Tip of the Day

Hate taking pills? Me too! I take several each day, including a bulky multi-vitamin, and I find swallowing them to be a very unpleasant experience. Then I discovered a neat trick - take them with 2% milk. The thick, smooth milk camouflages the size, texture, and taste of the pills. It also coats your esophagus and stomach making them go down smoothly and preventing indigestion. And I love milk, so now I actually look forward to taking my pills with a glass of tasty milk every day. I highly recommend it!

Sorry I don't have anything more interesting to say. I'm completely out of my writing phase and into my movie and TV watching phase. My favorites at the moment are Marlon Brando movies (of course!) Glee, The Office, and How I Met Your Mother. I own the first season of Glee and the first 4 seasons of The Office and HIMYM - I watch them over and over. Anything that makes me laugh is great therapy in my opinion. I'm also enjoying the cooler weather and taking walks as often as possible. I'm still following the Twins and now the Vikes too. I think the Twins stood a good chance of having the best record on the season and home field advantage in the playoffs, but we just have too many key players out with injuries. Now all we can do is hope and pray for their healthy recoveries to come in time for the playoffs. Their replacements have been doing an excellent job, but we really need them back. That's about all I have to say, like I said, sorry it isn't more interesting. Hopefully I'll be back in my writing phase again soon. Bye for now.

A little funny

Sometimes a little laughter goes a long way. I recently finished re-watching Season 4 of The Office (as you can see I've moved from my writing phase into my DVD watching phase).

Angela is talking to the camera in the interview room:

"We have 4 birthdays in the office this month and you know why? Count back nine months. That's right, Valentine's Day. Stagger your sin people!"

That's just SO Angela, I love it. That show is always a bunch of laughs but for some reason that line just hit my funny bone and had me in tears. Ah, laughter really is good therapy.

I suddenly have a craving for bubble gum

Well, it seems inevitable that I'm going to feel the need to write some kind of a movie review for each Marlon Brando flick I watch from here on out. My "reviews" might be a little Brando-centric...what can I say, it's an illness. The film du jour is Sayonara (1957).

Synopsis (from Wikipedia): It tells the story of an American Air Force flier who was a fighter "Ace" during the Korean War. The film's screenplay was adapted by Paul Osborn from the novel by James Michener, and the film was produced by William Goetz and directed by Joshua Logan. Unlike most 1950s romantic dramas, Sayonara deals squarely with racism and prejudice.

That's really all the plot you need to know. Ugh! This is my 2nd to least favorite Brando movie thus far (it beat Mutiny on the Bounty by the narrowest of margins). On the whole I did not care for it and I'm feeling very inarticulate about why at the moment. I think it's sheer laziness because the list of things I dislike would be so long and I'm feeling tired. I will say this, I found it to be extremely predictable. Those who know me well, know that coming from me that's a very bad sign. The point is, Sayonara made me feel a whole lot more clever and film savvy than I really am, clairvoyant even. But it has a 7.2/10 rating on imdb so maybe it's just me.

And you know what, with the exception of a few scenes, I wasn't even all that thrilled by Brando's performance. Shocking right? I mean it would be exceptional by normal standards, it was even nominated for an Academy Award, but it was only mediocre for the great Marlon Brando. He did have some really great moments. But I've noticed he always seems to have an undercurrent of anger running through him no matter what role he's playing, especially in scenes with women. Often times that is exactly what the role calls for, like with Stanley Kowalski and Valentine Xavier. This time he just came off a little too heavy-handed and intense at moments. It wasn't credible coming from the mostly laid-back, jovial personality he established early on in the film. It's serious subject matter, no doubt about it, but he has to find a way to reconcile the lighter and darker sides of the character without making him seem schizo. I wouldn't have any suggestions as to how one goes about doing that, I'm no expert, I'm just calling 'em as I see 'em.

