Where do ideas come from?

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, April 12, 2011 9:58 PM

I’m asked fairly regularly where my ideas come from, and I always answer honestly: I have no idea. I don’t sit at my desk and concentrate really hard on having an idea. It doesn’t happen that way, at least not for me. I find that most of my ideas come when I’m not necessarily trying to have one. Ideas used to come to me when I was walking the dog. I would need a headline, or a concept for a client’s product and suddenly there it would be. On a really good walk, I might have three or four good ideas. I think things come to me when I stop trying so hard and thinking so strenuously. When I let my mind simply wander, even while keeping some boundaries in place around the perimeter, I give ideas permission to come in, stay awhile, maybe having something to eat. If it rattles around for a good while and seems even more interesting for the time we’ve spent together, then I go about developing it.

The simple answer to where ideas come from is everywhere and anywhere. Sometimes they appear to people searching to solve a problem or an equation, like Einstein and his seminal E=MC2, or Sir Isaac Newton’s theory on gravity. Recently there have been ideas like MySpace, Facebook and Twitter to encourage more interaction, using the Internet to work for us in terms of creating a social network rather than isolating us.

There have been ideas for cars, airplanes, telephones, computers, post-it notes, pens that allow you to write in the dark. Everything around us is there because someone, somewhere had an idea.

Ideas can come from brainstorming, when we sleep, when we’re trying to sleep and can’t turn our brains off, when we’re staring into the pantry wondering what to make for dinner, when we allow ourselves the luxury to think in the abstract.

I have a friend who has an idea for a children’s book on ideas. It’s brilliant and I hope to help her develop it. Where did she get that idea? It was born from necessity and from creativity, from wanting to do something different with her life, and from allowing her mind to wander. It also came from sketching and scribbling, a very freeing way to welcome something new.

The word idea is actually inherently feminine, even though many of the world’s most famous ideas are attributed to men. It comes from the Greek idéā, a combination of “ide” which means to see and “a”, the feminine-noun ending. It first occurred around 1400, and means a concept, an impression, a belief, a plan, fantasy, philosophy and Kantianism, an idea of pure reason.

Plato was the first philosopher to discuss ideas in detail. René Descartes advanced the idea of ideas to include knowledge and common sense. He was decidedly less philosophical than Plato, much like John Locke who basically maintained that ideas were good sense. Immanuel Kant realized that ideas aren’t always realized. Interestingly his last name rhymes nicely with ‘can’t’ which never accomplishes anything.

Rudolf Steiner saw ideas as objects, Wilhelm Wundt studied them as conscious representations of an object, Charles Sanders Pierce viewed ideas quite pragmatically, claiming that ideas should be viewed as how they would and could change our lives should the idea be applied, and G.F. Stout and J.M. Baldwin brought ideas to life as adequate images.

Ideas are good and bad, interesting and scary, strong and weak, applicable and discarded. But they’re still ideas, thoughts and possibilities for something different and something better.

Where did the idea to write this blog post on ideas come from? Kevin asked me the other day where I got the idea to do something, and I told him I didn’t know. Where did my friend get her idea for her new book? Where do artists get the idea of what they want to paint, or musicians what they want to play, or authors what story they want to tell? Where do business leaders get their ideas to challenge convention, or inventors their idea to change the world?

Perhaps someone reached inside and flipped the switch.

To paraphrase a famous quote by the anthropologist Margaret Mead, never doubt that even the smallest idea can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.

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live out loud

Loving the waterproof Band-Aid

by Lorin Michel Monday, April 11, 2011 10:35 PM

I have stitches on my left forearm. It doesn’t really matter why. What does matter is that when I got these stitches, wiry black spider legs emerging from beneath my skin, the doctor gave me specific instructions. Hydrogen peroxide daily to clean the incision, followed by polysporin and a waterproof bandage to keep the stitches dry when I shower.

Band-Aid was invented by Earle Dickson, a Johnson & Johnson employee, in 1921 because his wife Josephine was forever cutting her fingers in the kitchen. The bandages at the time amounted to gauze wrapped with tape, both of which would fall off easily and were hard to affix by oneself. Dickson took a piece of gauze, put it squarely in the center of a piece of tape, and covered the whole thing with crinoline to keep it sterile. It allowed his wife to dress her wounds without any assistance. Next thing you know, Earle Dickson was a Johnson & Johnson vice-president.

The earliest band-aids were handmade and not very popular but when the first machine-produced, sterilized Band-Aid was introduced in 1924 the world of cuts and stitches would never be the same. During World War II, Band-Aid bandages were shipped to U.S. overseas medical teams as well as to hospitals all over the country.

