OLD Whidbey Life Magazine

Category: Blogs

From Stage to Page: Summer theater is hot
BY ERIC MULHOLLAND, Aug. 30, 2013

Summer is a great time for theater. I know, you must be thinking that this particular summer has been hard to do anything but bask in the warmth of the sun. Who’d want to trade the bliss of the outdoors for a dark theater? It’s obvious this glorious stretch of warm weather has been a welcome break to the usual canopy of gray clouds and rain that covers the northwest. So… to drag any one of us into a theater, the production better be more than good. It better be FABULOUS!

I’m happy to report that, for the most part, summer productions have been worth the time and the money.

First, I made a trip to Seattle to check out the offerings at Intiman Summer Theatre Festival. I managed to see three of their four summer productions and enjoyed them all. Intiman has pared down from a year-round production company, with several past successful seasons under its belt, to a lean summer theater festival. Andrew Russell, Intiman’s Artistic Director, has been at the helm of creating a vibrant scene for summer theater in the city for the past two years. Last year’s inaugural summer festival was a huge success, and this year is following suit.

As far as I’m concerned, the best production in Intiman’s lineup is “Trouble In Mind” by Alice Childress. “Trouble in Mind” tackles race and representation in the American theater. This production surprised me in its honesty and relevance, despite the fact that it was written in the late 1950’s. The performances are stellar with standout Tracy Michelle Hughes, who plays the lead role, Wiletta. Her performance is powerful and touching. She had my friend and I in tears by the end of the play. Director Valerie Curtis-Newton did a stunning job in turning back time to an era of overt racism to remind us how hard it is to break barriers of race, ones that still exist today.

Tracy Michelle Hughes, Andrew Creech and Tim Gouran in “Trouble In Mind” at Intiman Theatre in Seattle. (Photo courtesy of Intiman Theatre)

Next, I joined some friends in Seattle for ACT Theatre’s production of “Rapture, Blister, Burn” by Gina Gionfriddo, and directed by Anita Montgomery. Act 1 was a slow burn for me, but by the start of Act 2, I was fully drawn in by the story of main character Catherine, a successful academic who returns to her hometown to care for her mother. Catherine’s life is happily turned upside down when she reconnects with an old flame who happens to be married to her college friend Gwen.

Kirsten Potter and Jeffrey Fracé in ACT Theater’s “Rapture, Blister, Burn,” 2013. (Photo courtesy of ACT)

The heat is turned up as we watch the characters struggle with their life choices and try to fight off their feelings of passion and regret. The second act is a witty and humorous exploration of the feminist movement, and how it relates to the lives of three women from three different generations. Mariel Neto, who plays the 20-something Avery Willard, brings in the unconventional wisdom of today’s young people with a humorous performance that had audiences laughing out loud. Likewise, Priscilla Lauris, who plays Alice Croll, Catherine’s mother, brought the humor and wit of the older generation. Her performance was uncluttered and honest.

Locally, I had the pleasure to enjoy Island Shakespeare’s production of “Much Ado About Nothing,” directed by Rose Woods. Part of the charm of the ISF production this year was the introduction of the newly purchased circus-style vintage tent used as a performance venue.

Matt Bell under the big top in ISF’s “Much Ado About Nothing” August 2013. (Photo courtesy of Peggy Juve)

The tent, lovingly referred to by the company as ‘Henry,’ added to the production style – a blend of American circus and Italian Commedia. “Much Ado” is a lively production and the acting company fully commits to the story to deliver an enjoyable afternoon of free theater. My guests and I brought a yummy picnic lunch to enjoy in the lead up to the performance, one of the more delightful aspects of free theater in the park.

Don’t let the pull of warm weather keep you outside! There is still time to enjoy summer theater locally and in Seattle. I promise ─ you won’t be disappointed that you gave up just a small slice of that summer sun.

Eric Mulholland is an actor, teacher and writer living on Whidbey Island.

Upcoming theater events on and off the island:
- “Lysistrata,” “Trouble In Mind,” “Stu for Silverton” and “We Won’t Pay, We Won’t Pay” – Intiman Theatre Festival, Seattle; through Sept. 15.
- “Much Ado About Nothing,” by William Shakespeare – Island Shakespeare Festival Shows start at 5 p.m. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, through Sept. 15. Admission is free!
- “Play On,” by Rick Abbot – Outcast Productions at the Black Box Theater in Langley; Sept. 20 to Oct. 5.
- “Sugar Daddies” by Alan Ayckbourn – ACT Theatre in Seattle; Oct. 4 to Nov. 3.
August 30, 2013
Creativity Café: Kick out those ‘Debbie Downers’ and create

BY DEB LUND, Aug. 22, 2013

Instead of remodeling a garage into a family room, we changed an upper floor balcony into my writing room. It’s a little sanctuary with three windows and a skylight, tucked into trees; a corner desk away from the busyness. Books, candles, mementos from magical moments and sweet talismans to the muses of my tales are all selected for the inspiration they give me. I knew I’d be writing all the time once I moved in.

