SUCCESS AND FAILURE

Success
“If A = success, then the formula is A = X + Y + Z, with X being work, Y play, and Z keeping your mouth shut.”
- Albert Einstein


Failure
“If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. Then quit. No sense being a damn fool about it.” -W.C. Fields

  


SUCCESS AND FAILURE - CUBAN STYLE
Carolyn B Healy


Celia got us there with 20 minutes to spare. We collected on the open-air platform and looked around. On the earth road alongside, we witnessed a few centuries’ worth of transportation options whiz by. A horse and cart carried a local man hauling a sack of grain; another cart hauled a tourist couple also rushing to make the train. A bicycle rickshaw scooted by, carrying a local woman dressed for the office, although looking around the very small town, it was hard to see where she might be headed. A series of 1950-era Chevys and DeSotos and a couple of rusty Ford pickups also buzzed by while we waited. A mid-1960’s Soviet Lada, a boxy successor imported once Fidel shut down the supply of the U.S. cars, followed. Cash for Clunkers would be an enormous hit in Cuba if only anyone had any money or the right to buy a new car.


Early that morning, after a sumptuous brunch at the hotel, Celia had urged us onto our luxurious Chinese bus for our trip into the countryside. Maximo sat at the wheel, greeting each rider with nods and a wordless smile. Maximo spoke no English, we were told. We had also been told that Celia, like all guides, would have to watch her words, as you never know who might disapprove and turn her in to the state for unauthorized opinions. That was enough to get us all to keep an eye on Maximo and his motives (How did we really know he speaks no English?), and nervous that our endearing single mother new friend Celia would overstep her boundaries. MORE . . .


EXIT CENTER STAGE
Ellie Searl


Perhaps I shouldn’t have resigned.


Drama and my life have been a tight weave since words could cascade from my imagination. I told stories with great flair - performing my way through stream-of-consciousness sagas, updating the adventures of my characters-du-jour. They somersaulted when excited, stomped when frustrated, danced when amused, wailed when upset, shrieked when scared, and pouted when ignored, which was often, due to audience failure to remain as interested in my stories as I. Center stage. I thrived on center stage.


For years, my mother called me a pest. I heard it often in one guise or another. “Stop your blather.” - “Quit being a nuisance.” - “Be more like your brothers - they don’t annoy people.” Once she called me histrionic. I thought that was a compliment.


I was in my first play was when I was six, cast as an apple tree, draped in brown and green crepe paper with red felt dots. I stood erect under the August sun with my bent limbs held in position for the length of the play, which to me seemed like hours, sweat dripping down my tummy making me itch. I wanted to be Alice – the lead – but my friend Karen, Miss Alpha Pants, a doctor’s daughter who always got what she wanted, played that part. Besides, the show was in her back yard, and it was directed by her mother, who also made the white cupcakes with orange icing and pink lemonade. In time, I learned to accept that there are no small parts, just small actors. Often it’s the small role that’s noteworthy. Take Robert Duvall. He played Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. All he did was stand behind a door. Mute. Like a tree. MORE . . .