As for a waterproof bandage, they were introduced sometime later and today mostly consist of a thin layer of plastic/vinyl and stronger adhesive so they don’t come loose when wet. They’re not really completely waterproof; more water repellant. In fact, Consumer Reports recently tested nine different types of bandages and seven were rated poor for leak protection. One of the best was a Band-Aid, a variation on what Earle Dickson invented ninety years ago.

Each day when I get out of the shower and pull my waterproof bandage off, the skin beneath, including those nasty little spider leg stitches, is always very damp. I let it air dry before I re-dress it for another day, with a waterproof Band-Aid.

The stitches come out in another week, and then Band-Aid – waterproof and otherwise – and I will part company until we are forced to meet again. At least I know it will be waiting for me. 


live out loud

Relative celebration: the last of her kind

by Lorin Michel Sunday, April 10, 2011 8:23 PM

My great aunt Beryl is 91 years old. She’s the last of that generation on both my mother’s and my father’s side. Over the past ten years, I’ve lost my grandmothers, my grandfather, and another great aunt. They were all in their 90s.

Aunt Beryl was born in Port Vue, Pennsylvania on July 26th, 1919, Southeast of Pittsburgh and directly south of McKeesport where she lives now, in the house she and her sister bought many years ago, back in the 1940s. It’s a four story, brick monstrosity, built in 1900. I haven’t been there since I was a child, and I’m sure it has become much smaller. There’s a basement where the washer, dryer and clothes line reside, along with shelves for holding canned peaches and tomatoes. The main house is actually separated into two separate apartments, one on the first floor, one of the second. Each has a living room/dining area, small kitchen, very small bathroom and a bedroom. The first floor also has the front porch, now screened in. The second floor has the entrance to the third floor attic where the narrowest of stairs ascend to a finished room. The walls of the room have tiny doors that lead to storage areas. Years ago, an old woman named Louise lived up there.

Port Vue, 1919

When I was young, my Aunt Beryl lived on the second floor with her husband Clarence. She had married him when she was 30 and he was much older, some 15 years or so older. He’d already had another life by then, and had three children. He and Aunt Beryl never had children. She had a little black dog once named Pepper. Oh, how she loved and spoiled him. He got diabetes and died when he was nine.

Beryl’s sister, Eleanor, lived on the first floor with her husband Bert. They fought constantly, and I don’t remember him very well except for his grisly face – he always needed a shave – and the smell of stale cigarettes. I remember Eleanor well. When I was young, she was the one who rode the rollercoaster with me at Kennywood Amusement Park. Eleanor died from a swine flu vaccination in 1976.

Beryl, on the left, with Eleanor. Circa 1930.

The house sits across the street from a steep hillside that leads down to railroad tracks and the Youghiogheny river that feeds into the Monongahela that eventually converges with the Ohio and the Allegheny rivers in downtown Pittsburgh. Uncle Clarence drove a Greyhound bus, Aunt Beryl worked for US Steel until she retired. Pittsburgh and McKeesport were steel mill towns. The air was always slightly dank with the smell of factory belches and the ground was covered with a thin, black silt, even inside. When my brother, sister and I would run around barefoot in the summers, the soles of our feet were always black as coal.

McKeesport was founded in 1769 by David McKee and his son, John, when they built a log cabin and established a ferry-boat service along the Monongahela and Youghiogheny rivers. Soon McKee’s Port had a doctor, a blacksmith, a sawmill and the requisite saloon. When the coal mines opened in 1830, the town began to grow. In 1851, the first iron foundry opened. From iron, workers also made steel, and in 1857, the railroad set up shop so McKeesport could begin shipping its products around the world.

McKeesport, in the beginning.

Clarence had a heart attack and died years ago. At some point, Eleanor and Beryl switched floors, and the two lived together in the house until Eleanor’s death. Since then, Beryl has rattled around in those four stories alone. She still goes up and down the stairs, all the way up into the attic though not as often as she used to. She keeps her decorations up there, for all of the holidays. Easter, 4th of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. She decorates for all of them, and hangs an American flag off the front porch on Veteran’s day and Memorial day.

Her days are filled with laundry, cooking and reading. Newspapers are delivered daily, and magazines like Time get devoured as do the Smithsonian publications. There’s no history she doesn’t remember, no current event she’s not completely versed on. I don’t always agree with her, and as she’s gotten older, some of her views revert back to the prejudice that was rampant in the 1960s and 70s. But at 91, I suppose she’s entitled.