Here are a few of the things I did like though. I enjoyed the performance of Red Buttons, it surprised me how genuine, straightforward, and touching it was. I didn't know the comedian could act like that. I also liked the playful, easy comradarie and banter between Marlon Brando and James Garner's characters. Yowza, Garner was handsome back then! I've always liked him because he seemed like a swell, midwestern guy, someone you'd like to sit down and have a beer with. He'd almost come off as "salt of the earth" if it weren't for his mischevious side that peeks out around the edges sometimes. Part of his charm I s'pose. He seems polar opposite of Brando, wonder if they got along in real life?

For the character of Major Lloyd Gruver (I could never see a man who looks like Brando with an idiotic name like that, but whatever.) it's almost as if Brando is channeling the personality of the yet unborn at the time Matthew McConaughey. He adopted an easy-going, genteel, cheerful manner with a lazy southern drawl, and just a touch of the trademark Brando brooding thrown in. But when he gives us a glimpse of that charming smile his eyes light up and it's all smile lines and dimples. *swoon*

In my favorite scene he's casually chewing on a piece of gum while holding a converstion with James Garner's character, and I'm not paying much attention to what he's saying because my eyes are drawn to his... mouth ... and the way he's... chewing that.... Snap out of it, Angela. Sorry, I'm re-watching that scene for the 5th time. I usually find it crude when people chomp on gum while talking - not this time. That man can make just about anything look sexy. His trademark full lips were a little moist and flushed and it looked as if he was smacking on the most sweet, delicious piece of Juicy Fruit ever made. I wanted to kiss him and steal it right out of his mouth with my... Uh-oh, was that tmi? It's just that I have a weakness for.. *a-hem* gum.

I'm not a very professional or impartial movie reviewer am I? Well it's a good thing I never claimed to be and no one ever reads this crap anyway. That's all I have to say for this clunker. Worth watching if you're a huge fan of Brando, Garner, or Buttons. Otherwise, take a pass.

Screen caps I made of the gum-chewing scene. *giggle*
Watch now, this is how a man reduces a grown woman to girlish delight.

See, you can just tell it's a good scene regardless of what he's saying.

P.S. I just remembered there were a couple of yummy gum chewing scenes in On The Waterfront too. How could I forget those?! Terry Malone is my favorite of his characters thus far and the movie is one of my top favorites. After Sayonara I'm dying to go back re-visit it.

What Elvis Taught Me

I've been trying to figure out what's wrong with my writing for a while now. It's been called banal and devoid of heart and wit, among other things. I didn't completely disagree, I knew something was amiss, but I just didn't exactly see what others saw. Then yesterday I watched Elvis Presley's Jailhouse Rock (1957). I know, I know, I can't help it, I have a strange affinity for cheesy Elvis flicks. Anyhow, in the movie Elvis goes into a studio and records a love song, hoping to shop it around and get a record deal. When he listens to the playback he says "Is that really how I sound?". He was disgusted and thought he sounded like everyone else on the radio. I was baffled because it sounded good to me. It was a very nice song, his voice sounded good, it was perfectly fine, nothing wrong with it. But he didn't like it and gave it another shot. This time the studio musicians jazzed it up a bit, added a little soul. And Elvis put his own form of down and dirty soul into the vocal, that signature Elvis sound so recognizable around the world. The difference between the two performances was like night and day and something clicked in my head. The first version was perfectly okay, but it was flat, lifeless, lacking soul, character, personality. That's how my poetry reads. Even I'm bored by my poetry. It sounds nice, it makes sense, it may even be emotionally stirring if you can relate to it, but it's stuffy and flat. Especially my earlier poems. My prose, on the other hand, is less boring. My blog entries may be boring in parts, but I almost always manage to infuse some wit, humor, and hopefully just a tad of my own style. Why can't I do that with my poetry? I'll have to mull it over some more. Huh. *scratching head* Like my grandpa always told me, you learn something new every day. But whoever thought I'd learn anything from Elvis?

