Fumbling

This post is really just me thinking out loud. I'm confused about my writing style. Spewing out my writing insecurities and frustrations helps me process them. And recording it on the blog ensures that I'll be able to come back and find it for future reference. Maybe someone will even stumble upon it and offer advice.

In the past I've been told my writing is mechanically sound but boring, bland, banal, devoid of heart and wit. The only reason this critique is bothering me lately is because I think there's some truth to it. There's no doubt my writing comes from a genuine place in regards to emotion, but it's lacking punch. That's why I keep pushing myself, trying to take it even farther and see what else I'm capable of. I think part of the problem is imagination, I sometimes have trouble seeing outside the box, seeing things through my own eyes and describing them with my own voice instead of imitating others. Maybe I just haven't found my voice yet.

Another issue is my vocabulary. I often use very formal, almost technical language mixed with antiquated, romantic language. I'm also too verbose and repetitive. I have to agree that I can take the most deeply stirring topic and make it sound cold, clinical, uninteresting, zzzzzzzzzzz. The dead poets used formal language and for the most part their writing is still very compelling. I dunno, I'd like to think that I can still stretch my limits and grow as a writer. Because I really enjoy doing it, I just enjoy it a lot more when it's good. Same goes for my singing, it's no fun if it sounds like nails on chalkboard. Like all artistic forms of expression, when it's really good, the timing is right and everything comes together perfectly to create something extraordinary. It gives us chills, it gives others chills. It's a spiritual experience, one we keep chasing and trying to replicate.

So here I am, fumbling in darkness towards the raw and visceral. No matches, no compass - just the words of Angelou, Whitman, and Thoreau for guidance. Words I cling to with fervor.

Everything I need to know I learned from my dog

Preface: Just a fun little post 'cause I was in a silly mood. I would usually put these types of posts on my other blog, but I'm trying to reserve that one for outdoor/hiking/travel stories and photos. And since I have no desire to start a third blog, everything else gets posted here now.

Ticky-Chips (one of many, many nicknames for my Grandma's dog) has latched on to me for dear life and won't let go. And since she's my new little shadow following me everywhere I go, you'll be seeing lots more of her around here.

Lesson #1 - Sometimes it's hot dogs and cheese curds, sometimes it's Kibbles 'n Bits. Deal with it.

Now stop your moping and choke down those kibbles you little turd nugget.

Lesson #2 - Sometimes you get locked in a cage while your friends play outside. Deal with it.

I know-- it's worse than the kibbles. But let's face it, you're going to be in that monkey cage for at least 8 hours so you might as well make the best of it, Ticky-Poo.

Lesson #3 - Sometimes life socks you in the face. Deal with it.

Apparently your way of dealing with it is to lie there and take it. Tee-da-Bear, the sock-sniffing pacifist.

I have a story about this one. A few weeks ago I was lying on the bed watching a movie and it got too warm so I kicked off my socks. An hour or so later I look down and see that. The sock was completely covering her face before she heard me going for the camera and moved a little. She loves to roll around in and cuddle with my dirty clothes, but to just lay there with a sock on your face for an hour? She's kind of a special needs runt of the litter, if you know what I mean.

~ Outtakes ~





The. End.

Thoughts on Humankind 'n Stuff

Just some thoughts that occurred to me while on my walk today.

Sometimes it seems like we've charted a dangerous course for ourselves and would be nearly powerless to stop our own momentum should we want to.

Some people think cockroaches are the ultimate survivalists, I disagree. Did you know there are people (descendants of Black Plague survivors) who have developed natural immunity to HIV/AIDS? Civilizations may rise and fall but human beings will be around until Earth's last gasp and, with our intelligence and ingenuity, likely beyond.

I can honestly say there are more things to dislike about the human race than to like, but our strengths are no less astounding for it.

Mother Nature demands her children devour one another to fuel the cycle of life. Humankind stands out in the brood because we don't merely eat and reproduce-- we imagine, we create.

With the help of evolution we've managed to humanize dogs to the point where it seems inevitable they will one day be able to hold conversations with us.

Hand-to-a-higher-power these thoughts came to me just within the last 3 hours. See, this is what happens when I'm in a writing phase - my mind goes 'round and 'round with useless crap like this until I write it down, and then it finally quiets. For a little while anyway. I'll be happy when this phase ends. Hope my movie watching phase is next, it's much less exhausting.


"Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment, but you humans do not. Instead you multiply, and multiply, until every resource is consumed. The only way for you to survive is to spread to another area. There is another organism on this planet that follows the same pattern... a virus. Human beings are a disease, a cancer on this planet. You are a plague, and we... are the cure."

- Agent Smith to Morpheus, The Matrix (1999).

Swallowed Up

Wrapped up in the docile beauty of nature I was taken unaware by its hostility. Droves of flying insects like fighter pilots carry out their merciless attacks amid the suffocating brush. With my evasive maneuvers I manage to cut my hand on a thorn. As I watch the blood trickle down my arm I'm convinced the woods want to utterly devour me. Like the fallen tree, bloated with crawling bugs, covered with a blanket of moss and creeping vine - I fear if I sit still too long I may never get back up.

Thought of the Day

Most young people look at life the same way they look at fiction - like the bulk of it is bland filler, mere prelude to the juicy scenes. It's the wise who are able to savor the quiet, subtle moments.

Leave it to me to somehow relate it to food. The thought came to me just now while watching a silly teen movie, thrumming my fingers waiting for the two characters I like to finally get it on. Still waiting... and... they hugged, that's it. Gosh darnit. I suppose the flick had some redeeming qualities, though I can't think of any at the moment

It's a very, very Mad World

It's a bright, sunny day and I'm inside listening to Adam Lambert's studio version of "Mad World" on repeat. It's a hauntingly beautiful version of the song and I just feel like listening to it right now. No other reason in particular. Maybe it's because The Twins lost today, who knows.

I've always been a fan of Tears for Fears, but it wasn't until I heard the Michael Andrews/Gary Jules version of "Mad World" in one of my favorite movies, Donnie Darko (2005 Director's Cut is best), that the simple, melancholy lyrics and melody really gripped me. It's a genius song and a genius movie with a genius soundtrack (Like most people I tend to be overly generous in my use of the word "genius", but in this case it's fitting). Being 7 years old when the song was originally released, there was no way I could fully comprehend or feel Orzabal's lyrics. Now that I'm 34 with a mountain of life experience behind me, they cut like a warm knife through butter.

In my teenage years I wrote songs on the piano in very much the same vein without even realizing just how similar the melodies and lyrics were. I now see "Mad World" as the epitome of what I've been trying to create for years. It's as if Orzabal looked through time and saw inside me, saw what I was trying to do, and with the creation of his divine masterpiece proclaimed, "This is how it's done.". Maybe he saw some hidden places inside all of us. Just brilliant. Then Michael Andrews teamed with Gary Jules to come up with an even more stunning version of the song for Donnie Darko. Oh, and then this kid named Adam Lambert came along with a unique vocal performance that managed to take the song to even more vulnerable and touching depths. How can a seemingly simple song be so incredibly poignant? Just call me Salieri at this point. I was clearly absent the day God was passing out all the genius genes because I didn't get any, but that's okay, I'm thoroughly enjoying the products of other people's.

Here are both Adam's American Idol version and the version from the Donnie Darko soundtrack. Go ahead and put them on repeat, it's good therapy. Scroll down for lyrics.

FYI...Links tend to break over time so if the audio files don't play you can just go to playlist.com and listen to these songs there. It's a free music search engine that streams audio content from all over the web. I use it all the time. And no, I don't get a kick-back for saying that. I'd need to have a heck of a lot more hits on my blog for that to happen.

Mad World
by Roland Orzabal of Tears for Fears

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very, very
Mad World

The True Calling of Oscar Wilde

Preface: This post was originally outlined in my mind to discuss how reading my old writing had revealed that on some level I wanted to be known, poignantly quoted, and remembered for my writing one day - like Oscar Wilde or something. But as I started writing the post it quickly turned into a different type of self-discovery when I realized that my true calling has always been teaching. Strange how things never seem to work out the way we plan.

I've been going through some of my old writing lately and came across something titled "A Variety of Poems & Wisdom", apparently compilations of short poems and personal quotations in two volumes *chuckle*. Reading them takes me back in time. Thoughts and feelings flood in and grab hold to their former places, momentarily dragging me back to the person I once was. I usually wrote for myself, rarely sharing my writing with anyone. Yet looking at some of the stuff I wrote I now recall a sense of expectation or hope, for lack of a better word, that someone would one day read my words and gain something from them.