I called her this morning and we discussed my mother’s hoped for knee replacement surgery, my niece and nephew’s skating lessons, and the civil war mini-series North & South. She still has the videos and watches them on her VCR, refusing to get a DVD because “there’s just not many new movies I want to see.” Eventually we started talking about pets. She loves dogs and always asks about “sweet Maguire.” But cats? Not so much, and today I found out why. Apparently when her mother was pregnant with her, they had a cat. Just before Beryl was born, her mother was sitting quietly in the living room in Port Vue, darning socks. Beryl’s two older brothers, Jack (my mother’s father who died in World War II) and Benny (who died in flu epidemic that ran from 1918 to 1920) were off playing and the house was almost completely silent. The mantle was decorated with glass figurines, and when the cat jumped up, one of the figures crashed to the floor, shattering and frightening Beryl’s mother nearly into labor.

And that, evidently, is why she hates cats.

Who can argue with logic like that?

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relative celebrations

Word salad: digits edition

by Lorin Michel Friday, April 8, 2011 11:27 PM

We were on our walk today, which means we were talking about everything and anything that came to mind. Kevin was in shorts and because the temperature was hovering only around 50º under a cloudy sky, his hands were cold. I was bundled up in long sweats, a sweatshirt and a fleece vest. I was toasty, but the little finger on his right hand was especially chilly so I wrapped it up in my warm hand. This led to a very strange conversation about the word digit. I found it kind of fascinating and funny, and then I found it intriguing. So I did some research.

Digit is a funky little word from the Latin digitus, meaning finger or toe, adopted into Middle English sometime between 1350 and 1400. As the Latin word says, it refers to fingers and toes. Most people are born with twenty: ten fingers, ten toes. Some lose digits to accident, error or disease. Some, like the Flintstones, only have four fingers on each hand, four toes on each foot. Come to think of it, many cartoon characters don’t have five digits on each hand and foot. Kevin likes to tell the story about how people would ask him what he wanted, a boy or a girl, before Justin was born. He’d always say he just wanted a 10-10 baby.

Digit is also a number or a symbol, a unit of growth, even a check figure. It’s also a monthly technology magazine.

A derivative of the word digit is digital, a word we use a lot, especially in the digital age of computers and electronics. Digital uses signals that represent digits of ones and zeros that represent incredible amounts of data. One of the first examples of a digital signal is the smoke signal. Really. The smoke is analog but it’s modulated with a blanket to generate a digital puff of information. One puff at a time. When the abacus was created around 1000 B.C., it paved the way for today’s digital calculators. Morse code is digital. There is also digital architecture, art, culture, movies, music, physics, TV, and video.

I also discovered that digits can be dripped, whatever that means. Digitaldripped is some kind of song device/service something or other.

Digitalis is medicine used to treat congestive heart failure and heart rhythm problems. Its botanical name is foxglove, a name in a list of plants as old as the time of Edward III. Foxglove plants often have pretty colored bells, a favorite place for fairies to lurk where they create a snapping sound when children, holding one end of the digitalis bell, suddenly strike the other on the hand to hear the clap of fairy thunder.

DigiTech makes music, with guitars, base guitars and electronic vocals. Digitech makes EMS software that can evidently be emergency management systems or event management software. There’s also a digi-tech that designs quilting patterns. Not sure how quilting can be digital but it’s an interesting concept.

One of Kevin’s favorite words also contains the word digit. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. The word: Prestidigitation.

Prestidigitation translates roughly to “quick fingers” or legerdemain. It’s a sleight of hand, used by a magician to produce an effect and usually takes years of practice to perfect. Think of the magicians you’ve seen performing tricks on a table right in front of you, or cutting cards using only one hand. The hand is quicker than the eye only because the magician manages to somehow redirect the watcher’s focus to somewhere else. It’s a trick, a sleight, which is an old Norse word meaning dexterity or deceptiveness.

Personally I never really think about digits. They’re numbers, they’re digital, blah, blah, blah. But after our extensive conversation today, I have discovered a newfound appreciation. Maybe it’s because my digits enable me to make a living, by translating what’s rattling around in my head out through my keyboard and onto a big, blank word document (a digital piece of paper).

So I’m now a fan. Digits rock. Celebrate appropriately.


live out loud

Friendly celebrations, part 1

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, April 5, 2011 10:09 PM

There is a wonderful scene in the wonderfully bad movie Tequila Sunrise that comes near the end. Raul Julia’s “Carlos” and Mel Gibson’s “Mac” are discussing money, drugs and women. Carlos looks at his buddy and says:  “Friendship is the only choice in life you can make that's yours! You can't choose your family! Goddamn it, I've had to face that! … Friendship is all we have. We chose each other. How could you fuck it up? How could you make us look so bad?”

