Writing the Rodeo

Great writers have good word control; something beginner writers lack terribly.

Skilled writers' thoughts line up like orange trees in a Florida grove. The rows and columns are orderly and understandable. My thoughts burst like wild bulls through the gate, words flying everywhere in the dust of dangling participles, the chaos of inconsistent tenses, the gore of disagreeing pronouns.  (I blame my sub-level, 1970's California High School non-education).

Furiously,  I wind up my rope and heave a lasso to try to contain them; those unwieldy words, snorting, slobbering and bucking in mad resistance. After a fierce battle, they finally lay on their side, panting in rebellious defeat, until at last I have a paragraph someone can read.

Successful authors like Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings and Marjory Stoneman Douglas seem to have it all together. They too have had their war of the words, but vetted at an early age have emerged the victors of verbiage. Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings of (The Yearling) was published at age 11, Marjory Stoneman Douglas, (River of Grass) worked at her father's Miami newspaper.

For me, and unfortunately for you poor readers, my vetting ground is this blog. I apologize for dragging you through the muddy mess of my writing arena, for choking you with my excessive alliteration and making you endure the milieu of mixed metaphors. All writers must pay their dues and learn their craft. I'm sorry I must subject innocent readers to the bloody violence of taming my wily words. Thank you for being valiant and loyal spectators in this painful process.

Someday perhaps this venue will be more like playground than a bull ring. A happy place where phrases are playthings. Homonyms are tossed like bouncy balls, figures of speech delight like dolls. Then we'll play on words in a kinder, gentler read.

"The Property Known as Garland" Played in Palm Beach

When Lee Marlow's acting coach requested a cold reading of The Property Known as Garland, she jumped to the podium, script in hand. One doesn't normally drag their feet or refuse a director's request, especially if that director happens to be Burt Reynolds. Marlow read it with grace and ease; the words tripping off her lips and the content coming from her heart. She later said of the read that,

"It. Felt. Wonderful!"

The role of Judy Garland appeared to be tailored-made for Marlow. A perfect fit, like the red, satin gown she wore in the final scene.

If you were lucky enough to see the production last month at the former Florida Stage, I think you'd agree that

It. Was. More.Than.Wonderful!

Photo credit Jeffrey A McDonald

Set in Garland's backstage dressing room, the icon took us on a journey from her stolen Vaudeville childhood, through the relationship with MGM studios, her many husbands, her mercenary mother, and the nagging narcotics. Garland told her story of triumphs, defeats and come-backs. With biting wit she rails on those who forced their agendas on her, who started her on the 'pill mill' at 15 - a pill to keep her awake, help her sleep, shed excess weight. She struggled to regain her life when those around her orchestrated it against her will. She battled for her identity and independence despite being treated like a thing, a product, a paycheck for her producers. Her fierce love for her children was her only lifeline, her saving grace, for the moment, anyway.

The two-character script was written by Billy Van Zandt and played in New York for several weeks. How it got to the The Palm Beaches Theatre in Manalapan, is a story in itself.

Burt Reynolds had set things in motion for Marlow and insisted the show be a one-woman monologue. Marlow contacted offices in New York to see if Reynold's vision was possible and to procure licensing rights. Office workers directed her to Billy Van Zandt himself via email. A few emails later she got a personal phone call from the playwright. Delighted to speak with him directly, Marlow explained Burt's concept and where he wanted to trim the script. To her surprise, Van Zandt told her he had preferred it as a monologue and said it should start with the precise line Reynolds had recommended. Licensing was granted. With that kind of like-mindedness and affirmation, Marlow went to work and emerged with 90 minutes of a sparkling depiction of the true Garland.

1957, Backstage at the Greek Theater - LA Times

When many of us think of Judy Garland, we picture the young farm girl in a blue checkered dress, Toto in arms, belting out "Over the Rainbow." We soar with her mighty vocals to that magical land.

For others a darker image arises: one of a tragic, worn down woman. We mourn that she left this world so early.

Regardless of which image of Judy you ascribe to, you won't want to miss Marlow's grand portrayal of the legendary lady. The Property Known As Garland plays November 12th, 13th and 14th at 7pm and Sunday, November 15th at 2pm at The Palm Beaches Theatre, formerly The Florida Stage, 262 South Ocean Drive, in Manalapan. For tickets call 561-362-0003 or visit pbfilmfest.org.

