One on one, “I need to see now’s…” typed out office letters that carried the scent of White Out, long drawn out telephone conversations, boring group meetings in rooms so hot male sweat from six meetings back continued to fill the air. This is how bosses once took charge of getting their words, demands and commands put into action.
Today we’re seeing text messages, email’s on personal accounts, never ending meetings to announce we’re going to have another meeting and the every popular, “Hey gotta a minute…” when they should’ve said, “I need an hour.”
The world of business is too busy to conduct business and the one time messenger isn’t available because companies have streamlined too close to the bone.
To help make up for it, leader’s are putting extreme amounts of faith in social networking tools to reach your place on the map to do nothing more than GPS your booty back to their chosen destination; the best communication to date is blogging.
I’m not talking about Dear Jane Diaries or blogs about how to take better care of your heart and kids. Companies have set up inner office blogging sights where leaders can tap into your process hourly, daily or the next time a great thought requires support. What makes it an incredible tool isn’t how quick and on the go it is but rather the idea that many of todays newly crowned more up to date leaders are giving employees a place to be heard. They have the opportunity to reply, to add to or suggest taking away.
The age of face to face conversations is over. Having social skills requires nothing human and everything computer.
In front of 200 writers this past weekend I vibrantly shouted, “I love the internet! The author in me cherishes every moment that I can pick up a subject and run without having to deal with witch eyes and a big nose with a wart the size of New Jersey staring back at me. I love it when a single thought can wrap itself around the world and become a reality within an hour.”
On the other side of the white picket fence is a coworker that disagrees claiming the idea of blogging and not physically talking has destroyed the foundation of success. So he spends the majority of his day walking through the building extending his open palm to others who require his creative services.
Neither side is wrong…
As much as I thoroughly enjoy human relationship and the process of generating layer after layer of history from its success…results require instant attention to which blogging gifts me with. I honestly get more from blogging with Master Todd Harris than I do sitting a class.
The coworker calls the act one based on laziness believing eye to eye contact makes the relationship firm and unwilling to break at the edges.
The art of reacting without assuming is the single more powerful pet peeve I have with social networking. I can’t hear what the emotion is saying coming from their fingertips.
According to the man behind the book Tribes, Seth Godin believes blogging and other social networking quickly tightens up the workplace by putting communication at the top of the game. He uses business consultant Meagan McDonald as a great example because she doesn’t fall into the typical business tactics of using sports phrases and motivational speaker affirmations to guide her tribe. Blogging makes leaders out of everyone. It enforces the idea of utilizing the strength of conversation to figure out your own path without having to rely on waiting and waiting and waiting for a department head to bless your decision with spiritual energy to get the job done.
Through blogging there are no cries for help, belittling of employees or voices raised.
We use blogging in my current world of radio commercial production and have accessed more lines of success in the past three months than the five years I’ve led this team. The moment you stop talking about your day and put focus on the efforts of getting the job done properly the easier the final steps are in leading your business toward tomorrow and seeing it as less of a challenge because through blogged team communication the end result is less pressure on the different departments involved.
Blogging has taken a bad rap from Face Booker’s and other web sites that allow too many to live vicariously through the chapters of poets, politicians and people who can’t stop talking. When you take the time to invest more of your business into the act of blogging by using it as a place to communicate the result is a much tighter ship.
Your decision is to lead not manage. Godin calls it a critical choice. The hourly goal should always be to connect then inspire.
I call it my personal McDonalds fast food line…if the person taking the order is hitting the wrong buttons, the person at the first window is charging the customer the wrong amount which means the food picked up at window number two isn’t what the customer ordered. Company blogging that works is based on every role being an important part of the customer coming back. The only way that can happen is if everybody is shooting for the same goal and that requires conversation. Get your business to start blogging. Your life will change. If you still believe in face to face meetings host a party. Until then catch up with the competition.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Never lost always found...
Author Brian Andreas writes, “I buried a nickel under the porch when I was eight but one day my grandma died and they sold the house and I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something.”
A nickel? What about first love necklaces and rings? Signatures scratched into house sized rocks in a dark dense forest or behind a bright red with a silver top fire extinguisher near a newly designed elevator? I did that. Took a black Sharpie and penned out Mayor Pat is the new man in control then dated it. Had no clue he’d stay in office for six terms.
Also took the number of hours the average person worked in the Twin Towers only on September 11, 2001 and on the first year anniversary took those minutes and quickly without hesitation hand painted what I could a 64x48 of the Statue of Liberty on a basement wall of a radio and television station then stood by as carpenters constructed a secondary front over it for a future generation to discover.