Crude, but accurate. Robert Towne, the writer and director of that horrible movie, knew what he was talking about when it comes to friends and friendship.

Who were the first friends? No one really knows, but we all remember our first best friends. Mine was Kathy Kalenbaugh in kindergarten. We met on the first day when we were both wearing the same hot pink pant’s suit. Every one of us knows the power that flows through friendship. There is sheer joy in being in one another’s presence. Every time you’re with a certain person, with that friend, you feel better having been there. It doesn’t have to be laughter and happiness. Sometimes there is joy, but just as often there is sadness, but there is a strength of feeling and love, of sharing, that comes through every time. That’s what makes it real and special.

Facebook has become the de facto “friend” network, but before that we had Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, Starsky and Hutch, Riggs and Murtaugh. Do men have deeper friendships than women? Only in film and on TV. In real life, many men, my husband included, seem to go for years sometimes without connecting with their closest friends. Roy is the exception for Kevin, and vice versa.

Are there great female friendships in history? Thelma and Louise come to mind. Still, women are different. There’s something about women and friendship that is more emotional, almost more sensual. We’re not afraid to show our feelings, and we’re not burdened with having to play tough. If we love someone, we tell them, without fear.

Most of us would die for our best friends, just as we would die for a child, or a husband. We would die for anyone we love, and we love our friends. The term best friends forever, ridiculously trivialized in texting vernacular as BFF, is often true.

The French writer Anais Nin wrote: "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

Over the years, I’ve had many close friends, women I couldn’t imagine my life –my world – without, and yet many have disappeared. I think as we mature, we become more sure of ourselves and thus more sure of the people we want around us. The fun-loving college roommate who could drink with us, isn’t as important as the friends we can now laugh with, bitch with, share with and travel with. Traveling with a friend and still enjoying your time together is one of the truest tests of friendship. I’ve traveled with several and it can define the relationship in both a good and bad way.

I celebrate my friends, my closest friends, my “sisters,” those in my past and especially those in my present for these are the women who will be with me in the future. We’ll grow old together, drink wine and whine together, celebrate birthdays and holidays…

In future posts, I want to chronicle the women who are most important to me. You know who you are: Bobbi, Diane, my sister Khris, rediscovered Pam. I don’t have many but those I have I cherish. I would do anything for any of them. And I know they’d do the same for me.

As Hafiz of Persia wrote: Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, “You owe me.” Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky.

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friendly celebrations

Shower art

by Lorin Michel Saturday, April 2, 2011 10:42 PM

We have glass shower doors, and when we take a hot shower, they steam up nicely. Which means while we’re standing under the water, letting it beat on our shoulders and back, rinsing shampoo from our hair, we also have the opportunity to do a little drawing, make a little art. Using our fingers to slice through the steam on the doors, we're creating our own medium.

We design new pieces of furniture, Kevin gets ideas for web design, I work out ideas for stories, books and more. The entire wall of glass is sometimes taken up with calculations, crudely drawn pictures and charts. Sometimes we sign our names. Sometimes I revert to the childhood game of Lorin + Kevin with a nice, non-symetrical heart drawn around our names. Eventually and rather quickly, the steam fogs the art, all of it, and it fades away until tomorrow’s session. 

I'd post a picture, but today's art is gone now, like every day's session, squeegeed away.

I celebrate shower art, and wish there was some way to preserve it. We could be famous.

Though I can't imagine how we'd get it to hang in a gallery. 

Just a little something to ponder on a Saturday night.


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live out loud

March gladness

by Lorin Michel Sunday, March 27, 2011 7:55 PM

It’s Sunday night, the last Sunday in March. The year is flying by and while I’m never sure if that’s a good thing, I do know that it means we’re all still here and enjoying the view.

Rain has given way to cold clouds and warming sunshine. The air sears the skin, lifts my hair and makes my nose run. As the dogwoods blossom and the African daisies flirt with a new season, it seems official. Spring has sprung. Leaf-less trees are budding, the thorns on my rose bushes are more prickly than usual as they get ready to blast forth with flowers of blood red, lemon yellow, lavender sterling and hot pink. The backyard is waiting patiently, as am I.

Across the street, the neighbor’s new puppy is blossoming, too, bigger every day and looking like a polar bear with a dark brown face. March madness is in full court – I can hear the boys next door shouting and cheering and swearing – but I’m not a basketball fan.