My writing room includes an angel and inspiration board. (Deb Lund photos)

Wrong.

I moved in, but so did a pack of unreasonable tenants.

Its eviction time again. I hate this part. I have to be strong, to not listen to their excuses. It takes a long time to clear out bad renters, and they leave far too much of their baggage and belongings behind. I’m sure you’ve met them.

Guilt.

Guilt’s conversations with me are always about the past. Something I did. Something I didn’t do. Anything Guilt has to say is a waste of time and energy. My energy. Guilt is a renter who takes up far too much room.

Worry.

Worry is Guilt’s twin. Worry hangs out in the future instead of the past, and it takes up space in rooms I haven’t even seen. Rooms that might eventually hold my best work yet. Worry is wasted imagination. I think that might be a paraphrase of a Mark Twain saying.

Grudges

Grudges camp out wherever they wish. They’re especially tough to throw out because they agree with me. They bolster me. They say I’m right. That I’ve been wronged. That I deserve the power of withholding forgiveness. They crown me with righteousness for their own sake. I’m on to them, though. It’s not easy to give up that rush of adrenaline for being right, but if I don’t out Grudges, they get bigger and bigger, until anything good or creative gets crowded out.

Shoulds.

Shoulds are offspring of the other tenants. They are not cute. They need to go, too. They take up too much time and demand too much attention. I said yes to them moving in, but I thought they’d grow up and move out a whole lot sooner. It’s time to say no to the Shoulds.

Critics.

This is the big one, isn’t it? Critics’ voices are all unique, and they add to the cacophony of all the other bad renters.

I’m not smart enough, talented enough, good enough. I will never be enough, and I will never have what it takes to make my dreams come true. I’m a fraud, and as soon as the world figures it out, the jig is up.

Critics claim they’re there to protect me. To save me from frustration and failure. If it were only easier to identify their voices… Critics have amazing morphing skills and can be incredible ventriloquists. They are good for the environment, however. They convince me my words aren’t worth the paper they would appear on.

If I can get rid of these destructive tenants, who would move in?

Joy might be interested. Peace and Love might even show up.

Creativity has already been pounding on my door trying to reintroduce itself, but I’ve been telling it to wait.

I use phrases like:

As soon as…

When…

First I need…

My wordwall above my desk helps keep the bad tenants at bay.

Wait! Don’t leave! I’ll print up those eviction notices and deliver them right now!

I’ll clean, I’ll clear,

I’ll repair and repaint.

You can live here rent-free!

Like the new space?

Welcome home, Creativity!

Deb Lund is a creativity coach, children’s author, and popular presenter at conferences, schools, and libraries. Deb is a pro at creating in chaos, and she would like to thank her wonderful family, Karl, Kaj, Sandra, and Jean, for helping her develop that skill. You can hear more from The Creativity Caf é here.

August 28, 2013
Duff ‘n Stuff: Serendipity, Chekov and a misguided Russian in Boston

BY PATRICIA DUFF, Aug. 19, 2013

Here’s a little literary turmoil that has nothing to do with Whidbey Island.

About three years ago, one of my sisters, who lives in Boston, sent me a new purse as a birthday present. Inside one of the many compartments of the bag, I found a dog-eared letter from a son to his mother (written in somewhat careful cursive on lined, notebook paper). I shared it with my sister, my husband and some friends, who were all as intrigued by the letter as much as I was. I thought it might play some part in my writing life – a play? – a screenplay? – an inspiration for a work of fiction?

Here is the letter, which continues to haunt me:

January 4, 2010

Dear Ma,

I’m too stressed and miserable to plead with you. You don’t understand what I’m going through. Every waking moment is total misery. I don’t want to rehash the past; I’m getting too sick. If you don’t love me and want to help, then Boetcher and all involved with him need to help me get out of the country.

I’m not bluffing. I’m too hurt. Any attempts to send me to a nut house will only make things worse. I want to return to Russia for life. I should have been left there. If Cindy had any heart or feelings, she would get me out. $5000 would get me out and I would make payments for the rest. If I am forced to stay here, I will not. I have done nothing to deserve to be in jail. I have been set up by guilty people, who want to rip me off and cover up what already has been done to me.

I told you my feelings toward Olga and you should respect that. If she told the truth they would harm her. You don’t understand a lot. I feel I have no one; no friends and I hope you and Dad still love me. I did nothing wrong to either one of my parents in my life. God says to love thy parents; mother and father, and I do! I know he has a place for me; I’m sure of it.

I think of Nana a lot and I feel guilt. Cindy hates me and has prior to any of this. That’s why it all went bad. My heart was not in the right place and I trusted all – see what it got me.

Bob Dellamano could get the $5000 very easy if he wanted, but I guess I’m not worth it. He won’t answer the phone for me. People forget – I robbed Star Market back in ’87 to bail him out for $2000, and I got sent to prison for the crime. I am so hurt and feel so spit on and shit on by all. I want to go away from here to Amsterdam and Russia. If that’s not possible then I want to be with God. I am not a coward and refuse to stay here and get sicker and more depressed. Help me. Talk to Cindy and Boetcher.