We all hide things…secrets, personal journeys, reasons to believe and a purpose to disagree. Trees like to hide their roots until nature stops by with a thunder cloud of many and within a few decades all that seemed hush hush is unleashed for squirrels to turn into monkey bars and gymnastic play things.
Modern day automobiles are built with such strategic limits on how much engine is seen, Uncle Kevin and other folks with nifty Sears brand tools feel like fools because this socket doesn’t fit that nut because whose hands are that tiny to loosen up the front?
Look how much the banking world hid from its customers before the recession that really was a depression crashed into soils not seen since the original Black Friday. If you believe everything you read in Rollingstone Magazine you’re easily convinced it’s still taking place but the big bad sheriff in town isn’t doing anything about it because there’s nobody big enough to take on the bully except the Chinese to whom we owe billions to.
Have you ever hid money? The choices might have been behind walls, under boxes, beneath bed sheets in the hallway closet, in a jar by a door, under a rug, the backseat of the car, a Swiss account or in your pants pocket only to learn it paid for someone else’s lunch because they found it floating in the washing machine.
I remember cutting holes in my childhood bedroom walls and floor; whatever required to speedily conceal nickels, dimes quarters and fake diamonds from gumball machines from brothers and sisters that creatively came up with brilliant excuses as to why they wanted it more than me.
As a teen the hiding game moved to mountain sides and caves once named Indian but the state went politically correct so now the road signs read: Pictorial. Returned many, many chapters later, paid off a ranger who allowed me to cross a fence, climb the face of some extremely tall sand stone and walk to the cliffs edge to lay my hands on the tree once young and filled with a Montana breeze only to learn someone had dug up before me. Therefore it wasn't meant to be.
We all hide things!
The rich hide cars, boats, fourth and fifth homes, stocks, bonds and reasons to believe in common people. The poor hide their dreams.
Author Brian Andreas writes, “I buried a nickel under the porch when I was eight but one day my grandma died and they sold the house and I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something.”
The next time I see a coin, feather, bracelet, pen or anything that looks as if it’s attached to a memory all beaten up and bruised…I’m going to let it stay for another day knowing its true owner might be on their way back to collect what a simple thought and desire set free during a moment when the human heart set aside its biggest fears and for one single unannounced second they trusted faith.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
A nickel? What about first love necklaces and rings? Signatures scratched into house sized rocks in a dark dense forest or behind a bright red with a silver top fire extinguisher near a newly designed elevator? I did that. Took a black Sharpie and penned out Mayor Pat is the new man in control then dated it. Had no clue he’d stay in office for six terms.
Also took the number of hours the average person worked in the Twin Towers only on September 11, 2001 and on the first year anniversary took those minutes and quickly without hesitation hand painted what I could a 64x48 of the Statue of Liberty on a basement wall of a radio and television station then stood by as carpenters constructed a secondary front over it for a future generation to discover.
We all hide things…secrets, personal journeys, reasons to believe and a purpose to disagree. Trees like to hide their roots until nature stops by with a thunder cloud of many and within a few decades all that seemed hush hush is unleashed for squirrels to turn into monkey bars and gymnastic play things.
Modern day automobiles are built with such strategic limits on how much engine is seen, Uncle Kevin and other folks with nifty Sears brand tools feel like fools because this socket doesn’t fit that nut because whose hands are that tiny to loosen up the front?
Look how much the banking world hid from its customers before the recession that really was a depression crashed into soils not seen since the original Black Friday. If you believe everything you read in Rollingstone Magazine you’re easily convinced it’s still taking place but the big bad sheriff in town isn’t doing anything about it because there’s nobody big enough to take on the bully except the Chinese to whom we owe billions to.
Have you ever hid money? The choices might have been behind walls, under boxes, beneath bed sheets in the hallway closet, in a jar by a door, under a rug, the backseat of the car, a Swiss account or in your pants pocket only to learn it paid for someone else’s lunch because they found it floating in the washing machine.
I remember cutting holes in my childhood bedroom walls and floor; whatever required to speedily conceal nickels, dimes quarters and fake diamonds from gumball machines from brothers and sisters that creatively came up with brilliant excuses as to why they wanted it more than me.
As a teen the hiding game moved to mountain sides and caves once named Indian but the state went politically correct so now the road signs read: Pictorial. Returned many, many chapters later, paid off a ranger who allowed me to cross a fence, climb the face of some extremely tall sand stone and walk to the cliffs edge to lay my hands on the tree once young and filled with a Montana breeze only to learn someone had dug up before me. Therefore it wasn't meant to be.
We all hide things!
The rich hide cars, boats, fourth and fifth homes, stocks, bonds and reasons to believe in common people. The poor hide their dreams.