You will see that Marlow's presentation is more than just a tribute, but a treatise on Garland's tenacious will. A declaration of her determination to resist defeat and to shine as the victorious star she was.

Photo credit Jeffrey A McDonald

My Son, The Rail Rider

Depression Era Rail Riders

Perhaps it was his west coast roots that drew him, having been born in hilly Thousand Oaks just north of Los Angeles, or a distant call from the restless youths of a century ago, or simply the breath-stopping excitement of conquering a monstrous locomotive.

Whatever it was, my son had to go, had to answer, and leave his Brooklyn abode for a month-long odyssey commencing in Los Angeles. Home of  movie stars, it was his Vine celebrity friend who concocted the idea:

"Hey guys, let's hop trains for the month of August and make a documentary film on rail riding." 

 He invited four of his childhood friends, of whom my son was one, and with a "Holy Crap, that sounds awesome!" they dropped everything and booked a flight to LA.

They sub-let their rooms on Air B&B, took a leave from their jobs and texted their families goodbye despite their moms begging them to reconsider so dangerous an endeavor. The boys turned a deaf ear on big brother-in-uniform's warnings and fathers' disapproval of the whole idea. After all if you get caught, it's a misdemeanor and an unnecessary smudge on your record.

Bullheaded.

They.

Went.


How different from the first freight hoppers. During the Depression, their fathers kicked them out on the street to fend for themselves. One less mouth to feed. At fifteen or younger, the boys were capable of living on their own. The train got them where they needed to go. To this town where rumors of work flew. To this farm where walnut picking would bring in enough for a meal. To this field to harvest tomatoes to keep body and soul together.

1930's Train Hoppers

 

Decades later, my son voluntarily left his comfortable bed for the cold steel bottom of a boxcar, or worse the frightful underbelly scaffold of a grainer.

Doesn't look pretty.

The group spent a full week planning and researching which routes and lines would take them from the City of Angels to the Big Apple via the northern route. First stop Portland, then Montana, Idaho, eastward to New York. That was the plan - full of unknowns as it was, there was enough in their minds to go for it. The rest they'd figure out along the way like which car to hop, how to hide from the authorities, where to sleep and eat. Luxuries such as washing hands and showering were deliberated later when the citified boys would finally get sick of pebbles in their eyes and soot under their fingernails.

Sleeping bag, check
Neckerchief for toxic exhaust fumes while going through tunnels, check
Video cameras, cellphones, chargers, check
Freeze-dried food, check,
Jacket, check
Hat, check
Tent, check
Glasses to protect eyes from wind and grit, check

All packed, but missing one of their travel companions who got delayed on his flight. Once he arrived they were ready for their LA jumping off point. The tricky part was getting on the right train. Other would be hobos had erroneously hopped one headed to Arizona, intending to go north.

Finally, it was the early morning of their departure. Five young men headed for the station. If they hadn't quite awoken, their racing heartbeats were pumping adrenaline then. Shoes crunched the train yard gravel as they awaited their first ride on the iron labyrinth that would take them through scenery and experiences none of them half expected...

My son, the Rail Rider.

Haunted by the Presence of God

Children hold a deep consciousness of their parent's presence. The slightest hurt or worry spawns a cry for help. The mere sight of mom and dad restores their sense of security.

This was illustrated so clearly this weekend as my grand daughter Charlotte took ill on my son's wedding day. Daddy had just put on her pretty dress only to have her lose her lunch on it.  Neither daddy, Charlotte nor brothers got to attend.

Sweetie pie came down with the stomach flu leaving her feeling bad for several days. She clung to mom's hip and nuzzled her neck as she recovered.

She knew where her shelter and help came from.
 
Today I read Chambers' My Utmost For His Highest and am reminded that this too is my stance. I look to Him just like a little child.

No worries.

Just trust.

Just an ever present realization that God is mine and with me.

I am haunted by his presence.