I can't eat Oreos in the dark

I've never been cognizant of it up until now but apparently I have a strict, ritualistic way of eating Oreo cookies. Before I dunk the cookie into the milk I always hold it so that the word "Oreo" embossed onto the cookie is aligned perfectly parallel to the surface of the milk, right side up of course. Then I dunk the cookie exactly half way so the horizon of the milk makes a line bisecting the word "Oreo" with eyeball precision. Once I feel it's been properly soaked, I will bite off only the soggy bottom half. How I eat the top half of the cookie varies, but the ritual regarding the bottom is faithfully followed every time. This explains why I always seem to miss so much of the TV shows and movies I watch while eating Oreos - my attention is focused on the ritual.

This is how I discovered my strange habit: Tonight I happened to be watching a movie in the semi-dark. I was straining my eyes and moving the cookie around to find enough light to make out the word "Oreo" when the realization of what I was doing suddenly hit me. What the hell am I doing? Why am I straining in the dark to read a cookie, why can't I just dunk it and eat it like a normal person? When did this blog become about my neurotic idiosyncrasies? Anyway, I try dunking it like a normal human being, and I can do it but... it feels about as comfortable as walking into a department store without a purse on my shoulder. While wearing no pants.

This is odd.

Sure, I've noticed other quirky ritualistic behaviors before and have always known I had a wee touch of the OCD, but how did I not notice the Oreo thing before now? When did it start? I don't eat them all that often but I'm pretty sure it's been going on for years. Do I have rituals regarding other foods that I'm unaware of? Hmmm.

By the by, the movie I'm watching is The Fugitive Kind (1960) starring the gorgeous Marlon Brando (of course!). This is the third time I've seen the movie and believe it or not I don't just enjoy watching it because it's saturated with Brando's languid sensuality and quiet, brooding sex appeal. I'm quite surprised at how sexual the themes and dialogue are for that era. Women are shamelessly throwing themselves at Val Xavier (Brando) throughout the movie, competing for his affection, seeking in him a kind of sexual balm for their sadness and loneliness. These are some of the saucier lines in chronological order.

Carol: Please let me, let me... (she's trying to undress him)
Xavier: Who are you trying to fool besides yourself? (he wraps his hand tightly around her wrist) What is this, a human wrist with a bone? It feels like a twig, I could snap it with two fingers. Little girl, a man who'd hold himself against you would break you like a bundle of sticks.

Xavier: You know that girl that was here?
Lady: Uh-huh, Carol Cutrere... I know her.
Xavier: Well she told me she had something wrong with her car and could I fix it.
Lady: Did you fix it?
Xavier: That wasn't her trouble.
Lady: No. What was her trouble?
Xavier: Oh, she made a mistake about me.
Lady: What kind of mistake?
Xavier: She thought I had a sign hung on me "Male at Stud"
Lady: (she stutters and stammers, obviously flustered)

(Lady is cold so Xavier puts his jacket around her shoulders.)
Lady: It feels warm alright.
Xavier: It's probably warm from my body. (he seductively caresses his own chest)
Lady: You must be a warm-blooded boy. (warily she backs up to cushion the distance between them)

Xavier to Lady: (after boasting about how warm his body always is and how much self control he has over his body) They say that a woman can burn a man down, but I can burn a woman down.

(Xavier is waiting on two teenage girls helping them try on shoes)
Girl #1: Mr. Xavier, where have you been keeping yourself? You ought to show yourself around more.
Girl #2: (embarrassed giggles)
Girl #1: Oh shoot, Mr. Xavier understands, don't you Mr. Xavier? (She puts a foot between his legs and slides down to give him an up-skirt view)
Girl #2: (more giggles)
Xavier: Yeah, I understand. (he stands up and walks away)
(lots more giggles)

All that happens in the first 55 minutes and the dialogue gets racier from there. You almost expect it to build to an actual sex scene, but of course it only hints at it as Val kisses Lady's neck and then escorts her behind the curtain to his room and turns off the light.