Author Brian Andreas writes, “I buried a nickel under the porch when I was eight but one day my grandma died and they sold the house and I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something.”
The next time I see a coin, feather, bracelet, pen or anything that looks as if it’s attached to a memory all beaten up and bruised…I’m going to let it stay for another day knowing its true owner might be on their way back to collect what a simple thought and desire set free during a moment when the human heart set aside its biggest fears and for one single unannounced second they trusted faith.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Just a poet with a pen...
A school of broadcasting set out to test the waters; how passionate, loyal and dedicated is the one called Arroe? My laugh and reply on the cell phone rocked the Richter scale in Honolulu, Hawaii, “I know of Arroe but completely stay away knowing I can’t live up to his hourly expectations.”
Silence on the other side…not even a cricket or a toad from a crusty old sound effects library would waste its time supporting the inside joke.
“We may share the same address but I never see him.”
How else can you explain the mind numbing experience of standing where life has taken you; one day your complaining about having one more year of high school then suddenly you’re Skyping with a set of eyes that look like yours but how did they get here and where were you during the ride?
An interview video taped three years ago at the Kellar Radio Talent event hosted by legendary consultant Dan Vallie at Appalachian University in Boone, NC has surfaced; yep, it’s him…long bright red streaks in the hair, eyes that dart across a room quicker than the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland and a story that sinks into core of value versus a Red Bull tainted quickie. Lord have mercy do I really have to sit here and listen to his philosophies on producing radio commercials that affect rather than infect a listener passing by?
Seriously…this reaction is far from being a head hanging loner caught on Atlanta’s Spaghetti Junction; even without a shovel to dig deep into paths created, each who participates with the spins that turn the planet have found it at times or continue to find it extremely difficult to sit still in a room with the many selves and faces we’ve become in the process of growing.
My latest spin connects a lot of chapters and hidden personalities sworn to never meet, the writer, musician, producer and marketing ear of a 32 year on-air radio veteran that stopped years before reaching his potential. How a single thought tossed about the car at four in the morning on I-485 meeting 77 in Charlotte has created such a large wave reaches the part of the island deemed unexplained.
Completely disappointed with being shoved off the air again and again the arguing voice of a thousand in my head said, “Write a book…and call it Conversation with the Devil.
I fought back for three miles! How dare I attempt to use such a title! People will judge it like a cover. And so they did. But I kept pushing forward. Today its read by more residents living in the UK then ones imagination can handle and my sister Susan in Montana uses the book to help alcoholics and drug abusers locate peace. The book inspired music to be born; seventeen songs in a project self dubbed Pieces from a Faceless Beast. The raw tracks influenced a recording studio to pick me up and give it a more serious edge that’s taken over a year to lay down for its final mixes.
Ask me about it and I’ll quickly turn away. Until last week when a school teacher unexpectly mentioned, “I’m looking for someone who writes poetry and figures out a way to turn it into music.”
A two year journey that’s finally reached the point it was intended to touch.
I live by one rule; from Julia Cameron, “Let him display his art so he can learn to ignore criticism.”
I fear you, my mother, my boss and anything else that comes with an opinion yet today I need to know which song or piece of poetry should I share with the five to ten year olds this Saturday morning?
NOTE: None of these songs are professionally mixed they are 100% more raw than a steak found in the meat section of Harris Teeter.
Song one: Hurt So Slow
Written about the most recent loss of a great friend’s son before his time…a daughters words minutes before Christmas rang through all things dark allowing peace to grow in corners that one day would be visited. Although its wrong for me to explain a song because a listener should develop their own interpretation; I believe as writers, every twist, turn or long highway can find strength if you take a simple thought at 4am and give it air. This song has never been shared wtih those who brought music to my writing instrument.
Song two: Stopped By
I had just returned from the Levine Children’s Hospital recording interviews in places the real world never sees unless there is tragedy. In one room a tiny voice asked, “Why are you here?” To which I replied, “I just stopped by…and the song says the rest.” Nobody at the hospital has ever heard it…its been in hiding since its creation.
Song three: The Beast
We’ve all been here…the only problem is, nobody but doctors addicted to prescribing drugs have the power to help get you out. I don’t do drugs. I write…
Now its your turn to vote…which one should I share with the kids this Saturday morning? arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Now its my turn to challenge you to follow your gut feeling. If your mind hears something...see it through. You have no clue how many lives will be touched by something you assume is nothing when to the rest of the world it could be a moment of music creating long sought after peace.
I will always believe in you first...
to vote visit this page: http://www.lite1029.com/pages/arroe.html
Silence on the other side…not even a cricket or a toad from a crusty old sound effects library would waste its time supporting the inside joke.