Not just thinking about him, but interacting, clinging, resting my head on his mighty capable chest.

www.guideposts.org

What I Learned About Myself From A Wise Woman of Twenty

The house was filling up with young people and the volume began to drown out Randy Newman on the record player. I welcomed my chatty guests with a drink and an introduction to the rest of the group. It was the beginning of the Merry Month of May, as I called it; a full month of parties starting by celebrating my son's college graduation and ending with another son's wedding. Back in the kitchen I almost cut my finger prepping vegetables when I heard our friend, Kristin's comment.

She had been reading some philosophical book and lamenting some girlfriend's take on men, weary that her all her female friends seem to treat men alike. This was her complaint:

"Men may view women as objects, 

but women are guilty of viewing men as projects!"

Photo Credit www.allposters.com

Ouch!! She was so right, my conscience (not finger) clearly cut! I've always felt a little self righteous about being a woman. Poor men, they can't help themselves and  how they see woman as objects to be possessed or used for their pleasure. Unashamedly judgmental, I felt the male sex was a little more defective and morally inferior to the female species.

But she was right! How often do we try to make-over our men.
We dress them,
Manipulate their occupations to what suits us,
Train them to be the fathers and husbands we deem best.
We style their hair,
Tell them how to shave, or not
Re-design them, renovate them, remodel.

Then we put them on display on our Pottery Barn shelves and Ethan Allen hutches for all to see.
We post them on Facebook to garner 'likes' and make all the unhappily paired women envious.
We put up our perfect man on Pinterest with a link to our craft shop on Etsy.
Offer him as another creation we made from scratch.
He is the featured item in our "Perfect Male" shop.

"Look what I made! You too can have the boy of your dreams!"

Or we post our product on Ebay. Bidding starts at $199.

Recovering from her incriminating comment  - a revelation to me - and the near slice of my finger, I wondered how someone so young could possess such insight on the conflict of the sexes. She's truly cracked the code of relationships. No wonder men get tired of our nagging and prodding and messing. We straighten their hair without asking, fix their tie and trim their eyebrows to our liking.

Photo Credit - www.zazzle.com

At that moment, there in my kitchen in a house full of noisy company, in the middle of a party, I vowed to stop "project-ifying" my man, stop making him my mission,  and let him be who he is.

And I was a little, not much, but a little more forgiving of men who objectify women, not excusing them but feeling a bit more empathy for their weakness and wiring.

My husband will be happy to hear of my fresh resolution for our relationship - about my self-realization and new-found awareness.

I couldn't wait to tell him after the party - how this young woman of twenty had revealed a considerable flaw in my attitude toward him and men in general.

So I told him at bedtime.

After I had picked out his clothes for the morning.

Will the Real Mother Goose Please Stand Up?

We never stop missing our mothers. Mine has been gone for five years and I still think of her daily.
But brothers help fill the gap our deceased parents leave. Siblings confirm our childhood years as reality, despite their misty memory.

One such memory is a set of Childcraft volumes that we children read and referenced. Seeing them now elicits a warm wave of security, joy and repose. For my father read them to me at bedtime. I repeatedly perused them to occupy myself when TV was not in our house.

So, on a recent Los Angeles visit to see my brother, I spied the old volumes in our guest bedroom. The bindings flashed before me in their burnt orange color, frayed spine bindings and whimsical illustrations.

Opening it, all the familiar pages met my eyes. But missing was the poetry volume that held:

Hush-A-Bye, Baby

What Does the Bee Do?

Pease Porridge Hot

Jack Be Nimble

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

Three Blind Mice

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater

The Old Woman In The Shoe

And a favorite, Eletelephony 

"I'm missing Volume 1," brother Pete said. "I think I loaned it to you so you could read it to April when she was little."

That was a long time ago. I'd kept it for over thirty years, but not on purpose. The childhood excuses echoed back through our Stanton home halls. It wasn't my fault! I didn't mean to! I forgot! I didn't know I had it! Lame, lame. So I happily said, "I'll return it as soon as I get home".

One might wonder, "Why did he get the set  anyway, and not me?" I don't think the item was any part of our mother's will, but the little sister in me submitted without question to my big brother.

So, today I am putting it in a padded envelope wrapped in wrinkled tissue paper and sending it to my  brother with this letter:

Dear Pete,

I'm reading the inner flap of the Childcraft, Volume 1 before sending it to you. I notice that the editors of this Mother Goose and Nursery Rhymes were all PHD's from the likes of Vassar, Stanford, Peabody and Columbia. Impressive, I think. 