Love, Greg

A post-script written hastily on the margins includes the Boston area phone numbers of Boetcher and Bob Dellamano. Olga’s was also listed and appears to be located outside the United States. I briefly considered calling these people.

A New York: The Heritage Reprints antique edition of Fyodor Dostoevky’s classic work, “Crime and Punishment.”

The echo of this letter lingers with me, not only as a mother, but as a storyteller. It has all the ingredients for high drama (Is it not strikingly serendipitous that one of these names sounds like “the butcher!” I mean, you can’t write this stuff any better.) and could be read as a sketch for a new Russian-American soap opera, or a feature film about a young Russian immigrant who is betrayed by his Boston mob-connected parents to take a fall so that they can get away with some bank heist gone awry or a bad mob hit orchestrated perhaps by Whitey Bulger himself.

I’ve read this letter about 20 times and each time my heart goes out to this young man, who I realize might be some maladjusted and somewhat derelict member of society, but who still reaches some part of me that says he got a bad rap from his degenerate parents. This is no Dzhokhar or Tamerlan Tsarnaev, the terrorists who bombed the Boston Marathon runners in April. This is some kid who made a series of bad mistakes involving petty crime, and who reaches out for some scrap of familial love.

I think about how Gogol, Turgenev, Pushkin or Dostoyevsky would treat this story. Chekov would certainly find the humor in it, thus emphasizing its bigger tragedies. I go back to the some of the stories of these authors and look for the key to writing a Russian story. I conclude that the key most likely is tied with actually “being Russian.”

Suzanne Kelman is a local screenwriter (WLM blogger “Sue the Screenwriter”), who holds classes in the craft of script-writing. Perhaps it’s time to put poor old Russian-born Greg’s story to the test. I might have to call Bob Dellamano after all and get the scoop. I’m definitely not calling “the butcher.”

From my Russian fiction-loving heart,

Patricia Duff

August 19, 2013
Free Range Reader: Bookshelves and what’s on them

BY ZIA GIPSON, Aug. 16, 2013

In our house we have books in virtually all the rooms. Some rooms have bookshelves. Other rooms just have piles. We have bookshelves made from bamboo flooring, custom-made for a previous house. We have beautiful bookshelves made by my husband, and by companies no longer in existence. All of the shelves are crammed full of books and magazines mixed with the occasional bibelot or objet d‘art.

Hence my interest in “Bookshelf,” by Alex Johnson.

This visual delight is about the functional furniture items that hold our beloved readable materials. This is a book about the bookshelf as art, bookshelf as engineering marvel, and bookshelf as whimsy and wonder.

“Bookshelf” is published by Thames and Hudson. Over the last decade, I have found Thames and Hudson one of the most consistently excellent publishers in English on earth. I know that when I encounter a Thames and Hudson book I can count on great images and interesting editorial, and I almost always want to read the book (no matter the subject)—immediately. Looking for a book storage solution? I recommend “Bookshelf,” this lovely small tome. It will delight and amuse you.

My other bookshelf read is “My Ideal Bookshelf,” edited by Thessaly La Force, with art by Jane Mount. This is a book where leading cultural figures confess to what is on their bookshelves. Some of the cultural figures selected to reveal their personal library holdings were known to me: Malcolm Gladwell, Michael Chabon, Judd Apatow, Nancy Pearl, Dave Eggers and Patti Smith, for example. Others, too numerous to list here, are brand-new names to me. Perhaps my literary/cultural chops are not what they could be. Or maybe this book is way too “New York-centric.”

In any case, it’s fun to see who owns (and has kept) which books. One finds “Moby Dick” on a lot of bookshelves, which I find puzzling as I know not one much-reading person who has even touched the famous novel since they were required to read it in high school or college. I am sure I will hear from those of you who treasure the book still. Good for you, may the whale reign supremely in your consciousness.

To the book’s credit, the library sleuthing has covered more than writers’ shelves. There are a lot of visual types included in “My Ideal Bookshelf,” from artists to designers of a variety of stripes. I enjoyed browsing the lists of library titles and reading what the contributors had to say about their collections, although there is limited space for text.

Personally, I would love to see what’s on the shelves of some of our more well-known Whidbey readers. I know from experience at library sales that we are an amazingly well-read population. Perhaps that’s a topic for a future column.

In the meantime, if you are looking for ideas of what to read, “My Ideal Bookshelf” is a good place to start.

My “Catch of the Day” is “2000 Pattern Combinations” by Jane Callendar from Batsford.

In the meantime, don’t forget to put libraries and librarians in your bedtime prayers. I love my library!

Zia Gipson is a mixed-media artist who is packing artwork to send to Tilamook, Oregon for Whidbey Island Surface Design’s exhibition “Life on the Left Edge” at Latimer Quilt and Textile Center.