“We may share the same address but I never see him.”
How else can you explain the mind numbing experience of standing where life has taken you; one day your complaining about having one more year of high school then suddenly you’re Skyping with a set of eyes that look like yours but how did they get here and where were you during the ride?
An interview video taped three years ago at the Kellar Radio Talent event hosted by legendary consultant Dan Vallie at Appalachian University in Boone, NC has surfaced; yep, it’s him…long bright red streaks in the hair, eyes that dart across a room quicker than the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland and a story that sinks into core of value versus a Red Bull tainted quickie. Lord have mercy do I really have to sit here and listen to his philosophies on producing radio commercials that affect rather than infect a listener passing by?
Seriously…this reaction is far from being a head hanging loner caught on Atlanta’s Spaghetti Junction; even without a shovel to dig deep into paths created, each who participates with the spins that turn the planet have found it at times or continue to find it extremely difficult to sit still in a room with the many selves and faces we’ve become in the process of growing.
My latest spin connects a lot of chapters and hidden personalities sworn to never meet, the writer, musician, producer and marketing ear of a 32 year on-air radio veteran that stopped years before reaching his potential. How a single thought tossed about the car at four in the morning on I-485 meeting 77 in Charlotte has created such a large wave reaches the part of the island deemed unexplained.
Completely disappointed with being shoved off the air again and again the arguing voice of a thousand in my head said, “Write a book…and call it Conversation with the Devil.
I fought back for three miles! How dare I attempt to use such a title! People will judge it like a cover. And so they did. But I kept pushing forward. Today its read by more residents living in the UK then ones imagination can handle and my sister Susan in Montana uses the book to help alcoholics and drug abusers locate peace. The book inspired music to be born; seventeen songs in a project self dubbed Pieces from a Faceless Beast. The raw tracks influenced a recording studio to pick me up and give it a more serious edge that’s taken over a year to lay down for its final mixes.
Ask me about it and I’ll quickly turn away. Until last week when a school teacher unexpectly mentioned, “I’m looking for someone who writes poetry and figures out a way to turn it into music.”
A two year journey that’s finally reached the point it was intended to touch.
I live by one rule; from Julia Cameron, “Let him display his art so he can learn to ignore criticism.”
I fear you, my mother, my boss and anything else that comes with an opinion yet today I need to know which song or piece of poetry should I share with the five to ten year olds this Saturday morning?
NOTE: None of these songs are professionally mixed they are 100% more raw than a steak found in the meat section of Harris Teeter.
Song one: Hurt So Slow
Written about the most recent loss of a great friend’s son before his time…a daughters words minutes before Christmas rang through all things dark allowing peace to grow in corners that one day would be visited. Although its wrong for me to explain a song because a listener should develop their own interpretation; I believe as writers, every twist, turn or long highway can find strength if you take a simple thought at 4am and give it air. This song has never been shared wtih those who brought music to my writing instrument.
Song two: Stopped By
I had just returned from the Levine Children’s Hospital recording interviews in places the real world never sees unless there is tragedy. In one room a tiny voice asked, “Why are you here?” To which I replied, “I just stopped by…and the song says the rest.” Nobody at the hospital has ever heard it…its been in hiding since its creation.
Song three: The Beast
We’ve all been here…the only problem is, nobody but doctors addicted to prescribing drugs have the power to help get you out. I don’t do drugs. I write…
Now its your turn to vote…which one should I share with the kids this Saturday morning? arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Now its my turn to challenge you to follow your gut feeling. If your mind hears something...see it through. You have no clue how many lives will be touched by something you assume is nothing when to the rest of the world it could be a moment of music creating long sought after peace.
I will always believe in you first...
to vote visit this page: http://www.lite1029.com/pages/arroe.html
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
You can't divorce your job but you can marry your front yard...
What is it about the presence of spring that turns neighbors into worker bee beavers glued to a mission of recreating a better looking yard than last year? They put in over forty long a** hours of work M-F only to spend 48 more hours on Saturday and Sunday bending over, chopping, digging, replacing and whatever else is required to match the picture on the cover of Home and Garden.
The more I drove down our quiet city street the larger the guilt bubble expanded in the core of my gut; I’m not a Home Depot/Lowes lovin shape shifter with gifted powers to unmask the hidden art in a hillside more ancient than Native American’s arriving BC. The perfect yard isn’t long slivers of grass blades that tickle the areas between your toes in ways no human can excite the heart’s invisible passion.
I love it when the six pack of white tail deer wander into the rose garden and spend twenty minutes devouring the leaves. I laugh a child’s giggle when momma flops down near a gnome and acts as if she’s talking to something made of ceramic. I crave the true to life beaver that spends its afternoons gnawing away on sticks stuck in mud then hauls it away to the assumed secret hiding place.
