let your mind go numb, that you fight boredom with inspiration and a unique approach to the mundane. You fight conformity with questions and hope. You are armed with the artistic belief that you can make things better.

Successful artists are more than renegades, they are skilled, disciplined, and driven. George Carlin was more than a grumpy guy insulting people at the end of his driveway, he was a master of timing, his words were carefully chosen (even if they were chosen to offend), and he was professional. He rose to the very top of his field. Bringing an artistic attitude to your day job should make you better at it: enthusiasm, inspiration, and honesty, when combined with technical ability, are a tough combination to beat.

Now, can I tell you the seven words you can’t say on this blog…

Rick

One of the best ways to lose yourself is to focus on creation.

Waking each day and approaching life as someone who is going to create something is one of the best ways to stay engaged in your life, and, as an artist, you get to focus on your unique point of view, bringing your emotions and experiences to your work that helps to identify you as the unique creation that you are. The payoff comes when you are through with your work, when you see it posted in a blog, hanging on a wall, or performed in front of an audience. The payoff is not necessarily the commission or royalties, it can be simply be the feeling of accomplishment you get when looking at your work… let’s call it Pride.

Pride has gotten a bad rap, “Pride goeth before a fall” and all that; but pride is actually a good thing. On the subject, Jane Austen said,

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.” Pride is the feeling you get when you stop looking at the flaws in your work and say, “Hey, this is pretty good.” Pride gets such a bad rap nowadays that it is more difficult to find, do we take pride in our own work anymore? Has our culture devalued pride in the name of casual dress, job performance reviews and doing only what we are told?

So pride then, has nothing to do with pleasing anyone else, it comes from within. How do we get to pride? Daniel Pink, in his groundbreaking book, Drive, tells us that the only time we are at our best is when three conditions are present: A sense of autonomy, a feeling of mastery, and a sense of purpose. In other words, our work has to give us a certain amount of freedom, a bit of a mental challenge and must have some deeper meaning than simply getting a paycheck. (So, the next time you are about to go off on your waitress for bad service, ask yourself what is it about her job that drives her to be better at it? Beyond money, she probably good use a little encouragement!) The American philosopher, Huck Finn, put it this way:

“What’s the use you learning to do right, when it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?” And, really, what saves us from going through the motions? Does it matter? When I lived in Rochester, New York, I knew a number of Kodak lifelong employees who “RIP’d” (Retired in Place), the company was large enough to hide in, to do just enough to keep from getting fired. Kodak, it should be noted, is bankrupt, and part of the problem was that the culture got away from the artists. A company built to help artists (photographers) forgot that they were artists themselves. The culture of service and creativity became focused on earnings per share and playing defense, the equivalents of corporate “self help.” The employees had no chance to follow their own creative ideas, they weren’t particularly challenged by their work, and the only meaning they found was in taking care of themselves.

Not all of us, I know, are lucky enough to have day jobs that allow us to be truly engaged and challenged. (You could, as I did, change the place you work, that’s a nice solution!) But, if you have a creative outlet, even if it is only on the weekends, everything changes. When you approach life as an artist you are surrounded by inspiration, your day job (and everything else in your world) becomes a part of your work and you can’t help but feel more engaged in your own life. Enthusiasm follows. By challenging yourself to improve your art and find sources of inspiration that come from places you never thought you’d venture, you are living as an artist. It is a pretty cool way to live!

And, when you are in the middle of being inspired and creative, you really don’t have time to be worried about your own “happiness.” You are much too busy! And, then: you have that Pride that comes with accomplishing your art. That is as close to happiness as you will ever need to get!

Go make something !

As I began to commit woodwork, past decisions haunted me, Paying attention in wood shop would have been a good life choice, geometry class too. But; after much trial and some error, I built two 6 foot boxes for our rose bushes and even added trellises. I was proud, and maybe a a little cocky. I had, after all, overcome my old circular saw, which ran perfectly well until it came into contact with wood (bought a new one = 1 extra trip to Lowes), bought the right amount of wood (okay, two more trips back to Lowes, where a not very helpful sales clerk dropped my lumber on me, leaving a purple and yellow mark on my quadricep), and figured out which ends of the planters went inside the sides (hooray math). I even bought a Black and Decker Workmate, which served the dual purposes of acting as a vise and work table while providing verification of my homeowner’s DIY status. All told, my home made planters cost only 300% more than the ones Teresa thought I could easily build.