   Then I wondered, who is Mother Goose? No one author is associated with her. She is a legendary character, with a scant connection to an 8th Century noblewoman named Bertha, who embodies the county wife/mother personae. She also is likened to a fairy bird mother (hence she's shown riding a flying goose), who told enchanting stories to children. Your wife, Terry probably knows better of her origins since she is a teacher. 

   The first collection of Mother Goose stories was published in 1667, with an earlier form in 1637, as "Tales from the Past With Morals." Over the centuries, it has transformed into many varieties, one of which we happily read as children in the Childcraft series. Glad to send the missing volume back to its 'family'.

Much love, 

Your sister

Mother Goose is the symbol of wisdom and comfort the child in all of us craves.

A real person? I think not. But those of us who were reared by her rhymes will always associate her with the nurture and love of our own, very real mothers.

One Hundred Years of Walter - A Tribute to My Father

The fifth commandment says, "Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long..."

I had decided to compile a scrap book of my father's life as his 100th year approached. He passed in 1998 at age 82. Good intentions aside, when work, summer travel and painting my marred walls got in the way of finishing dad's life story,  this scripture spurred me on - perhaps out of selfish gain, but hopefully out of a desire to celebrate my dear father's life.

Where does one begin? Four-score years is a long time. Several eras encompassed the life of this English/Dutch-German man named Walter Ira Allen, born August 10, 1915.

Sherman Alden Allen was an English professor who married Herta (Bertha) Schenk.  They had Ralph first, then "Valtar" as his Dutch-German mother would call him, an accent my dad told me embarrassed him immensely. .

Walter in perambulator, Ralph and Herta Schenk-Allen-1916

A new job took the family to Worcester, Mass., where Walter spent his childhood and early adulthood.

Sylvan Street - 1921 - A new sled!

After high school he traveled to London and served in Ethiopia as a WWII  ambulance driver. On his return, he briefly attended Clark University, then headed to Hollywood seeking fame. He landed a few small parts while driving a taxi as his day job.

1943 Hollywood head shot

 A mutual friend introduced him to my mother, Isabel  MacDuffie and they married in 1949, settling in Hollywood, where my two brothers, Christopher, Peter and I were born.

Hollywood, 1951 - First son, Christopher.

My father was unique and interesting person, always wanting to stir things up, whether it be at the bank, market or restaurant with his joking comments and antics - a practice he held from young adulthood. He saw "No Trespassing" signs as an invitation to trespass. Here, on a 1930's trip to London, he sat in a stranger's car and had a friend take his photo, book and cane in hand.

Later, when my mom worked at Disneyland, he wandered through a door and ended up on a bridge overlooking the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, passengers laughing at this real pirate mannequin.

 My father held strong opinions about politics, of which he was quite outspoken. The volume was often high in our household, (his middle name, 'Ira' means 'wrath') but I was never afraid of his yelling. He lived out loud, kissed my mother often and loved us dearly.

 Ever involved in city and state politics, he campaigned for Barry Goldwater, warded off communists like many conservatives of the day. He was adamantly against television, so we were raised as TV illiterates. My brothers designed and built things, I played piano.

He would take the family for long walks around Balboa Island and Laguna Beach bluffs or for Sunday drives to Pacific Palisades and places at night unbeknownst to me,  where all  I can remember is clear cold air, starry black skies, the smell of campfires and steaming, nearly-burn-your-tongue hot chocolate for all. We'd come home and he'd heat up smooth rocks in the bathroom sink full of hot water to put at the bottom of our sheets, warming up our cold feet.

Poetry and short stories occupied his free time, self-publishing several poetry books which  I've come to appreciate over time. He bounced from job to job, sometimes leaving us with very little - a result of the absence of a honed skill or degree. Yet he was articulate and self - educated. I can still see him  reading in bed; books like Alexander Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago, Foxe's Book of Martyrs and Edmond Burke. He sang and played the piano.We lived in a modest house in Stanton, California and could see the Disneyland fireworks every summer's night from our driveway.

Forest Lawn - 1949 Wedding

When my parents' nest emptied out, they  moved to south Orange County into a new neighborhood until Alzheimer's struck. My mom cared for him as much as she could. We moved him from home to home, until he eventually refused food and passed  from the disease's advanced stage in 1998.