Therefore I keep my circle 110% Carolina.
Maybe I’m wrong but the lack of sidewalks shouldn’t be stacks of perfectly cut twigs for the trash people to easily pick up. As bad as I feel about being stuck behind a Sunday driver in the rat race, I’m not afraid to respect everybody’s journey toward locating inner peace outside each of their separations between church and state.
My biggest weakness is a true love for the bald tree. A single white twenty five foot sky scratcher that’s given up on sprouting lime colored leaves in spring. Every year I’m scolded by the passerby’s to let the tree go, “Cut it up into itty bitty pieces and give it back to nature!”
What gives? Bald isn’t just a human trait! The bald eagle is unforgettable! South Carolina peaches aren’t hairy they’re fuzzy which according to some rule books is bald. The Chinese Crested dog is bald. Bald Head Island is for tourists and what about how Mt St Helens suddenly becoming bald in the 80’s?
I can’t imagine walking up to a bald headed man and saying, “You’re numbers up.”
Buddhist Monk Thick Nhat Hahn calls each experience shared in our front yards a flash of insight. Every family with their yards of plentiful flowers, brick design, paths of stone and little water fountains of peace has good intention, the main being an unexposed strength to preoccupy what your job or career has taken away. Your front yard is the best medicine for stress.
No matter what you choose to bring color to this spring and summer Thick Nhat Hahn explains that each creation separates you from the dictator that prevents you from enjoying the wonders of life. Your first step is mindfulness. Putting yourself in the present.
Research shows that what we put into our front yards is the exact opposite of what we’ve been trained to do in a world of business. Corporate America expects you to do several things at one time. Every new shape of technology may promise an easier way to perform our duties but in the end it leaves the door open for you to do even more work.
Front yards don’t demand multitasking. Mindfulness teaches us the correct way to succeed in happiness; one vision or project at a time. Front yards give us focus which serves as an invitation to other living things such as deer that eat my flowers, beavers that take down innocent seedlings and crows that bark louder than a dog six blocks from a blaring radio another state away.
You can’t buy the ability to bring joy to suffering. I don’t give a rats butt if you’re a CEO or a billionaire with a television show, without mindfulness and the presence of the present you are in essence giving permission to the dictator to continue controlling your deepest wish to be nothing more than happy.
At work there is fear, pain, sickness and weakness from the strongest sales team, doubt, pouting in corners, shame, hatred and jealousy. Your front yard tells a different tale. I have a bald tree with no leaves that happens to share the funniest stories! When I’m not listening being bald makes him so different that no matter how clouded the mind and imagination is it’s got the power to reach out and say, “I need your belief in the now to be in the now.”
End the suffering…befriend your front yard while allowing others to do the same in their own way. Learn to walk in true peace by helping to creating it.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
The more I drove down our quiet city street the larger the guilt bubble expanded in the core of my gut; I’m not a Home Depot/Lowes lovin shape shifter with gifted powers to unmask the hidden art in a hillside more ancient than Native American’s arriving BC. The perfect yard isn’t long slivers of grass blades that tickle the areas between your toes in ways no human can excite the heart’s invisible passion.
I love it when the six pack of white tail deer wander into the rose garden and spend twenty minutes devouring the leaves. I laugh a child’s giggle when momma flops down near a gnome and acts as if she’s talking to something made of ceramic. I crave the true to life beaver that spends its afternoons gnawing away on sticks stuck in mud then hauls it away to the assumed secret hiding place.
Therefore I keep my circle 110% Carolina.
Maybe I’m wrong but the lack of sidewalks shouldn’t be stacks of perfectly cut twigs for the trash people to easily pick up. As bad as I feel about being stuck behind a Sunday driver in the rat race, I’m not afraid to respect everybody’s journey toward locating inner peace outside each of their separations between church and state.
My biggest weakness is a true love for the bald tree. A single white twenty five foot sky scratcher that’s given up on sprouting lime colored leaves in spring. Every year I’m scolded by the passerby’s to let the tree go, “Cut it up into itty bitty pieces and give it back to nature!”
What gives? Bald isn’t just a human trait! The bald eagle is unforgettable! South Carolina peaches aren’t hairy they’re fuzzy which according to some rule books is bald. The Chinese Crested dog is bald. Bald Head Island is for tourists and what about how Mt St Helens suddenly becoming bald in the 80’s?
I can’t imagine walking up to a bald headed man and saying, “You’re numbers up.”