My new found manliness was now unleashed, what could I build next? A dining room set? An addition on the house? How about a garden potting bench, which I found in a woodworking magazine? (Yes, I bought a woodworking magazine.) I even ordered the old timey powdered milk paint for the bench, as the magazine suggested. The bench was a go: and then we went to Disney and I saw my next project, a three legged plant stand, designed to give height to your garden while providing a rustic look. Deal! My garden needed height. And rusticness. Memorial Day weekend was now booked.

Friday, at lunch, I left the office bound for Lowes, ready to build my planter even though for over a month I had not looked at the photo of my project which was safely stored on Teresa’s phone. From memory, I confidently bought 2×4′s and quickly assembled a piece of furniture, a really nice three legged stool that in no way resembled the picture Teresa brought home that evening. I had, however, taught myself how to build a stool, and, if you could sit on it, you could put damn plants on it. I declared victory, calling my piece a “prototype.”

Saturday began with another trip to Lowes, after a long breakfast, time with the dogs, time to read a chapter of a book, AND a trip to the Farmer’s Market. No one was on my schedule, but it was okay, I was simply building a bigger model of my prototype, cockiness still ruling common sense. We were good. It turned out my new model was very different than the stool I’d built the day before: it was going to require 2 x 6′s which were heavy and also took up more room. Getting the angle right was more crucial now and I really could have used my old shop teacher, or a carpenter, or a 4th grader with a protractor. The angles had me stumped. My 3 legged stool prototype wasn’t the same and I literally spent hours trying to figure out which way to attach the legs before screwing them in. I have the visual space equivalent of dyslexia and I called for Teresa’a set of eyes. And, since she wasn’t a shop teacher, carpenter, or a 4th grader with a protractor, our two out-of-our element brains only made matters worse. For a while, we even determined that our Epcot original must have had 4 legs, not three, and I added the extra appendage, creating a monstrosity that looked nothing like the intended target. We continued, in puzzle solving mode, disagreeing about my decision to go back to the three legged design and finally getting the legs attached at the almost proper angles. We had a stable and sturdy plant stand.

Now to attach the shelves. No problem: need one 6 inches in the back, 21 inches in the front, I’ll simply trace that out on the wood, plop it in my ole Workmate and slice them babies out like cold cuts. Not so much. You see, I hadn’t put the three legs in at equal angles, so the shelves had to be individually cut, one side was something like a 21 degree angle, the other 33. And each side of the triangles was going to be different, every shelf would require a different measurement . We talked. And talked some more, trying to invent geometry right there on our patio. The best I could come up with for a solution was this: we folded and traced on a poster board,  like a sewing pattern, to create a template for the first shelf and it worked well enough. My work gave new definition to the term “rough cut” and I said, “Don’t worry if the shelf doesn’t fit snug, no one will see the big space, there will be plants covering it.

But it bothered me. A lot.

My manliness was being threatened.

Back to Lowes we went, I needed a break and more wood. The fat SOB clerk guy in the lumber department at Lowes mocked my question about the angles, suggesting that I could best solve the problem by hiring a carpenter. Can they do that? At a do it yourself store? I was pissed now and more motivated than ever to finish my project, no matter how crappy. He relented and helped me select a fine carpenter’s square, which, with a little practice, allowed me to copy the angles of my piece and translate them to shelves that were serviceable if not perfect. I worked in the garden until dark, making a few more mistakes, but none that couldn’t be fixed or hidden. Sunday morning I got up to cut and attach the last three shelves and paint the unit. It was to be a bad morning.