August 16, 2013
Pigment, Pandas and Perspective: Tidy up and create

“Clearing the Decks”

BY ANNE BELOV, Aug. 12, 2013

Welcome to my mind, my studio, my unique perspective, if you will, of someone who travels the world through her creativity. I want to share the nuts and bolts, the pigment and tools, of an artist’s life. Sometimes I will share the trials and tribulations of being a painter using arcane materials in a modern world. And sometimes I will write about pandas.

“Portrait of Madame P” by Anne Belov, oil on panel (Photos by Belov)

After a busy spring with far too many moving parts, (take this work here, pick up this work there, write three posts and get a new book out. Oh, and don’t forget to do some new paintings.) I am entering the part of the year when I can take a breath, sort of, with no major deadlines looming. My studio looks like a bomb went off in it, or at least like the panda kindergarten had a really great party, then ran off and left the mess for me.

It’s time to organize my self, file some papers, clear off all horizontal surfaces, and try to figure out how all the parts of my life fit together and add up to less than a 26-hour day.

This morning I went out to do a little work in the garden, while it was cool and quiet. (I do my best thinking in the garden.) After working for a little bit, I went and got a notebook so that I could capture these brilliant musings before they ended up in the bottom of the wheelbarrow, never to be seen again.

Gardening is a lot like painting. You head out with a firm idea: I am going to do this; I am working on this area over here, because the propane tank maintenance guy told me that the tank will last longer if I get all the overlapping vegetation to un-lap, but then as I was passing another garden bed I noticed some vine-y blackberries taking hold, setting up camp, and I better pull them out RIGHT NOW or that part of the garden is going to go totally feral … kind of like this sentence.

“How Time Passes” by Anne Belov, oil on linen.

Painting is a lot like that. I often have an idea about where I think I am going, but I don’t always end up there. I am left with the choice to listen to the painting and take it in the direction that it wants to go, or bowing to the inevitable and steering it back on course, which usually involves wiping out the day’s work, or maybe even several days. I’ve learned that the route that looks easiest is usually not the right one. Sigh …

Out and About in the Galleries:

There’s a reason why so many visual artists live on Whidbey. It’s kick-ass gorgeous and this year has been splendid. There are two shows in the galleries this month celebrating the beauty of Whidbey Island. The Rob Schouten Gallery celebrates local beauty with “The Colors of Whidbey,“ through Sept. 3. It features landscapes by Annette Hanna and Pete Jordan, colorful farm animals by Stacey Neumiller, and additional paintings by Linnane Armstrong, Anne Belov, Angie Dixon, Jacob Kohn, Melissa Koch, Mark Van Wickler and Angèle Woolery.

“Late Afternoon Ewing Road” by Anne Belov, oil on panel.

Brackenwood Gallery also focuses on Whidbey Island scenes, as well, with “A Painter’s Summer in the Northwest,” with landscapes by Susan Ogilvie, Ginny O’Neill and Pete Jordan. Before you head off to the beach or the park at Deception Pass, check out these shows, and then see the beauty of Whidbey Island through the painters’ eyes.

Anne Belov paints, writes, makes prints, and is the founder of The Institute for Contemporary Panda Satire. You can find her paintings at the Rob Schouten Gallery, her cartoons on The Panda Chronicles, and her new book here. She also writes regularly for The Whidbey Life Magazine, a free journal of art and culture on Whidbey Island. Read her recent interview in the July Issue of The Write Life Magazine, an online publication. Her main regret in life is that there is no MacArthur Grant for Panda Satire.

August 12, 2013
In Search of Truth and Beauty: A dream, then Paris

BY JONI TAKANIKOS, Aug. 9, 2013

“Romance is Alive and Well and Living in Paris”

The author during a morning in Paris in July. (Richard Halmans photo)

Ahhh … Paris.

The mere word is enough to conjure heavy sighs, forgotten longings and a sense of something wonderful hidden around the next corner.

It was in November 10 years ago when I had a series of dreams that lasted through one night. In each of the different dreamscapes, I had to exit because I was preparing to travel to Paris! The purpose of my visit, according to my dream self, was to take my 12-year-old son on a journey. In one of the dreams he asked me why I was taking him; I looked into his eyes and all could say was that I knew I must. Through the language of our eyes it was understood.

In the last dream of the series I was at a travel agent’s office to pick up the tickets. The room was incredibly white and luminous, and as I sat waiting for her to get my tickets, I was filled with emotion. When she returned and handed me the tickets, I looked at her and said, “I have never done anything this frivolous in my whole life!” I began to cry, and then I awoke.

The dream stayed with me all through the week, and when my daughter Jasmine came home from college that weekend she was emphatic that I go. Jasmine is definitely a doer, while I am more of a dreamer and, before I knew it, she was online with my credit card in hand, booking tickets for her brother and me.

Max and I got our passports and found ourselves in Paris in February, just three months after the dreams. We found a beautiful old hotel a mile from the Louvre Museum. We had 10 days to explore and no set itinerary.