Buddhist Monk Thick Nhat Hahn calls each experience shared in our front yards a flash of insight. Every family with their yards of plentiful flowers, brick design, paths of stone and little water fountains of peace has good intention, the main being an unexposed strength to preoccupy what your job or career has taken away. Your front yard is the best medicine for stress.
No matter what you choose to bring color to this spring and summer Thick Nhat Hahn explains that each creation separates you from the dictator that prevents you from enjoying the wonders of life. Your first step is mindfulness. Putting yourself in the present.
Research shows that what we put into our front yards is the exact opposite of what we’ve been trained to do in a world of business. Corporate America expects you to do several things at one time. Every new shape of technology may promise an easier way to perform our duties but in the end it leaves the door open for you to do even more work.
Front yards don’t demand multitasking. Mindfulness teaches us the correct way to succeed in happiness; one vision or project at a time. Front yards give us focus which serves as an invitation to other living things such as deer that eat my flowers, beavers that take down innocent seedlings and crows that bark louder than a dog six blocks from a blaring radio another state away.
You can’t buy the ability to bring joy to suffering. I don’t give a rats butt if you’re a CEO or a billionaire with a television show, without mindfulness and the presence of the present you are in essence giving permission to the dictator to continue controlling your deepest wish to be nothing more than happy.
At work there is fear, pain, sickness and weakness from the strongest sales team, doubt, pouting in corners, shame, hatred and jealousy. Your front yard tells a different tale. I have a bald tree with no leaves that happens to share the funniest stories! When I’m not listening being bald makes him so different that no matter how clouded the mind and imagination is it’s got the power to reach out and say, “I need your belief in the now to be in the now.”
End the suffering…befriend your front yard while allowing others to do the same in their own way. Learn to walk in true peace by helping to creating it.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Dear God what am I feeling? The story of Zondra continues....
The next Arroe Collins interview with Zondra is available...4 weeks after breast cancer surgery what's become her new unexpected challenge and what's it like for a school teacher to be away from her students this long? Dear God What Am I Feeling? Zondra's story continues.... http://www.lite1029.com/pages
Here's an idea...stop calling yourself the big loser!
I call it the Great Silence Maker, maker, maker, maker! Whoa! Did you hear that echo? Call it a fascination, addiction, appreciation or just a middle aged radio wanna-be fool dedicated to locating the invisible worlds an artist escapes to before, during and after the imagination has spoken.
There’s not a person in the world that doesn’t bump into a coworker, family or friend who used to be. A used to be! I used to be! I’ve been so many used to be’s that a Super Wal-Mart isn’t big enough to hold everything attempted once, twice or three times because it was funky fun.
My addiction, fascination, appreciation and wonder don’t sit in the extended arms of those who’ve made it but rather the individual that chose to stop. What did you hear? Maybe something flew out of the sky and landed on your shoulder shouting, “Stop! I said stop!”
Did another person convince you to bring your dreams to a screeching halt? I’ll never forget the heart doctor boldly stepping forward, “I know how much you love Tae Kwon Do. I understand the passion you’ve put into your studies and how you believe it saved your life. But in reality…your broken heart belongs to me and from this day forward we’re going to do what I suggest.” Mentally I’ve never been the same. It feels like my favorite Beatle has passed away again and again.
Here’s the thing…I ain’t the only used to be.
For several years I’ve blogged about the multitude of reasons we’ve chosen as to why we quit, turned a page, came to Y in the road or elected to pull off the highway and not recharge the batteries. Not only have I heard it all but used the very excuses to bring silence to a part of my life that once brought incredible amounts of peace as well as joy.
First…let me clearly state we're all artists; bankers, bakers, painters, wood cutters, musicians, writers, doctors, coffee blenders, sales reps…everything we do is art.
One of the biggest artist killers is allowing others to hold the rights to bringing judgment to your final presentation. Nothing silences me faster than a passerby commenting about the mood I must have been in while painting, “Oh I see there is darkness in this piece. You must have been sad, depressed or feeling a need to hide.”
Allowing someone to talk you into a mood you probably weren’t in is a dangerous place to dry your art.
I physically have no problem looking at the gawkers and softly saying, “Bite my butt.” This might explain why none of my art is currently hanging in galleries. The very second you stop sharing your visions the universe sees it as reason to hand the gift to someone who finds enjoyment in taking it to a different level of performance.
So I ask, “Who currently owns my style? Will I ever get it back?”
Painting black tulips doesn’t mean you’re a bad parent or the job market is overshadowing your poisoned loyalty of supporting a working nation. Bright yellow cupcakes are the farthest thing from happiness on crack. Cranking up a car and letting it shove gassed up pistons into the soul of NASCAR fanatics doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a speed junky upset with the last ticket a peaceful police officer intelligently handed to you on an assumed out of tune morning.