Here’s the thing about creating something: you see ALL the mistakes. And, if you don’t have the skill required to avoid or correct them, they begin to pile, multiplying and assaulting you; death by a thousand cuts. By Sunday morning, I was pretty much over the entire idea, I would just shave my legs and be done with it. But this 5 foot unfinished piece of lumber was sitting in the middle of my patio, taunting me. I hit a wall. The screws wouldn’t go in straight, the angles weren’t coming out right, things were falling down and disappearing, my glasses kept slipping down my nose, my Workmate wouldn’t fold up the way it was supposed to. (“Now, I am supposed to stop and repair the thing that is supposed to save me work? Wait, my glasses slipped, where is that drill bit, down there, oh, my glasses slipped. Why won’t that Workmate fold up? Oh good, the extension cord is wrapped around the extra wood, now it is falling. There go my glasses.”) It was overload and I declared the plant stand finished, as is. Time to paint it; did I mention that the paint recommended in the woodworking magazine for an OUTDOOR garden stand was an INTERIOR paint (determined once I opened the package)? Back to Lowes for varnish.

Monday morning was installation time, and Teresa was in charge of the plants. Off we went to the nursery. After much discussion, several suggestions that involved delaying deciding what plants to buy, and even threats to burn the plant stand, we came home with plants that were guaranteed to cascade down the sides of our planter. The plant decisions were not unanimous. And we had to face another decision: pots. Or window boxes? Build sides to the shelves to hold the dirt, without pots? (Hell no.) We finally settled on window boxes, which kind of fit my irregular shelves, with my assurances that the cascading flowers would hide the boxes anyway. Another trip to Lowes. And Old Time Pottery. And Walmart. (Where I did see a guy with an awesome Hitler mustache.)

We survived and our garden looks better. I am happy that I have experienced the project and I know how I would do it differently next time. The planter is sturdy, if not square. The flowers are lovely, if not unanimously agreed upon, our marriage surviving but tested. I learned a lot: I learned about angles, I learned the value of a mentor (by omission), and I appreciate the skill and knowledge required to build even the simplest pieces of furniture. My manhood is bruised but surviving too, and I am fairly sure that no one will ever again say to me, “You could build that.”

Then again, that potting bench looks like a fun project…

No one argues that subjective attributes like emotions, motivation, and flat out stubbornness are not easily measured, it’s like trying to say something tastes like “blue.” What does blue taste like? So, in the interest of modern science, we tend to dismiss all things subjective. There are, of course, certain things that disappear as soon as you try to put a number on them: love, romance, sensuality.

“Ok, if this feather rubbed gently up your back is a 7, what would you rate the sandalwood candle?”

“Yea, never mind, what’s on TV?”

In the interest of data we have come up with hundreds of career justifying industries that measure the measurable and ignore the unmeasurable. In this age of science and reason, we are descendants of Spock, logic is our holy grail and data is the syllogism that proves our theories. We quantify and measure so we can create protocols and processes that prove what we already know. We’ve made a science out of a natural trait called, “Leadership.” Colleges teach it as if it was a science, developing leadership theories that work perfectly until another school comes along and can’t measure  it and comes up with its own theory, which another school will us data to disprove.

If you walk into a group of people, you can tell the “leaders” right away, they stand out. Can we measure them? Let’s say its a team, we know a good coach as soon as we see his players respond to him. But, how do we really know unless we have data? We will then probably measure the coach by wins and then use our data to model the winningest coaches. Even if he chewed tobacco, drove a Mini Cooper, and kept pet llamas, other organizations would try to duplicate his “model,” right down to the brand of chew. In reality, the coach might be successful simply because he has better players, but how could we measure and duplicate parental genes and other unmeasurable circumstances?

Numbers are the refuge of the unimaginative and those who want to play it safe. Data is safe, we measure what we cam measure, even if it has nothing to do with the attributes that truly matter.

Not long ago, I saw headlines about a study that couldn’t prove that drinking a lot of water was good for you. Everyone knows that drinking a lot of water is good for you, but here was data that told us otherwise, numbers don’t lie! Common sense and the feeling that comes with good hydration can’t be measured, at least by this study! I’ve seen it in business. In my younger days, stock analysts visited the companies they were  analyzing, and their competitors, and understood the business they were going to cover. Today, anyone with a company’s earnings release considers themselves an expert, numbers don’t lie. Unless, they do, that’s why securities salespeople are supposed to disclaim, “past results are not indicative of future performance.”