Looking up and sideways in Paris. (Joni Takanikos photo)

On our first evening out, we began to walk the old, winding streets of the first arrondissement. We checked out the neighborhood and began to look for a place to eat. After a couple of hours of meandering, we realized we were lost. Of course, to be lost in Paris is not too bad, especially if you love to walk, and both my son and I do. So we dined, and had beautiful food and funny mistakes with the language before heading back in the direction of our hotel.

Max was the one to find our way back. Thankfully, he has inherited his father’s internal compass and not mine, which is generally looking up and sideways at the world. The next morning, when I got out of the bath and was dressed and ready for our day, Max had a map of Paris open on his bed and proclaimed that he would be in charge of our route as we set off to explore Paris.

We walked for miles every day and every now and then Max would prompt me to stop, while he checked the map to make sure we were pointed in the right direction. That is not to say that we didn’t get a bit lost a time or two; all travelers must get lost in order to find out where they really are.

So if Paris calls you, as it has subsequently called to me, I recommend it for kick starting your romance with life itself. It gave me that and so much more.

The author contemplates the life of a Parisian painter at the Musée Gustave Moreau in Paris. (Richard Halmans photo)

I recently returned from my third visit to the city of my dreams and upon my return found myself in the audience for OutCast Theatre’s production of “Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris.” It was an extraordinary night of brilliant music and staging. If you have not had the opportunity to be part of the audience in the lovely Black Box Theater built by Outcast at the Whidbey Island Fairgrounds in Langley, be sure to check out their upcoming season of engaging and very entertaining theater. Who knows where they will take you? They brought me back to Paris.

Perhaps most of us are destined for Paris in the end, because as Oscar Wilde predicted: “When good Americans die they go to Paris.”

Joni Takanikos is a romantic, a poet, a singer, a newly certified yoga teacher and a full time dreamer.

August 9, 2013
Sirithiri: Radio days, Beethoven, Dixie Chicks and listening from the grass
SIRI BARDARSON, Aug. 1, 2013

“Summer Sounds”

True confession; I am a musician and I don’t listen to much music.

There, I said it. I can’t casually listen; it’s intentional on my part. But, I’ve been in the audience recently, and I’ve had some great listens.

What do you listen to and why do you listen?

One day a week, I teach music up at Click Music in Oak Harbor. Dave Willis, my wonderful guitar player friend and fellow creative, and I were sitting outside our cubicles and I asked him a bunch of questions.

“What music do you listen to and why?” I asked.

He said he listened to lots of guitar music because he is endlessly fascinated with how other guitar players do it. He also likes jazz singers, but not for the lyrics, but for their phrasing. I asked him if he could listen to music as background and he said, no, not really. I asked him if there were styles of music that he didn’t like and he said (paraphrasing here) that in his “religion” of music, everything is accepted. Even if he doesn’t like a certain style, he understands why someone would want to pursue it. He cited heavy metal as an example.

All genres and styles are part of a big pile of information and creative goo. Like looking at a Lichtenstein when your favorite artist is Singer Sargeant, or reading “Twilight” when your heart belongs to Thomas Hardy.

Two of my favorite books of all time have lots in common: “Ramona” and “Beezus” by Beverly Cleary and “Light in August” by William Faulkner. Love, loss and antics handed to us by a willful main character. These novels range from the ridiculous to the sublime and so do my musical tastes. I go hear the Seattle Symphony perform Beethoven’s “Ninth” in December. It’s a monumental experience, like visiting the Grand Canyon.

The other day a friend and I were talking about “Red Rubber Ball” by the Hollies. That’s an experience more like eating cotton candy at the fair in your flip flops.

During summers when I was young, I didn’t have to take cello lessons because we came up to Whidbey Island. Many happy days were spent lying on my Grandma’s matchstick mat on beautiful Brighton Beach after a swim in water so cold that it gave you an ice cream headache. My Grandpa would let me borrow his transistor radio, (it had a little leather case and a strap) and the sun would be beating down and the saltwater would dry off of me in an itchy way and I would escape into KJR Seattle, Channel 95.

“Lying on the beach with the transistor goin’, keep off the sandflies, honey, the love’s still flowin’.”

That Joni song hadn’t been written yet, but its truth already existed.

My mother didn’t allow us to listen to “that kind” of music. All the emotion in the hit parade: love that was sweet, gritty, and out-of-reach; anger with a message; freedom that was rebellious. Popular music invaded me with feelings that were easy or intense. And I was amazed at how simple it was compared to classical music. There I had to work so strenuously for a feeling that was monstrously gorgeous if I could get there, but daunting and nearly impossible to achieve. Music equals feelings; KJR confirmed that for me.

Listening to music helps me make sense of stuff, or dredge up what’s bugging me. Sometimes it’s trite and sometimes it’s involved. The other day, I was painting my bedroom and listening to the Dixie Chicks. I was looking for feminist fuel with perfect three-part and kickass banjo playing. Four years ago on a trip to Iceland, I listened to the icy, cold jazz explorations of the Tord Gustafson Trio; it matched the landscape perfectly. But when I was missing my lover, I’d switch to John Scofield’s album of Ray Charles. Wow, music therapy.