Bald headed men with endless amounts of connected tattoos are book covers judged heavily by Corporate America. Vibrantly dressed Lady GaGa clones that once followed Madonna don’t stand a chance to land a decision maker’s position inside a theme park’s head office. It freaks me out to report that the 80’s flick series Revenge of the Nerds truly was a documentary based on the way the world was about to become! Nerds are holding down the best paying jobs while the rest of us who were taught to be ourselves are silenced by the art we trusted. Wait... I take that back. Being a Nerd is an art form too.
So what's the problem?
Having passion means nothing in today’s modern market because those who still hold it have chosen not to share what little is left fearing once its gone they’ll instantly be branded a used to be. Showcasing loyalty, determination and a zillion plus two ideas that could lift a company back to positive dollar amounts means nothing because those in control have invested so much money in research that visionary performers are instantly labeled outcasts and are treated like grey cubical gnomes that are told to stay planted in the companies policy or find a way to nearest exist.
We used to be… If we don't change you'll be stuck telling your grandchildren how great this country used to be.
Do something about it. It’s time to find enough steam in your shorts and re-invent the thong. The day has arrived to stand up and make a lot of noise calling the effort the last great hurrah! Pick up your puzzle pieces scattered about this worldly world shove that finger high into the air that tells everyone that you are still number one! Stop letting people stare into the corners of your art and locating another reason to set it aside.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
There’s not a person in the world that doesn’t bump into a coworker, family or friend who used to be. A used to be! I used to be! I’ve been so many used to be’s that a Super Wal-Mart isn’t big enough to hold everything attempted once, twice or three times because it was funky fun.
My addiction, fascination, appreciation and wonder don’t sit in the extended arms of those who’ve made it but rather the individual that chose to stop. What did you hear? Maybe something flew out of the sky and landed on your shoulder shouting, “Stop! I said stop!”
Did another person convince you to bring your dreams to a screeching halt? I’ll never forget the heart doctor boldly stepping forward, “I know how much you love Tae Kwon Do. I understand the passion you’ve put into your studies and how you believe it saved your life. But in reality…your broken heart belongs to me and from this day forward we’re going to do what I suggest.” Mentally I’ve never been the same. It feels like my favorite Beatle has passed away again and again.
Here’s the thing…I ain’t the only used to be.
For several years I’ve blogged about the multitude of reasons we’ve chosen as to why we quit, turned a page, came to Y in the road or elected to pull off the highway and not recharge the batteries. Not only have I heard it all but used the very excuses to bring silence to a part of my life that once brought incredible amounts of peace as well as joy.
First…let me clearly state we're all artists; bankers, bakers, painters, wood cutters, musicians, writers, doctors, coffee blenders, sales reps…everything we do is art.
One of the biggest artist killers is allowing others to hold the rights to bringing judgment to your final presentation. Nothing silences me faster than a passerby commenting about the mood I must have been in while painting, “Oh I see there is darkness in this piece. You must have been sad, depressed or feeling a need to hide.”
Allowing someone to talk you into a mood you probably weren’t in is a dangerous place to dry your art.
I physically have no problem looking at the gawkers and softly saying, “Bite my butt.” This might explain why none of my art is currently hanging in galleries. The very second you stop sharing your visions the universe sees it as reason to hand the gift to someone who finds enjoyment in taking it to a different level of performance.
So I ask, “Who currently owns my style? Will I ever get it back?”
Painting black tulips doesn’t mean you’re a bad parent or the job market is overshadowing your poisoned loyalty of supporting a working nation. Bright yellow cupcakes are the farthest thing from happiness on crack. Cranking up a car and letting it shove gassed up pistons into the soul of NASCAR fanatics doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a speed junky upset with the last ticket a peaceful police officer intelligently handed to you on an assumed out of tune morning.
Bald headed men with endless amounts of connected tattoos are book covers judged heavily by Corporate America. Vibrantly dressed Lady GaGa clones that once followed Madonna don’t stand a chance to land a decision maker’s position inside a theme park’s head office. It freaks me out to report that the 80’s flick series Revenge of the Nerds truly was a documentary based on the way the world was about to become! Nerds are holding down the best paying jobs while the rest of us who were taught to be ourselves are silenced by the art we trusted. Wait... I take that back. Being a Nerd is an art form too.
So what's the problem?
Having passion means nothing in today’s modern market because those who still hold it have chosen not to share what little is left fearing once its gone they’ll instantly be branded a used to be. Showcasing loyalty, determination and a zillion plus two ideas that could lift a company back to positive dollar amounts means nothing because those in control have invested so much money in research that visionary performers are instantly labeled outcasts and are treated like grey cubical gnomes that are told to stay planted in the companies policy or find a way to nearest exist.