My father gave me the gift of himself. Something as simple as holding my hand on a walk to the grocery store, his giant dad hand enveloping my small little girl fingers. The strong sense of security and love that brought me still fills my heart today.

We went rock hopping in the Silverado Canyon creek, walking in the rain on the Huntington Beach pier, and wave watching at the Wedge. There was little money for vacations, but I never felt deprived of adventure. One New Year's morning, we jumped in the car  to see the Rose Parade in Pasadena, back when you didn't have to camp out for two days just to get a curbside spot. Or we'd hit the Hollywood bowl for Easter sunrise service or camp and hike in Yosemite. One rare day as an adult, we sat in the living room and he told me stories of living in the Middle east, adventures that made him the mysterious, daring and fascinating person he was.

That was my father. Sure, he had his faults. But today, I honor him and and remember him as a good father.

Happy Hundredth Birthday, Dad!

Miss you.

Church Bells Still Ring

I heard them today after the pastor declared triumphantly, "I now pronounce you man and wife." My son kissed his bride once, twice, three times with a careless embrace to follow. The wedding bells punctuated the nuptial celebration like an exclamation mark.

Suburbia dwellers don't hear them much. Not in the sprawl of Orange County nor in the western neighborhoods of South Florida. There is not a tone to be heard. In Thousand Oaks, bells sounded the time every hour, echoing from California Lutheran University about a mile away.

It had been years, but I heard them pealing above the vaulted church ceiling into the late May, Ceylon blue sky, proclaiming to the world that love is alive and well.

Love was no more abundant than within those chapel walls. And the bells burst out the good news for all to hear!

Love, barely contained inside two individuals, so full, that it spilled out onto every friend, relative and acquaintance beholding their union. My first-born son and the beautiful young woman whose warmth and genuineness is only equal to her wit, intelligence and brown-eyed beauty. A new daughter!!! How wonderful!

The church bells clanged and donged and rang, amplifying the joy in my heart and in the hearts around me. Oscar Rogers said it best in the theme song from The Sound of Music:

My heart wants to sigh 
like a chime that flies 
from a church on a breeze

The tenderness of heart was not just found in the the wedding pair, but found in their friends, also. The flood of affection could be seen at every turn during the ceremony. In the songs, the singers, the scripture readers, and in the father of the the bride.

Oh! the father of the bride! He had us all reaching for our handkerchiefs. At the front of the aisle, giving away his daughter, he touched my son's arm and said, "This is my princess. She never thought she could find someone who'd love her the way I do . But now she has. You are the one. Love her. Protect her. Cherish her."

After that, we were all a teary mess; bridesmaids pulling tissue out of their bodices to share with the others.

At the reception, the detail of decorations created by the bridesmaids showed even more affection. Married at 28 these friendships were true and vetted by time

But the keystone was at the dance. The group had a theme song that went,  "...You are my friend! You'll never be alone again". The anthem rose in excitement and volume until brother Jesse and friends hoisted up the groom.Then, right on cue, the bridesmaids and other men hoisted up the bride, bride and groom, carried on shoulders, shouting the refrain below to the dance floor full of bouncing friends, joyously churning like choppy ocean waves!

 .You are my friend! You'll never be alone again!!!

They sang that song at all their friends' weddings, but this was the first time they sang it TO each other!

A stupendous moment, never to be forgotten or diminished by time or hardship.That's friendship. That's marriage. Yes, that's forever love -

Ian Joseph Jones photography

Overflowing from a wedding couple and good friends.

Church bells still ring, and love is still found in the world!

Ian Joseph Jones photography

What Steinbeck Teaches Us About California's Drought

Sometimes all we need to do is read our classics to learn about the present world.

Take the California drought, for example. The dry state has been experiencing four years of skimpy precipitation. Already a semi-arid climate, any dip in the rainfall can change the lifestyle dramatically. Produce goes up in price. Water restrictions are enforced, landscape irrigation practically prohibited.

On a recent trip to SoCal I observed the brown lawns first-hand. A green golf course excused itself with a sign off the freeway: "Irrigated with reclaimed water." The only other visibly green color was on the faces of residents driving by as reclaimed water was not available to them. Their St Augustine remains parched.  The entire emotional climate was judgmental.  Any gardens that suggested adequate watering, pronounced immediate indictment upon its owners.