This summer, there are many opportunities for listening on Whidbey Island. I want to be out there sitting on my blanket, listening and being open. I hope I can let my guard down — the judgment and my intensity — and just experience the experience.

Nancy Nolan plays Ott & Murphy Winery Tasting Room Thursdays at 7:30 p.m. in Langley. (David Welton photo)

See you there!

Summer Music Listening Opportunities:
- Ska, soul, rock ‘n roll by Natalie Wouldn’t from 6:30 to 8 p.m.Thursday, Aug. 8 at South Whidbey Parks and Recreation, 5495 Maxwelton Road in Langley.
- Whidbey Island Winery Summer Concerts “Shakin’ the Vines”
- Nancy Nolan and Friends at Ott and Murphy’s Wine Tasting Room in Langley, Thursdays at 7:30 p.m.
- Coupeville Arts and Crafts Festival 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Saturday, Aug. 10 and Sunday, Aug. 11 in downtown Coupeville.
Siri Bardarson is a musician devoting this year to creative projects that synthesize her classical and popular music backgrounds via her cello. She is ecstatically happy!
August 2, 2013
Minding the Sky | Driven by distraction

BY JUDITH WALCUTT, July 26, 2013

Every writer I have ever known or have ever heard of has some form of distractive disorder coupled with an underlying reality avoidance tendency, which generally encourages severe bouts of procrastination, especially when the sky is blue.

At this very moment, for instance, I am writing this sentence, on this topic, as a way of avoiding writing another sentence, in another document, on another topic, which has been waiting for me, somewhat impatiently, since the middle of last week. Meanwhile, that document, in its entirety, is a means of avoiding writing on two other projects, also in process —a short story pulled from a novel to be rewritten as a stand-alone piece AND the rewrite of the novel from which it was pulled, also grumbling impatiently at the back of my mind, lurking in the waiting room of my summer-fragmented attention.

My writing desk where all the distractions take place.

If that weren’t enough to runaway from and to, I might have to avoid all of the above, because there’s a deadline for a periodical to which I’d like to submit something, but for which I have to look at my output for the last ten or so years, to see what might be suitable and that will require me to dig into some older files, some of which are in a storage unit which absolutely needs cleaning up and gutting in the very near future. Uh oh.

Certainly, I would prefer to avoid that irksome task by writing something brand new — so I do. I start something brand new, but after losing the document in a “Force Quit” tantrum by my computer, I re-find that document (which is this document I am writing at this very moment) and a half dozen other things that have been hiding from me in the hidden recesses of the digital purgatory known as “Recovered.”

After I capture the files I lost, somewhat distractedly I notice a few others in that hole, which could do very well for yet another periodical I would like to submit to, but when I open them, I notice I’ll have to brush those lost jewels up and comb them for typos before sending them off into the world on their own. Better to put it all aside and pursue that one thing—the deadline that is most immediately before me, the one closest to today, which signals to my Pavlovian brain that I can STOP working on all of the many other things I am working on, including cleaning the moss off the roof or washing a few sweaters, and just pick this one thing, quickly, intuitively, like finding the perfect metaphor out of very thin air. So here I am, finishing this one thing, whose deadline is closest and I am about to get it out the door, by the deadline or sooner, whichever comes first. Halleluiah! Completion!

I guess you could say, that my tactic for overcoming distraction is to totally give into it with one caveat — if I’m avoiding writing one thing, I must do so by writing on another. In this way, I am making progress by writing something, regardless of what and how I am avoiding writing the rest of the things I am writing or not writing at any given moment.

In this way, procrastination becomes a very fertile state of mind. Driven by, rather than to, distraction from one piece of work to another, I am making progress on several fronts, bit by bit, sentence by sentence, on multiple projects at once, even though I still get to relish the guilty pleasure of putting one thing off, in order to enjoy that other.

Of course, this writer’s other and more direct tactic for taming the wild horses of imagination is to trot briskly in step toward one solid destination, the same approach I use when trying to call my Monkey Mind down from the trees of rattling discursive thought. I sit quietly with good posture, count my breaths in cycles of seven until some clarity settles in and the screeching primates in my head quiet down. Just when I begin to think of something very important I have to do right away other than just this — I breathe in, breathe out, and let it go. I do this practice every day, before writing anything. When the mind is settled in this way, before one word is written, all else becomes possible.

In the event I still can’t concentrate, given the beauty of the day and the warmth of the sun and the blue of the sky, I take a walk. We have so many paths to take on this island, it’s hard to choose which to recommend — the hiking path on Ebey’s Prairie is spectacular, or the trail known as “The Giant U” through the forest at Whidbey State Park is cool and green and reminds one of some mythical landscape from another world. The beach below Deception Pass is a great climb down and then a clean, empty place to enjoy. Personally, I love the Earth Sanctuary on Newman Road in Freeland. A small contribution made to a collection box in the parking lot helps maintain the grounds, which are wild, beautiful, and deeply restorative to body, mind and soul.