Modern science, the place where we have invested so much faith, is the headquarters for data, we believe what science can measure, numbers don’t lie.

You can’t measure creativity and Lord knows, people are trying. Plenty of academics are trying to come up with rules and traits of creative, (like 3 traits of creative workers: expertise, creative thinking skills,and intrinsic motivation) and good luck with coming up with a test for that. It would be very helpful if we could simply develop a “process” for creativity that anyone could follow. Process, by the way, is a wonderful word the corporate types have come up with, it means a series of rules and steps that guarantee success (and ass coverage).  Talent is a difficult thing to measure, entrepreneurs, customer service people, and, yes, teachers, are often born, not made.

We end up teaching things we can measure to children who get measured. We value coloring within the lines, only taking chances if we can prove the outcome, and only investing in companies that have measurable past results. Subjectivity is the tool of the superstitious and the vague, statistical outliers are part of the counter culture.

Future historians, digging through our rubble, will call it “Death by Data” and we will give them the numbers to prove it.

“Who can I help today?”

“How I can I serve God today?”

“What’s our family doing today?”

The thing about the all the self help stuff our generation suffered through was this: it was focused on self. Trying to make yourself happy by only taking care of yourself is a dead end street. The self help gurus tell you that you are supposed to focus on your own feelings, “the mirror to your soul.” The trouble is; your feelings are largely a moving target, they can change with the wind or the extra pepperoni you had on your pizza. Our feelings, including “happiness” are better managed when they are attached to something greater.

Let’s call it Love.

When we look back at history, the most successful people, including artists, believed in something greater than themselves and had a motivation that helped them to power through changes in moods or other roadblocks. When we think of heroes, we think of selfless people, not people who made decisions in their own interest. We are fond of saying of heroes, “No greater love than this…” and we are talking about self sacrifice, not self help, we are talking about love.

Creation is an act of love, You can relate it to the supernatural, the spiritual or merely to necessity, but creation involves, hope, faith and, yes, love. The optimism inherent in building something new is a sign that you believe you have something to share, that this world can be a better place and that you want to participate. Why bother to create if you think things are hopeless? In creating something you are sharing not just your creation but yourself, you are opening your soul. That’s risky.

In my experience, you can’t live against your values. Not my values, not some preacher’s values, but your own values. And, deep inside every artist is this thing we call love and that is a value we can all draw on. Inspiration then, comes when we have someone to create for. It could be our lover, our family, our God, or our sponsor. Those who manage or sponsor creative people should remember this, it is easier to create if you are inspired and inspiration involves no small amount of hope. Creation is an act of sharing and a good way to get inspired is to imagine our “target audience,” the person for whom we are creating, enjoying and praising our work. Beginning with that vision is a great way to keep the inspiration coming, all the wau through your job.

I hope you make something cool today, we are all waiting to see it!

My crime?

I shared a picture that came across my Facebook feed that showed a very nude, and very wrinkled old gardener declaring this to be national nude gardening weekend. The picture made me laugh, and apparently, many of my readers too. We had a very funny series of exchanges mocking the old man and his wrinkles, laughter was shared by all. Well, almost all. This one guy got a little carried away in the comments, going on in a fairly icky manner about not only the joys of nudity, freedom from the tyranny of clothing and society, but also plowing his garden with his very special tool. As I said to him: Eeeeuu.

Not only was I sent to a corner, I was sternly warned that Facebook might ban me altogether the next time. No discussion, no appeal. That my friends, is a frightening proposition and as a society, we need to look into the power we have invested in the great Zuckerberg. I know several Facebook pages whose language is far more objectionable than a picture of a pruned up old guy’s private parts, but that’s okay with Facebook. And, while I hate to agree with my slightly creepy Facebook reader, there is a tyranny here that allows us to post Michelangelo’s David but not a guy planting cucumbers. Facebook is Big Brother.

I am all for standards, and I will have no problem avoiding posting nudes, I didn’t really seek this picture out, it was already on Facebook and it made me laugh. I impulsively shared it and was amused by the comments that followed. I am, however, concerned that all of the relationships and history I have could be wiped away by Big Brother Facebook without so much as a discussion. That is wrong.