When I say this film is saturated with Brando, I'm not exaggerating. He dominates the hell out of it with several close-ups during lengthy scenes and one seemingly endless soliloquy that could easily be cut in half, and seemingly an appearance in just about every frame. I for one enjoy the pacing though, it allows for a slow build. Seeing the relationships between the characters develop and mature from beginning to end is satisfying. However, the director Sidney Lumet seems to be so in love with Brando that I'm surprised he pointed the camera at the other actors at all. Or perhaps it was the editor who was mesmerized by his beautiful face and couldn't bring himself to cut it out of the film. But the most likely scenario, the producers wanted to get the most screen-time-bang (so to speak) for their buck. They had the most bankable actor in Hollywood and they were paying him an unprecedented $1 million dollars. I guess they were determined to get their money's worth and they did. Whatever the reason for Brando's extended screen time, I'm not complaining, nah-uhh, no way. *grin*

Besides all the hubba hubba Brando-rama there's much to like about this adaptation of Tennessee Williams's play Orpheus Descending. Although it's considered one of Williams's lesser works, I happen to like it immensely. Far more than the film version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which was the equivalent of Nails on a Squeaky Chalkboard to me. You couldn't pay me to watch it a second time - and that statement carries a lot of weight coming from a person who's unemployed and broke. That movie seemed to have everything going for it out the gate though, it was based on a solid play and had a great cast, but somehow the final product fell way short of it's potential. Did anyone else want to smack the crap out of those bratty ginger kids and their munchkin-faced harpy of a mother? Sorry, I've rambled way off topic, where was I? Oh yeah, I also found the performances in Fugitive spectacular. There are obvious flaws with the film that annoy me, but overall I still think it's a great movie and one I can watch and re-watch. I think it reaches me on some level I'm not even aware of. Maybe I can relate to the lonely outsider aspect or the fact that everyone wants to jump Brando's beefy bod, who knows. I can only give this film one star for Oreo-worthiness though. Because the sparse lighting that creates its dark, murky atmosphere also makes it quite difficult for the audience to read ..err.. I mean see their Oreos and other tasty snacks. So now if you ever go out and rent this flick you'll be prepared. What would you do without me? You're welcome.

P.S. I think Marlon Brando has sparked the return of my "writing phase", in which I can ramble on and on about anything and everything, because clearly this has become two posts in one. Double your pleasure, double your fun! You're welcome again.

P.P.S. If I weren't broke I'd offer $50 to anyone who e-mails me in proof they made it all the way to the bottom of this post. Ha! Sometimes you just gotta laugh at yourself.

A little philosophy, a little Brando...okay, a lotta Brando

In most cases the pain in one’s lifetime is in direct proportion to the pleasure. Life tends to seek equilibrium although sadly, sometimes there’s none to be found.

This is something I’ve always believed. My life certainly seems to follow a pattern of equally proportionate ups and downs. These thoughts and many more like them have come to the surface recently during my imaginary conversations with Marlon Brando. You may want to stop reading and call the loony bin at this point, I’d understand completely. For those brave enough to read on, I'll try to explain. When I read, I always read more than one book at a time in case one gets too tedious. I like variety. The two books I happen to be reading at the moment: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger and Conversations with Marlon Brando by Lawrence Grobel. Any inkling where my imagination has taken me? Ah, it's true, a vivid imagination is better than any book!

I’ve actually been doing a lot of reading on Mr. Brando lately (in between time travel visits to the 1950's) and overall, I find him to be an absolutely fascinating human being. Forgive me if I speak of him as if he’s still alive, I’ve only just now discovered him and through the books, movies, and my own fantastical imagination it feels as if he’s still very much here. Surely a man of that magnitude couldn’t be mortal and die! And in some ways he isn’t and hasn't. In some ways the man he was will always live on, as evidenced by the fact that a woman has discovered him and delved in to learn as much about him as possible a full 6 years after his death. 100 years, 200 years from now it will still be happening.