We visited a nursery specializing in drought resistant plants, succulents and flowering grasses. One is considered very hip if you plant them on your property. Especially if you do it in torn jeans, rumpled hat and thrift store work boots. A paisley neckerchief to catch sweat tied loosely at the throat finishes off the look. So dressed the nursery employees, scruffy beards for the young men, no make-up for the girls.

The classic I'm referring to is John Steinbeck's East of Eden and his commentary on the California terrain. He paints a picture of the chaparral, the wildflowers and weather patterns in a way no film documentary ever could. Bringing every foggy recollection of the golden state's flowers back into vivid color, he writes of the seasonal blossoming. Having been away for seventeen years, I had nearly forgotten about the lupins, the poppies, the mustard and the Indian paintbrush that popped off the drab beige hills, the dirt lots by freeway on-ramps, and weedy  shoulders of the streets.

"The spring flowers in a wet year were unbelievable. 

 The whole valley floor, and the foothills too, would be carpeted with lupins and poppies. Once a woman told me that colored flowers would seem more bright if you added a few white flowers to give the colors definition. Every petal of blue lupin is edged with white, so that a field of lupins is more blue than you can imagine. And mixed with these were splashes of California poppies. These too are of a burning color ---not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies. When their season was over the yellow mustard came up and grew to a great height. When my grandfather came into the valley the mustard was so tall that a man on horseback showed only his head above the yellow flowers.

And a little later in the season there would be red and yellow strands of Indian paintbrush. 

These were the flowers of the open places exposed to the sun."

Then Steinbeck talks weather:

"I have spoken of the rich years when the rainfall was plentiful. But there were dry years too and they put a terror on the valley. The water came in a thirty year cycle. There would be five or six wet and wonderful years. When there might be nineteen to twenty-five inches of rain,  

the land would shout with grass.

 Then would come six or seven pretty good years of twelve to sixteen inches of rain. And then the dry years would come, and sometimes there would be only seven or eight inches of rain. The land dried up and the grasses headed out miserably a few inches high and great bare scabby places appeared in the valley. The live oaks got a crusty look and the sagebrush was gray. The land cracked and the springs dried up and the cattle listlessly nibbled dry twigs. Then the farmers and the ranchers would be filled with disgust for the Salinas Valley. The cows would grow thin and sometimes starve to death. People would have to haul in barrels of water to their farms just for drinking. Some families would sell out for nearly nothing and move away. 

And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, 

and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way."

The author never mentions El Nino, the Golden State's great green hope. That term post-dated this story published sixty-three years ago.

Have the weathermen and bloggers forgotten their state's normal rain cycles as Steinbeck suggests? Is the state of emergency that the Governor has proclaimed soon to be lifted? Who knows?

What we do know is that the cracked lake-beds, the flinty soil, the dry man-made river bottoms will soon swell again with the cool winter watering that falls from the skies for one, two, three days at a time. 

California can keep calm because this is the way of its weather, the normal course of its climate.

Thank you for the reminder, Mr. Steinbeck.

Fish Gotta Swim. Musicians Gotta Play.

Artist Credit:  Rollin McGrail

How long can a fish survive outside of water?

 Not long. Some say 10 minutes. Others say 10 months. Either way, not long. 

Fish gotta swim.

How long can a musician survive without playing their instrument? About as long as a bird can live without wings. Rhythm and pitch are a musician's breath. The forward motion of phrase and meter is their lifeblood. They will shrivel up and die inside if deprived of the opportunity to utilize their skill.

Musicians gotta play.

You can deny it for only so long. A guitarist who doesn't play feels like he's lost a limb. A pianist without her piano is sad as

an artist without her brushes 

or a writer without a typewriter

A chef without a stove

A swimmer without a pool

An actor without a stage

A golfer without his clubs

 A home run hitter without his bat

An architect without his CAD

A decorator without her swatches

A seamstress without her needle

A singer without a song

Try as you may, you can't deny your passions for long. Find a way in between your day job and the demands of home to pick it up again and
Breathe
And live
And nourish your artist soul.

Then play like there's no tomorrow.