I am glad that Facebook is a place that is free of pornography and nudity, and whether my old gardner guy is sexual titillating is a not so hard call (pun intended). With as many artist friends as I have, my Facebook news feed is constantly filled with images of beautiful people in far more suggestive poses than our gardener, in fact, if Facebook said I was sent to timeout because the old guy was too unattractive for their pages, I would have understood. At least it would have been funny. Facebook appears to have no sense of irony or understanding of what is sexual. Someone saw a picture of a wrinkled old guy’s zucchini and hit a button with no more thought than I did when I hit share. And, I have no option to discuss it or reason with someone, I am labeled as a sex offender.

Several years ago the Federal Communications Commission was given custody of the nation’s airwaves, dolling out licenses for broadcasters with provisions that they were accountable to the public. Who does Facebook answer to? What if Zuckerberg, who apparently  thinks profanity is fine, but the human body is not, decides to start banning people who are critical of him? He’s got the power, obviously, to ban anyone who displeases him, with no appeal, with no fair hearing.

Today could be my last day on Facebook, or yours. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. So, in the meantime, the words of WKRP in Cincinnati’s  Dr. Johnny Fever will have to do: BOOGER!

They were great people, very involved in their local church and into fitness in a very California way, out walking as a family every evening past our house. They put in a pool (I didn’t want one) and their home became the center for all the neighborhood’s kids, we could hear everyone yelling and splashing on warm central Florida evenings. For nine years we kept track of them, knowing that the real estate business was getting tough and wondering how they were doing. Little things tipped us off, the grass was dying, the palm trees untrimmed, and we knew that maybe they weren’t doing so well. One day there was a food truck parked in the driveway, they had gone into the mobile restaurant business, selling pupusas, drawing on their El Salvadoran roots. They weren’t going down without a fight.

One morning last week I set off for my walk and the Dad was loading a trailer with the help of some friends, and I had my answer. He was on the phone when I walked by, averting his eyes when I tried to make a connection. I kept walking, not wanting to add to his shame. That afternoon, my son confirmed it, they’d left the house to the bank and found a nearby rental. The house sits empty now, there is an empty house on every single block of the neighborhoods around here, sometimes two. I wonder if everyone of them was owned by someone who tried so hard to play by the rules as our neighbors did.

My neighborhood was ground zero for the housing boom, we border the northern tip of Disneyworld and  tourists can’t help but think what a great place this would be to raise a family. It is: like I often say, we might not live in the happiest place on earth, but we can see it from here. We can hear it to, hear the train and steamboat whistles, and hear the nightly fireworks (and no, we never get sick of them). A couple of years after we arrived, people slept in their cars to buy lots as soon as they went on sale in a new development right near us; it was a gold rush. We even got unsolicited calls from realtors offering to buy our house for double what we paid. Not so much anymore.

The economy of our area is service based and the reality of living in Orlando is different than the glimpse you get of it on vacation, there is poverty here. Some of us fall down and can’t get back up.

I hope our now former neighbors will be okay. I pray they will and I know they will pray too, they are devout people who trust in God with all their hearts. We wonder if the lesson being taught is necessary, will their kids be changed forever and will they learn an undeserved lesson about going for the American dream. I also pray for those who lose their homes because they can’t afford health insurance and get sick, I pray for those who thought they could make it through these hard times and bought into the idea that houses can only go up in value and jobs will always be plentiful.

I work in the financial services industry and we are infamous for running ads about our clients retiring to their own vineyard or sailing around the world in a high tech sailboat. In reality, most people are trying to maintain, hoping they can keep their possessions when they retire and praying that the nursing home doesn’t get their money before their kids do. A lot of us have fallen down, a lot of us are not that far from loading our stuff onto a trailer and moving out of our cherished homes.

I hope that those of us left standing will have the grace to help them back up.

Garth Brooks has a song about this that I play and sing on my guitar, I wish I had the guts to sing it for you here, but the lyrics will have to do, it’s called Wolves and those lyrics are much more powerful than anything I could possibly say.