Marlon Brando is an absolutely electrifying personality with an immense hunger for life. Infinitely mercurial, he seems to possess everything in vast quantities: talent, charisma, confidence, rebelliousness, passion, generosity, intelligence, curiosity, humor, courage, unintentional leadership, wit, compassion, charm, magnetism, sensuality, intensity, ego, pomposity, cruelty, perversion, insecurity, laziness, anger, indifference, eccentricity, gluttony... I could go on but you get the picture. To me his great many flaws are just as intriguing as his great many strengths. And the fact that he's blind to his sometimes absurd hypocrisy is what makes him real and frail and human to me. If he wasn't so ridiculously out of touch and lacking self-awareness at times I may be tempted to believe him a God.

I’m also intrigued by the way his mind works, flowing seamlessly from philosophy, to history, to human rights, to politics, to environmental issues, to trivial miscellany, and beyond. To attempt to marginalize him by classifying him as nothing more than an actor or spoiled Hollywood celebrity is a gross injustice. He’s a better-rounded individual than most, far more than a man with his magnitude of fame and fortune need be. His curiosity is boundless, he has a sharp mind with a memory for detail and he seems to be well-informed and have well-formed opinions on just about everything. A philanthropist and activist, he seems to live and breath for the causes he's passionate about.

I think for him acting comes as easily and naturally as breathing, although early on he did work hard and study hard to create his characters and memorize his lines, it's always been easier for him than most. To the middle-aged Brando acting can be a somewhat fun challenge if the role is different, unusual, and interesting enough, but it's primarily a lucrative hobby and a bore. It's a means to make a living, but by no means a passion. All the same, Marlon Brando is widely considered a genius in his field. His acting style dramatically and permanently changed the profession and he is often referred to as the greatest actor of all time. I think he would feel differently about his profession if he weren't so embittered and repulsed by the games played in Hollywood - the business of making money at any moral cost, the greedy capitalism of the studio moguls that managed to suck all the artistic lifeblood out of the profession, and the lower-life leeches infringing constantly on his private life. I believe that's how he saw it anyway, once he became disillusioned.

Unlike many entertainers, Brando doesn't require the limelight, awards, or adoration of fans to fill a void of self love, confidence, or who knows what. What insecurities he does have, instilled by his alcoholic, constantly disapproving and/or absent parents, he supplements with self-challenge to learn and master new things, endless romantic endeavors and sexual conquests, and yes, food. The man loves to eat. He strikes me as someone who truly doesn't care what others think of him because he manufactures his own esteem, his own happiness, and his own destiny, all in his own way. At other times, it seems as though deep down he cares too much. I think he was forced to believe in himself from a very early age because no one else did. In his adolescent quest to prove to himself and his parents that he wasn't a loser, he found he excelled at a great many things and created a nice confident swagger for himself. Later on, cracks appeared as he wavered between arrogance and self-doubt. Deep down he believed he was a fraud, an imposter. He resented and rebelled against authority as a youth and that never changed. He always had an impishness about him and never really grew up. His dysfunctional parents are mostly to blame for the stunted growth among other psychological problems. I think he is a deeply feeling and emotional person underneath his tough exterior of cool indifference. I think the indifference is mostly a self-defense mechanism. Something the hoardes of imitators of the "Brando cool" are clueless about. That's one reason he felt like such an imposter. I think he bores very easily. I think he genuinely enjoys his own company at times, endlessly amusing himself with his own little games, pranks, and competitions. At other times he needs someone there to fill the emptiness he feels inside, to entertain him, to lean on and to confide in about his deepest secrets and insecurities. Even so, I think he has a vast internal life most of the people surrounding him know nothing about. I think those private internal goings-on combined with his superior, smug expression of the cat who ate the canary, create an aura of mystery. It seems he knows something we do not, perhaps a secret joke, and we are dying to find out what it is. And even though I know it's just an illusion, a shiny lure, I still proceed wanting to find out what he knows. And that my friends, is the gravitational pull that draws people into his orbit.