But I never aspired to make a living out of writing. In fact, I never aspired to be anything in particular. Unlike the young boy who dreams of being an astronaut or the little girl who wants to be a lawyer and nothing else, I never knew what I wanted to be. I was too busy listening to The Beatles at deafening volumes in my headphones to hear my calling. But in junior high I was made to take an aptitude test and the results indicated I should be a nurse or doctor. So I was sent to The North Memorial Trauma Explorers at the age of 13 and became involved with them and various other emergency medical organizations for many years. It wasn't a calling but rather an opportunity presented to me. I liked it and was good at it so, what the heck, I went with it. Over the next 20 years I worked in a variety of fields, but none were completely fulfilling and it was obvious that I had missed my true calling, or simply didn't have one.

But now, writing this and looking back on my life I can see something, a pattern jumps out at me. For as far back as I can remember I think I felt a deep tug towards teaching. Many children grow up emulating their teachers, but I was more enthusiastic* about it than most (*read "obsessed"). I remember dressing up in over-sized ruffled blouses and floor-length skirts, and of course accessorizing with bangle bracelets, long beaded necklaces, and eyeglass frames with missing lenses. I'd improvise a pointer with a back-scratcher or whatever stick I could find, and pace the room giving long, eloquent lectures to my imaginary pupils. Recently I cleaned out our old playroom and found "grade books" where I recorded my students' marks. Sadly, my handwriting hasn't changed much since then.

As my primary areas of interest (and majors in college) changed over the years from Music, to Medicine, to English, to Psychology, etc, etc. I think I pictured myself ultimately teaching in those fields. I never got a teaching degree, but always slid naturally into the mentor/teacher role no matter what type of work I was doing. For extra cash, as a second job, I was a CPR/First Aid Instructor for many years. And in almost every other job I ever held I became a mentor/trainer of some sort, either officially or unofficially. As of right now I am volunteering for the Hennepin County Library system. One of my volunteer roles is as an assistant instructor for computer classes offered to the public. So, looking at the trail of facts and evidence, it overwhelmingly points to the conclusion that I should have gone for that teaching degree. But even without the degree and unbeknownst to me, I've kind of been answering the call to teach by the way I live my life.

So now, getting back on my original train of thought, I share with you some excerpts from "A Variety of Poems & Wisdom", not-so-famous quotes from the girl who didn't want to be a writer but secretly hoped to be well known as one, and who was meant to be a teacher but didn't know it. Enjoy.

Candy without sugar is as pointless as life without love; but life without chocolate is unimaginable.

Whether it be a new car or a lesson learned in life, to gain something valuable we all must pay its price.

It's in discovering what we are truly capable of that we discover who we are.

To live beneath your true potential is to waste a precious gift.

It is when we go through the dark times that we are closest to seeing the light. Growing is just a matter of letting your eyes adjust and your soul expand.

If ever you are doubting your purpose in this world - it is to learn, laugh, love, dream, and to never, ever give up.

We are, every one of us, both student and teacher; the world is our classroom and there is no graduation but for death.

Perfection is boring. To learn, grow, and struggle to improve is what makes life interesting. It's why God gave us flaws.

We are born with all the tools we need to be happy in this life. The trick is to look for them within. Some discover the treasure sooner than others.

Better late than never huh? It seems I always learn something while writing, sometimes the lesson is just more obvious and immediate. I could prattle on but I'm going out to dinner with my gramma and it isn't wise to keep her waiting. (I think I just came up with another golden nugget of wisdom to add to the volumes! hehe)


"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it."
Oscar Wilde

5/25/14 - My work still involves teaching. I work with vulnerable adults who have developmental disabilities and I teach them how to live more independent and healthy lives. Every day I'm teaching them something, from the smallest things like how to organize emails or pay a bill online, to cooking from a recipe. All in all though I think they teach me more than I teach them. I've been very depressed this last year and when your mind is enveloped in darkness like that it's hard to be optimistic or grateful. They teach me to be both. A far more important lesson than anything I've ever taught them.  