January’s always bitter
But Lord this one beats all
The wind ain’t quit for weeks now
And the drifts are ten feet tall
I been all night drivin’ heifers
Closer in to lower ground
Then I spent the mornin’ thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pulled down

Charlie Barton and his family
Stopped today to say goodbye
He said the bank was takin’ over
The last few years were just too dry
And I promised that I’d visit
When they found a place in town
Then I spent a long time thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pull down

Lord please shine a light of hope
On those of us who fall behind
And when we stumble in the snow
Could you help us up while there’s still time

Well I don’t mean to be complainin’ Lord
You’ve always seen me through
And I know you got your reasons
For each and every thing you do
But tonight outside my window
There’s a lonesome mournful sound
And I just can’t keep from thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pull down

Oh Lord keep me from bein’
The one the wolves pull down

Sometimes that’s the payoff, just the joy. It’s possible to get so focused on the other things that we forget to collect, to take the payoff. I think its an American thing, we value winners, we are achievers, we want a reward. Competitive and comparative, that’s how we get, as if the stuff we create and the things we do aren’t amazing, unique, and wonderful because we don’t measure up to someone else’s standards. You aren’t dancing for a panel of judges, you are dancing to make your soul happy. In everything you create, in everything you do, don’t forget to collect.

That joy.

Its okay to do something without excellence, without being judged, without getting paid. It’s okay to do something because you like to, because you’ve never done it before, or because it needed to be done. And there is joy to be found in anything that comes from love and creation is an act of love. Coming from this place of curiosity, of imagination, of optimism is a reward by itself. Let’s call it joy.

I talk to sooooo many people who enjoy their creative pursuits and they always say, “If only I could get paid to do that.” A few people are lucky enough to get paid to do that, but professionalism changes everything. You don’t have to go pro.

You don’t have to win a dance competition to be a joyful dancer, you don’t have to qualify for the Masters to enjoy playing a round of golf, and its okay to pick up a guitar and scratch out a song, even if you are in no danger of getting a CMA Award.

The payoff is the joy, its immediate, it doesn’t come in the next life or on the next pay day. It comes during the creation, especially if the creating comes from honesty, from your heart, from your emotion. In your life, your daily life, you can get that payoff too, the payoff of knowing you are living in integrity, in kindness, in grace. The life you create, like the art you create, has an immediate payoff.

Just after the creation stops for the day, you take a look at what you’ve done and the payoff continues. You see the progress you made, you come out of the creative process long enough to admire your work, to appreciate it, to think of how you can improve it.

That  joy, the one just before you close your eyes and go to sleep, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

In your art, and in your life: that feeling, that payoff. Don’t forget to collect.

I was supposed to write a poem about ancient Knights for an assignment. That wasn’t going to happen, I missed out on getting the poetry gene. The professor and I negotiated down to a story that captured the essence of the Chivalric Code. She probably wasn’t expecting this, but it’s what came out of my fingers:

Spanish Johnnie was bleeding out. The beating and slashing had stopped; he was alone on the pavement now, beyond pain, knowing the garbage men would find him in the morning. It was alright; he’d died for a good cause. His legs were numb now and the blood pooling around his head was warm and he could feel his wounds throbbing, pumping blood onto the streets.

He thought about his Mother, at least he’d die better than she did, with a needle in her arm and her pimp’s name tattooed on her eyelids. She was fifteen when he was born and 31 when she died last summer. She loved him but couldn’t stop her life long enough to take care of him; he’d raised himself. He loved her but the gang gave him life, they took it away too. The gang was his family and he did what they needed, he served them with passion and with fear, because he didn’t want to be alone.

He was a good soldier, as a boy he delivered packages for them; he ate dinner with their families. As he grew, the jobs increased and he was happy to prove he belonged. He went to war for the gang, protected the turf, protected the trade routes, he killed for them. He was loyal and obedient. He survived this long because he did what he was told. Sure enough, he thought, as his waist and stomach went numb, he was right, when he crossed the gang he ended up here. Dead.

There was this one teacher. An Anglo with blue eyes and blonde hair and a smile like nothing Johnny had seen before. She was his 3^rd grade teacher and he felt something from her he’d never known. She’d made him feel like he mattered, like he was smart, she even knew he was hungry and cold. She called him into her room one morning, he remembered (as if he’d forget, he was thinking about it now, as he lay dying), and given him a coat and some shoes that almost fit. She said her son had outgrown them and to keep this our little secret.

