The Reality of Donald Trump

Powered By Blogger

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

A song by John Prine reminded me of,

A "Christmas In Prison"

by Norm Richards

I guess it was Christmas 1996, when I was home with my wife just before Christmas. Things were a bit off for me and I didn't know why. I was near broke, little cash and holding it together. It was time to get a tree for the living room. We usually bought a nice tree every year because we loved, I love the smell of a fresh pine tree in the living room at Christmas. On this past weekend, I watched John Prine on Austin City Limits played on PBS over YouTube. Such a good picture and sound. I watched him again this evening on The Strombo Show recorded in December 2018. He's in hospital right now struck by the coronavirus and everyone is praying for his recovery. I learned an hour ago, he's stable.

Anyway, his song hit me like a spark. I suddenly thought about that Christmas. The relationship between my wife and I was fading. But I had no firm answer. I was torn from one possibility or another. Each action I took was desperate. I was trying to write an original screenplay at home. She went out to work each day commuting to a small town near the city. We were both pressed economically. The investment in my company had run short. Conventional financing was gone. Things depended on me finding a new program buyer and I travelled a lot. I needed manna from heaven.

By this time, my mother's care was demanding more of my time. She lived in a seniors home across town and I brought her food near daily. We sat and watched Dwight Yoakam together. She loved to watch him twist on stage the way he does. He reminded her of Elvis. She had good home care workers who prepared meals for her each day and made sure she was good. I was pleased about that. Our friends had left the city for jobs that took them away permanently. We enjoyed time spent together on holidays. Our friendships with them were genuine. Once they were gone, there was a hole in our lives. We never filled the void. It was a contributor toward us sliding away from each other.

That Christmas of 1996, was not comfortable. Her co-worker, a maintenance man who worked under her came around and offered us a free Christmas tree. I was surprised. She said it was okay and he left it on our front yard. Later, when I took it in, it was dark and didn't resemble the trees I usually picked out. Nevertheless, I took the tree in and set it up. Even after giving it some colour with our decorations, it sat there looming over us smelling bad. I felt intruded on. I shuddered from the bad vibe I felt from that tree. My wife felt pretentious to me. There was something wrong. I couldn't put a finger on it. We exchanged gifts but love was an obligation not genuine. In spring 1997, I joined the emergency broadcast team to cover the rising Red River flood waters. Away from home for fourteen hours a day at the studio was a needed distraction. By the summer of 1997, I had answers. She was in an affair with the maintenance guy. My career soon improved but my relationship didn't survive.    

Sunday, March 29, 2020

Sunday March 29, 2020 in a World Wide Pandemic.

By Norm Richards

I woke this morning with all kinds of thoughts. But most of those thoughts are questions where nobody has the answer. Even, those who have answers have already answered. I'm not satisfied. It just places us at a time of helplessness. It's not at all easy to be told you must do this and you must do that and if you don't, you could die. How could we be cornered like this so fast? How unprepared we were. How unprepared I am as I sit in my room alone with seemingly no options. What I was concerned about in the fall of 2019, is now irrelevant. But during that time, it was so very important to me.

I worked on a proposal for my next book. I researched the arts funding bodies for deadline dates so I would meet those dates and make applications on time. I met those dates and worked hard to be sure I said and did things right. Now, if the world was turning in a normal fashion and I crossed all my t's and dotted my i's right, said the right things and made it interesting enough for others, then I could expect a positive response back and I'd get funding. Well, it didn't turn out that way. My first deadline came and went. I was turned down. Given reasons but they fell short for me.

There wasn't even a pandemic or any threat of any kind at the time. All there was, was a quasi government office charged with the task of administering arts funds I'd applied for. They do not decide who gets support and who doesn't. It's decided by peer assessors in the various disciplines. Okay fine, seems simple enough. But for a couple of things. One, you don't ever get to know who assessed you. You don't really know what was on their mind that day when they looked at your proposal. You're unable to know if they are truly an artist themselves. What criteria or guideline do they follow when they look at your work? I know, what is happening today during a pandemic or other urgent events would be a factor in making decisions about who gets funding support and just how relevant it would be at this time.

Pandemic or no pandemic, I hope my applications is weighed and measured in a fair manner every time. In some ways I think it must be a thankless job being an administrator for an arts funding body, a hero to some and a dirt bag to others. It's feast or famine now too. They used to give partial funding and now they don't. You either get what you asked for or you get nothing. I wasn't told that before I applied. The budget you put in now becomes even more important. Another worry here. If you ask for too much, you're sunk, if you ask for too little you suffer later. You end up working short of money, forced to compromise as well. So why be a writer? I ask myself. Is it worth it? Well, if I have a story line I want to follow and I'm sincere about it and truthful to others, then I should keep writing. I could give you a whole bunch of other reasons why I write but I won't bother you with those details right now. Suffice to say, I love writing and the personal satisfaction of producing a publishable document is sacrosanct.

Now, I still have applications in at the arts funding bodies so I'm still hopeful, But the plans I made eight months ago and what I said in my proposals or how I said it, may not have enough urgency written into it now. We'll see. I can't recall it and bump up the volume. Let's hope that after this pandemic is over, my story material will serve a readership. May there be new reasons to publish what I write.