For more particulars go to the Earth Sanctuary website and seize a moment of creative distraction, while the sun is shining and the Summer has her way with you!

Judith Walcutt is a writer and a Buddhist alive and well on Whidbey Island with her one and only husband, David Ossman. She is currently cooking two novels, a collection of short stories, a volume of poetry, and a good many jars of jam in her kitchen on Honeymoon Bay.

July 26, 2013
Play That Song Again: Notes on another sad song
BY ERIK CHRISTENSEN, July 26, 2013
- Loss. Sadness. I’m obsessed with stories of sorrow, broken hearts, and busted relationships.
- I wrote a song called “Lullaby” for my daughter after she was born and, somehow, a middle verse already had her growing up and moving away:
  
  You see, every year something dies
  Something’s born
  Like dreams all your own
  Like the leaves fall from the trees
- You’re gonna have to walk alone. “Where does this stuff come from? What does this say about my own life?”
- “Melancholy people always write gaily, while the work of those who are cheerful is always depressing.” ─ Anton Chekov
- Dwelling on sad songs, stories, and poems seems to be cathartic—a way of letting those feelings out of the barn to run around for a while so they don’t bite you later on.
- I don’t think I’m alone on this.
- “…Your work is filled with longing and sorrow.” ─ John Irving, “The World According to Garp.”
- I mean, people love to cry at sad movies, read romance novels, and listen to blues records, right? Maybe I write about loss because I haven’t dealt with it very often in my own life.
- Perhaps it’s a daily dose; some minimum daily requirement—like vitamin C—that one needs to have. Longing and sorrow. If it’s not presented to you, you make it up; you create it in your own life.
- In “Amadeus,” Salieri describes Mozart’s music as “filled with longing; such unfulfillable longing.”
- The good times, feeling of contentment—I think we’re too busy living and enjoying those to realize how good they are. But a change in the everyday—being left alone, losing a confidant—these are seared into our memories, and we take them out, turn them over in our hands and examine them.
- Franz Kafka said that the world had had enough “nice” stories; stories that made us feel good. He said a book should be like a blow to the head, like the death of a loved one; that a story should be like taking an ax to the frozen sea of our heart. Here’s the quote: “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”
- In my own work? Those are mostly about lost time—looking back on years gone by. Which is probably the most poignant—you can always build other relationships, recover from heartbreak, but you’re never going to be 17 again.
- So don’t tell me about your typical day running errands… instead, make me laugh, make me shake my head in wonder that you ever got through that tough situation. Please tell me that sad tale from your past.
- In a song of mine called “Love Story,” the narrator has a dream that foreshadows the end of a relationship. It’s not clear whether it was only the dream or real life that’s gone sour as he wakes up in a darkened room. As the song fades out, a line is repeated: “He never got to say goodbye…he never got to say goodbye…he never got to say goodbye …”
- “Yet why not say what happened?” ─ Robert Lowell
- A typical day in my classroom where I teach high schoolers:“Mr. C, don’t we read any cheerful books in this course?
  “No. And here’s your copy of ‘Dante’s Inferno.’ Start reading.”
- “Lifetime:” A woman in her 40s meets and falls in love with an older man, who also has a checkered history:
  
  He had skinny legs and smoked a pack a day
  Scar on his shoulder, she never asked
  Told her funny stories with a halfway crooked smile
  But he never talked about his past.He dies after 18 years with her and, of course, she’s left alone—again—with her memories:
  Now she sits alone on the porch of the old farmhouse
  Stares in the fields of flower’s bloom
  She says, my life burns hot as the August sun
  And cold as the shadows in these darkened rooms
- “Do I listen to popular music because I’m miserable? Or am I miserable because I listen to popular music?” ─ Nick Hornby, “High Fidelity”
- That can’t be it — I’m one of the happiest, most carefree people I know. And that’s a true statement, not an alcoholic saying, “I don’t have a drinking problem.”
- “I have a foreboding… I’m oppressed by a strange, dark foreboding. As though the loss of a loved one awaited me.”
  “Are you married, Doctor? You have a family?”
  “Not a soul. I’m alone, I haven’t even any friends. Tell me, Madam, do you believe in forebodings?”
  “Oh, yes, I do.”─ Anton Chekov, “Perpetuum Mobile”
- “Happy songs? Shoot, nobody writes happy songs.” ─ Lucinda Williams
- So, I’m obsessed with loss and heartbreak. I read and write about it, I teach it in my classroom, and I keep a close acquaintance with it. Whether it’s a sad song or a tragic story, you can count me in.
- “… words lead to deeds… they prepare the soul, make it ready, ad move it to tenderness.” ─ Saint Teresa
- These words, the focus on sad songs and stories… it’s healing, transformative. I don’t think I could survive without it.
Erik Christensen teaches at Oak Harbor High School, writes songs and poetry, and wonders why society doesn’t outlaw baseball played on artificial turf.