She was always doing stuff like that for the kids and it was no secret, she’d bring treats, shoes, and books. He supposed she was an angel. Her classes were good too, she read stories and explained things with laughter, with smiles, and he wanted to please her. He tried to get the answers right for a change because she was so happy when he got the answers right. It was weird, he didn’t understand why she did it, she wasn’t in the gang, and she didn’t live in the hood.

He knew that because she drove a nice car and had a nice diamond ring on her finger. She came and taught school and drove home to a life he could only imagine. Only, he couldn’t imagine it and by the time he was 12, he’d quit going to school. He was making more money than the teachers by then, working for the gang and selling little packets. He never got caught, he knew every open door, every abandoned car, everyplace to hide and disappear for a while. He was a good soldier. By the time he’d shot another kid for the first time, he had all but forgotten the teacher. But he remembered her now. Her smile, he’d seen it today.

He was with Felipe and Enrique, as he usually was, they were going to boost a car and get what they could from it. He was the backup on this one, watching from the corner for the cops or anything else that came along. They headed through the hood towards the school, there was a meeting tonight, so there were a lot of cars, some nice ones too. The rest happened in a second, a blur, and he ended up here, breathing his last breaths.

They smashed a few windows and grabbed some money and a few phones, people are so stupid, Enrique was pretty stoned tonight and sloppy, he made more noise than he should have. He was talking shit and saying how much he needed to get some, he didn’t care how. And Johnny knew he didn’t: he’d seen him take what he wanted before. The parking lot was empty and they found a couple of unlocked cars and smashed a few more windows when she came out. His teacher.

From the edge of the parking lot he recognized her but not before Enrique saw her. She’d come out of the school and was looking inside of a car, must have been hers, and starting to dial her phone. Before she hit the last one, Enrique was upon her, throwing her down and holding a gun to her head, she cried. That made Enrique mad and it wasn’t a good idea to get him mad when he was high. Nothing good ever happened and this was going to end badly.

Johnny didn’t think, he didn’t make a choice; he just reacted. He was upon the pair in a second and he pistol whipped Enrique and knocked him off her and for a minute the teacher looked in his eyes and knew him and she smiled. She found her phone and dialed the last one and they ran from her. Enrique swearing that he was going to kill him the whole time.

He did. Felipe made his choice, he fought along side his brother, Enrique, and they made short work of him. With cop cars flying towards the school, no one dared shoot or even make any noise; this would be handled quietly and brutally. Fighting the brothers was like fighting a pack of dogs; when he faced one, the other stabbed him. The punches and the bricks they hit him with hurt more than the knives, but he knew the knives were going to make him die.

His head was numb now; he couldn’t feel anything. The last thing he thought of was the angel who gave him a coat and some shoes that almost fit. She was smiling at him and asking him not to share their little secret.

My best and most passionate writing has been reserved for my coursework where I have been talking about philosophy, St. Francis, the failings of the modern self help movement and how creativity is a product of spirituality. It’s really good stuff, but written in an academic style and perhaps a little too arcane for a space deisgned to encourage creativity.

I’ve also been designing and creating a new investment firm, a task that has reignited my entrepreneurial spirit. I’m designing a firm that will focus on service, education, great investments. I’m creating some videos for a new website and I am sure it will be nothing like Wall Street has ever produced, I think you’ll love it. Imagine, an investment firm that actually takes the time to listen to you, explain things to you, and allows you to invest in a manner attuned to your values.

And; of course, I am honored to be helping Teresa recover from her breast cancer. She has had successful chemotherapy and surgery and we are looking forward to the next steps in the protocol that her doctors have prescribed. Dealing with this has been quite a humbling and educational experience. Let me tell you this, some people are genetically pre-disposed to certain diseases and there is no amount of diet or positive thinking that will override that. I have no patience or tolerance for anyone who says that she has somehow attracted this or that our lifestyle is responsible.

That’s just one of the things I am passionate about lately, I am fired up about a lot of the things going on in the world today and I hope to reignite my blogging passion sson.

Rick