Inspirational Thought of the Day

The failure of first love does rip something from our core, never to be replaced. But we learn something of ourselves and life in the process, so it's not a complete and total end-of-the-world disaster. It just feels that way for awhile. How long depends on our intestinal fortitude. And by that I mean, the ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol without throwing up.

Author's note:
I wrote this in my early twenties, enough said.

Regress

sometimes I don’t feel that strong
like I’m hanging by a thread of sanity
clinging to old insecurities
weary with transparent weakness
my confidence fails me

sometimes I don’t feel that wise
like I’m starting all over again
memory betrays lessons learned
dropping the guise of maturity
reveals a frightened little girl ~

Copyright ©1999 Angela Schofield

Author's notes:
I wrote this over 10 years ago. I've grown considerably since then and come to realize that the key to overcoming these obstacles is not just to write about them, but to understand that I am not the only one struggling with them. This poem could ring true for even the strongest and most successful of people.

It also helps if you don't languish and wallow about in the pain and misery of life, as I've been so prone to do. I think they refer to it as being "emo" these days. In my time it was just called self-pity. But isn't that a right, nay, requirement of the teenager and/or tortured artist?

Haiku-ing

Haiku! Bless you.
I like to use Haiku as an exercise to flex my creative writing muscles. In the past I've simply picked a random photo from Google images and written a nice Haiku about it. This time I'm going to add a twist to it. My recent post comparing poetry to abstract art got me thinking, there's very little left to the imagination in my poetry and it's always bothered me. My poems are nice and sweet, but in the art world very representational and straightforward. In other words, my trees look exactly like trees. I need to think outside the box a little more, pour more of myself, my point of view, and my interpretation into it.

Below is my inspirational photo, it's of a windmill from the 1890's near Long Island, NY. My challenge today is to first write one of my "normal" Haiku poems. Then I must write another, more abstract Haiku that captures the essence and mood of the photo.

-- If you want to play along, scroll only to the bottom edge of the photo - don't look at my poems or you may be influenced by them. Reminder: Haiku consists of three lines, the syllables of which must be 5, 7, and 5 - in that order. -- Ready, set, go!

Haiku #1
windmill frozen still
grainy shades of black and gray
window to the past

Grade: C-
makes sense, sounds nice, but bland and boring, no emotion, feeling, or originality (I'm beginning to understand why my writing has been referred to as "banal") You could read this poem on its own and come up with an image very similar to the photo it's based upon.

Haiku #2
quietly the blades
stall in shadows to affront
storms of rain and time

Grade: B-
interesting, moody, somewhat original, evocative, with duplicitous meaning. An all-around decent poem.

I'm generally not in favor of grading or rating poems and still believe you should write in a way that pleases you. I only did this exercise to try to push myself to do something different and go beyond the normal and predictable.

The most beautiful words in the English language, according to Angela

I've read lists of the most beautiful words and felt inspired to create my own. I'm not going digging through dictionaries or including words that I haven't used at least a dozen times in my life. My criteria is simply personal preference based on look, sound, and meaning. They are off the top of my head, in no particular order:

~ lush ~ luscious ~ landscape ~ ephemeral ~ epiphany ~ ethereal ~ plethora ~ lullaby
~ eloquent ~ loquacious ~ candor ~ felicity ~ soliloquy ~ elegant ~ gallantry
~ chivalrous ~ archaic ~ revelry ~ demure ~ labyrinth ~ sumptuous ~ eclipse ~ floral
~ fauna ~ revocation ~ evocative ~ tribunal ~ tributary ~ font ~ fountain ~ mountain
~ flourish ~ emphasis ~ polymorphic ~ infatuated ~ tendril ~ lavish ~ inspire
~ spiral ~ infinity ~ eternity ~ philanthropy ~ osmosis ~ nourish ~ sunshine
~ essence ~ omniscience ~ pristine ~ deciduous ~ glacier ~ antique ~ cadence
~ rhythm ~ divinity ~ provincial ~ lyrical ~ calligraphy ~ lovely ~ vivacious ~ tertiary
~ semblance ~ angelic ~ fluidity ~ flirtatious ~ phenomenon ~ mystical
~ peaceful ~ tranquil ~ precious ~ charisma ~ jasmine ~ clandestine ~ ambiance
~ resplendent ~ splendor ~ whimsical ~ fondant ~ affinity

Ugh! Alright, I give up. I think I could go on forever. It might just be easier to list the words I don't like.