Upcoming shows:
- Erik Christensen Band plays at the Front Street Grill in Coupeville on Wednesday, Aug. 14, and at the Evergreen State Fair in Monroe on Thursday, Aug. 22 and Saturday, Aug. 31.
July 26, 2013
Sue the Screenwriter pays tribute to a TV actor and childhood influence

BY SUZANNE KELMAN
July 19, 2013

“Remembering Ike”

Last week the death of Joe Conley happened with little hype or fanfare; his passing over-shadowed by much more sensational things in the news, such as plane and train crashes, and controversial court decisions.

And why wouldn’t it? Even though Joe Conley worked in the film industry, he was no Robert Redford or Lawrence Oliver. He had no rich extensive body of work to leave behind. He was just an 85-year-old actor, who had lived a good and long life.

But for me, the passing of the man who immortalized the character of Ike Godsey in the 70’s T.V. show, The Walton’s, felt like a small death of my childhood innocence.

The Walton’s series, which ran from 1971 to 1981, was a formative part of my childhood. Not only did I want to be one of the Walton’s, I would often find myself asking questions like, “Now what would Mary Ellen do about this?” Or “What would Olivia Walton advise me to do here?”

The late Joe Conley as Ike Godsey on the set of the Waltons. (Photo courtesy of deadline.com)

I would braid my hair just like Elizabeth, and my brother and sisters, still needing the gentle security of a familiar voice before settling down alone in a darkened room, would playfully call out to each other “Goodnight John-boy.” “Goodnight Mary Ellen.”

So, when I read the news of Mr. Conley’s death, it grieved and saddened me. I realized that my adult brain had never really taken that leap from its own childhood imaginings; that step of no return that one day informs us that there are no tooth fairies, or that the roaring in the sky is not actually a dragon, but just an airplane soaring overhead.

And because my childhood mind had not taken this important rite-of-passage, up until this point, somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, I had actually still believed that Ike owned a little store on Walton’s mountain, and he and his wife Corabeth were happily working through their Golden Years, with hundreds of Walton grandbabies doing a brisk trade in sugar and fabric.

As I measured my strong reaction for the death of a fictional character whom I hadn’t watched in years, I found myself asking what is it about this family-focused TV show from a bygone era that had got under my skin? Did I want to live through the Great Depression running around a mountain in Virginia barefoot or killing chickens with my own hands?

Well, no.

But did I want to live in a world where I could sit at a table and my voice was important? Where a loving and caring family was all that truly mattered to make it through any obstacle? Where I was surrounded by a small, close-knit community of caring, loving people?

Well, hell yes!

And this is when I realized that in a world of cookie-cutter T.V. shows, and dramatic C.G.I-indulgent movies, real storytelling is a very different animal. It should strive, in whatever form your “Walton Mountain” fancies takes you, to give us a sense of place in the world; a true sense of connection, a place where we can hang our hat and say that what home, love, joy, happiness looks like to me.

And that’s what The Walton’s series represented to me, storytelling at its purest form. Sure, the thrilling movies that scare or shock us have their place, but their impact can be no sharper or long-reaching than a bee sting. True storytelling has the ability to weave its way deep under our layers and into the fabric of our hearts. It reminds us that the world can be a good and wonderful place.

We know when we are in the presence of good screenwriting or storytelling. Because we are not just swept away for a minute, but find ourselves suspending belief in such a way that we actually start to question whether what we are watching is real or even possible.

I feel fortunate that I found my own kind of “Walton’s Mountain” right here on Whidbey Island. A place I call home; a place that embodies all that is important to me. Beauty and nature surround me at every turn, and I live in a thriving, caring community that I love being a member of. But the dream of its possibility was born in a darkened room, in front of the television set, 30 plus years ago.

In an interview for The-Waltons.com, Conley said he knew that the “Waltons” role had forever marked him.

“To millions of people I am Ike Godsey,” he said. “People walk up and just call me Ike and carry on a conversation like we are old friends. I have to remember that for 10 years, I did visit their home every week. To them I am an old friend or a member of the family.”

Yes, you were Joe Conley. Thank you for your contribution to my growing-up years. I am grateful for a show that we could watch as a family, that was wholesome and, in its own gentle way, thought-provoking. A place I could say, yes one day that’s what home will look like to me.

Goodnight Ike… and God bless.

Suzanne Kelman is a multi-award winning, optioned screenwriter. She has just finished editing her comedy novel, “The Rejected Ladies Club Roadtrip,” that will be available for purchase on Amazon in the fall. She has also just completed her latest screenplay “Collision.” Her previous screenplay, “Illusion” was a winner in June in the Hollywood screenplay competition, “100 Screenplays.” Kelman enjoys teaching screenwriting classes at her home studio in Bayview. If interested, email suzkelman@gmail.com for details.

July 19, 2013