Instead, I’m waiting for the birds to sing, for the warm days to ease into cool desert nights, for the stars to dance in an endless and darkening sky. I’ll hear the squirrels chatter in the trees and listen for the newborn chirping of baby birds tucked safe in the nest above the porch pillar just below the roofline, safe from predators. Little tufts of feathers that grow quickly to become majestic.

Soon the air will be full. Sprinklers will start to run again, sending sprays of water into the atmosphere to create miniature rainbows. And before I can say March gladness, summer will push spring aside. I can already hear shorts and flip-flops calling my name. I’ll answer as soon as it’s warm enough to do so. Until then, I’ll simply enjoy the sound.

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live out loud

Celebrating Something

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, March 1, 2011 11:12 PM

I wonder sometimes if we weren’t happier before we knew everything that was going on in the world at any given moment in time. Between 24-hour news and the Internet, we are bombarded constantly. Maybe it’s just me and the sites I used to visit, but so much of it seems to be mad, or bad, or snarky.

Sometimes I find myself going to Entertainment Weekly just to get some mindless celebrity breakup or crack-up news, or surfing YouTube for some puppy romping or kitten terrorizing-a-shoebox videos to get some relief.

There are good things out there, wonderful things to celebrate. I know this because I took a look at my own life, and found a number of somethings to celebrate.

Somethings that bring me joy, make me smile, and make each day a better day.

I suspect that everyone has something to celebrate. Maybe it’s small, like a hot cup of coffee or a banana that’s perfectly ripe. Not too hard, not too mealy. Perhaps it’s getting snail mail – so old-fashioned and quaint – a “thinking of you” card. Or receiving an accolade regarding work.

My somethings are different every day but often include my dog, my husband making me laugh at something stupid, or an email from my son just to say “hi, mom. love you!” A text from my sister.

I’m not a religious person but I do believe each of us has great purpose, that we can rise above the everyday nastiness that is sometimes too easy to succumb to, and live our lives out loud. Make our voices heard, even silently. It means celebrating something.

A good friend’s voice, a piece of greasy pizza, music, an un-put-downable-book, the quiet, a roaring fire, a fun drive, poetry, television, Chicago, Pedigree dog food commercials, slippers. Every day, something happens that is joyful. What happened today that you’re celebrating? When you give it a name, you make it real, and when you make it real, positivity happens.

That’s why I’m writing, and why I’ve chosen to live it out loud and celebrate something, anything, everything, finding at least one thing every day that makes me smile.

That’s what it means to live it out loud. To spread our arms and dance.

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live out loud


by Lorin Michel Saturday, February 19, 2011 5:31 PM


Her name was Elizabeth Piper Rogalsky but everyone called her Betsy. She was my best friend’s sister and I only met her once but I knew of her life and her health struggles for nearly as long as she had them, which was close to 20 years.

Betsy was first diagnosed with cancer in her early 20s, Hodgkin’s, I think. She discovered another lump when she was 30 and on her honeymoon. It had returned. She sought treatment again and again beat it, but the chemotherapy so scarred her lungs that she eventually needed a lung transplant.

During all this time, she continued to work as much as she could. She went back to school to get her second master’s degree. She was going into social work, to use life’s gifts, which she celebrated daily, to help others.

Just a year ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy. The doctors were confident that they had gotten it all because the lymph nodes were clean; no further treatment was necessary. But then it, too, returned, and then metastasized in her lungs. Her newly transplanted lungs.

Once again, she and her husband made the decision to fight. Betsy was a fighter, a lover of life, a liver of life. Her motto had long been the mantra made famous by the French naturalism writer, Èmile Zola. “If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I will tell you, I came to live out loud.”

Betsy had a heart attack and died at midnight on September 4th, 2010, as the clock was rolling forward into a new day. She was just 42. Her passing still brings tears to my eyes, perhaps because she was so young, perhaps because she was so relentlessly positive through everything, perhaps because of my friend.

Perhaps because my sister is also 42 and I can’t imagine the loss. I have a mug she gave me years ago. It’s stained now from too much coffee and the occasional cup of tea. Inside the lip it says: “The bonds we have are everlasting.” They are.

Betsy came to live her life out loud; we’d all do well to emulate that. There is so much to celebrate every day.

So I’m starting today by celebrating Betsy and her passion to live. I'm celebrating my friend, my sister, and all sisters. I'm celebrating life because it can all too often be much too short.

And I, for one, came to live it out loud.



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live out loud

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