Abstact Art with Rhythm: The Poet is a Dancer

My writing is a slow process, you could say infinitely slow. That's because everything is always a work in progress, without exception. I'm a perfectionist who likes to nit-pick, contemplate the placement of each and every comma. To me a piece of writing is a work of art, each word or punctuation a stroke of the brush. When faced with the enormous pallet that is the English language, it's difficult for me to select the right combination of words to create just the right tone and accurately depict the concept in my mind. Sometimes those concepts are too abstract for even me to grasp. Sometimes, especially if I'm overly excited about a project, I get far too wordy and repetitive and need to thin it out considerably. I'm jealous of creative geniuses who can spontaneously speak or write, succinctly conveying their message in one beautiful, deft stroke. My writing takes time and effort, lots of both.

I need time to set it down and walk away from it. I always come back to it with new perspective, sometimes hours later, sometimes years. I'm not afraid to jump in and make changes, even after the paint has dried. (Although I do keep all copies of my drafts because it outlines the progress of my writing skills.) Sometimes after multiple edits a piece gets jumbled and turns out worse. If that happens it's because it was never a strong work to begin with; there was no clear vision or sense of purpose. The great pieces evolve over time along with my writing skills as I chase perfection. None are perfect, but some are close, in my opinion. I'm sure others would disagree, but I love that. I love that people can read the same poem, as if looking at an abstract painting, each seeing something different. It's all subjective! Of course, most of my writing would be considered more representative than abstract, but I love the metaphor.

Besides the visual and emotional, I also love the rhythmic aspect to the written word. Music is as much a part of me as my own skin. I can't read well-written poetry or prose without feeling its rhythm in my chest. Each author has a unique style of flow, each piece its own beat, captured forever on the pulsing page.

Divine Providence

The storm has passed leaving some fiery, amber filter in the sky, drenching everything around me in the warmest light I have ever seen. The scent of rain and seawater hangs thick in the humid air, though I stand at least 1,500 miles from either coast. I picture how far the winds must have pushed this air; what beautiful landscapes it has blown across, picking up and carrying off bits of it all, like tiny souvenirs along the way. How many people in far off places have paused to breath in the scent of this same air? It seems it’s never enough to just experience a moment like this; I must try to capture it and take it away with me, as if I could ever own it. My mind searches for the proper words to paint this picture, as if such words exist.

I take notice of the white clapboard siding on this slanted old country house, the dark green stalks of fledgling corn across the street bowing in deference to the wind, and the clouds suspended above the field like strings of cotton balls. All bronzed in a soft warm glow, as if God were a director lighting his set to film a most romantic scene tonight. Out back the setting sun fans its light through a cluster of clouds and tree branches onto a meadow dipped in honey. The wild grasses sway and swirl in unison, like tall dancers stretching this way and that, their delicate grain seed tips reaching like hands toward the heavens. Leafy green vines spread out and curl among batches of colorful wildflowers most people would call weeds. Even the Weeping Willow seems joyful as its branches flow in the breeze like jellyfish tendrils in underwater currents.

From the woods to the left a White-tailed Deer emerges, a doe. The wind comes to a halt at about the same time she does, giving the illusion that time has stopped. For a moment she looks me in the eye, but has little concern about my presence as she continues on, grazing her way across the field. Then she disappears into a stand of trees leaving solemn stillness in her wake. This-- this is a place to rejoin life, to forsake the modern world, if only for a little while. Let the fresh air find that stillness inside of us.

I abandon my search for the right words now. Closing my eyes I take a deep breath, as if to further imbibe the moment, and imagine others, long gone, who've inhabited this same patch of Minnesota land. Native Americans, European settlers, my great-grandparents, and my grandfather-- all standing before the same sun, the same meadow, and experiencing the same sense of awe. I imagine if they whispered their secrets into the same wind I could hear them. ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Friberg

8/25/10 - How do I feel about this now? It's sappy and overly drenched in descriptive detail but I'm still fond of it. It transports me back to that magical moment and lets me re-live it. The way it looked, smelled, and felt is all captured accurately. So at least it will always have merit for me even if no one else.