We used to be… If we don't change you'll be stuck telling your grandchildren how great this country used to be.
Do something about it. It’s time to find enough steam in your shorts and re-invent the thong. The day has arrived to stand up and make a lot of noise calling the effort the last great hurrah! Pick up your puzzle pieces scattered about this worldly world shove that finger high into the air that tells everyone that you are still number one! Stop letting people stare into the corners of your art and locating another reason to set it aside.
I will always believe in you first…
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
Monday, February 21, 2011
Dear God what am I feeling? The story of Zondra continues....
Monday February 21, 2011
The minds eye is too quick to forget. When things become out of sight human connection begins its journey toward becoming unimportant. This is why I’ve dedicated my life to the art of attracting then re-attracting.
Four weeks after Zondra’s surgery her positive presence is still missing from the school where she teaches. I had hoped heavily on her making an appearance at Friday nights Valentine’s Dance. The students would have flipped with excitement which might serve as the reason why the distance continues. The doctor said six weeks.
Today I reached out wanting to record another interview. No answer. I refuse to rest while believing she’s resting.
Her silence has forced me to dig deeper into the chapters already written by actresses who’ve battled this disease; Jaclyn Smith of Charlie’s Angels fame one the most haunting, “It’s the news nobody wants to hear. I remember going home and telling my husband to get it off me! Just get it off!”
Although Zondra granted me permission to step into the private levels of struggles she would face, it’s this silence I want to write about most. She isn’t the first but through her disconnections we can all learn how to walk stronger.
I miss hearing the laugh; a burst of energy that shoots from the corners of an imagination locked on always being first in line for something great to say. I know of the doctor’s visit last week but know nothing of what was spoken behind the doors closed to cut off the world still moving forward.
My wife and granddaughter Mia were with Zondra; it’s so important that the seven year old is able to see the unexpected changes delivered at times when having fun should’ve been taking place but a different ending was designed. Mia was with me at the heart specialist carefully staring at the nurses and doctor studying every page of the reports my ticker was sending. These are the lessons untaught in school and kept far away from the canals that feed the journey soon to be called reality.
I’m told Zondra’s eyes lit up when she saw Mia. Hidden behind a mask, smiles were shared but not germs. The student and the teacher meeting in ways that poets can’t write about because there aren’t enough descriptive words created that best paint the portrait of compassion led by effectively being involved.
Come on phone ring! I want to hear your voice! Biting the edges of these writing fingers…it’s difficult to keep assumption from falling onto a page not already written on.
http://www.lite1029.com/pages/arroe.html
The minds eye is too quick to forget. When things become out of sight human connection begins its journey toward becoming unimportant. This is why I’ve dedicated my life to the art of attracting then re-attracting.
Four weeks after Zondra’s surgery her positive presence is still missing from the school where she teaches. I had hoped heavily on her making an appearance at Friday nights Valentine’s Dance. The students would have flipped with excitement which might serve as the reason why the distance continues. The doctor said six weeks.
Today I reached out wanting to record another interview. No answer. I refuse to rest while believing she’s resting.
Her silence has forced me to dig deeper into the chapters already written by actresses who’ve battled this disease; Jaclyn Smith of Charlie’s Angels fame one the most haunting, “It’s the news nobody wants to hear. I remember going home and telling my husband to get it off me! Just get it off!”
Although Zondra granted me permission to step into the private levels of struggles she would face, it’s this silence I want to write about most. She isn’t the first but through her disconnections we can all learn how to walk stronger.
I miss hearing the laugh; a burst of energy that shoots from the corners of an imagination locked on always being first in line for something great to say. I know of the doctor’s visit last week but know nothing of what was spoken behind the doors closed to cut off the world still moving forward.
My wife and granddaughter Mia were with Zondra; it’s so important that the seven year old is able to see the unexpected changes delivered at times when having fun should’ve been taking place but a different ending was designed. Mia was with me at the heart specialist carefully staring at the nurses and doctor studying every page of the reports my ticker was sending. These are the lessons untaught in school and kept far away from the canals that feed the journey soon to be called reality.
I’m told Zondra’s eyes lit up when she saw Mia. Hidden behind a mask, smiles were shared but not germs. The student and the teacher meeting in ways that poets can’t write about because there aren’t enough descriptive words created that best paint the portrait of compassion led by effectively being involved.
Come on phone ring! I want to hear your voice! Biting the edges of these writing fingers…it’s difficult to keep assumption from falling onto a page not already written on.
http://www.lite1029.com/pages/arroe.html
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