I surmise that because of his need to prove himself and his compulsive need to be right, and perhaps just because he's bored and it amuses him, he may toy around a great deal with the minds and hearts of others. Surely the traits that make him such an amazing actor: the intrinsic charm, intelligence, and understanding of what makes people tick, must also provide him with a devastating talent for manipulation and seduction. I don't recall reading any specific stories but I can just imagine him using his powers to manipulate his co-stars, directors, or anyone else on set. For example, if someone is competitive and worried Marlon will steal the scenes he may say and do little things like mumble an insult under his breath just before they film a scene to throw that person off kilter. Or if his female lead is too awestruck by him to give a good performance I could see him being an asshole to her between takes in order to ground her and have that tension transferred into something magic on-screen. Likewise if a female lead didn't like him (which I find hard to imagine) I could see him turning on all his charm off-screen and winning her over, probably even bedding her, only to break her heart the minute filming stopped. But like I said, I haven't read any specific accounts, I'm just theorizing based on my impression of him. I imagine if you are in the sunshine of Marlon Brando's attention and affection it's as if you are the only person who exists for him and you are up in the clouds soaking in the rays. But once he lets go, it must be a cold, harsh, painful drop back down to earth.



And while he is, to quote Sidney Lumet, Director of The Fugitive Kind, “Just about the most beautiful thing God ever created.” it’s obvious to me that the majority of his beauty and sex appeal smolders from within. He erotically embodies the perfect balance of masculine and feminine, strength and vulnerability, heated passion and cool control. He oozes sex without even trying. He has a fluid sexuality and easily seduces scores of women and men. He has no shame, and in fact seems proud of his bisexuality and ability to have any man or woman he wants. His beauty rivals even the most lovely of women and he has a knack for making whoever he’s standing next to seem homely and insignificant. I swear I saw a photo of him with Grace Kelly, arguably the most radiantly beautiful woman ever to grace Hollywood, and in his presence she appeared a moth next to a butterfly. Even Marilyn Monroe's vivaciousness seems to pale when standing next to that gorgeous hunk of man. I've also noticed that because he has such a large and commanding presence he often seems much taller than his actual height of 5’10”. A few times I would've sworn he was a head taller than someone, and when I go back and find the photo I see he's actually the same height or even a couple inches shorter.



My thought at the beginning of this post was roused from a forgotten past by Brando. In fact I've seen a lot of similarities and parallels between him and myself, which is probably why I feel so drawn to him. I've had a lot of mood swings, ups and downs, and I recall when I was feeling the ecstatic high that I'd suddenly have a moment of dread, a pang in the knowledge that the deep gorge that lay on the other side would be just as intense. It seemed I'd always have to pay the price for that emotional high and I prayed to live somewhere in the middle as it seemed most people did. Brando too seemed to pay the price for all the highs, the pleasures, the gluttony, and in the end perhaps the neglect of his family too. In his later years he suffered pain and heartbreak on a scale that likely far surpassed any comeuppance he may have deserved. Life ain't fair. And it's a real shame, but I don't think he'd go back and change much if he could. He once said he thought guilt and regret were useless emotions. With all the tragedy befalling his family, I hope for his sake that he continued subscribing to that belief right up until the very end.

Marlon Brando Jr. died July 1, 2004 at the age of 80 from complications of pneumonia and other health problems. At the end he refused life saving measures as he felt it was time to go and wanted to leave on his own terms. At his request his family scattered his ashes mingled with those of Wally Cox, a close childhood friend, over Death Valley and Tahiti. Marlon and Wally were very close throughout their lives and Marlon was devastated by Wally's sudden death in 1973. He secretly kept his ashes hidden in his closet, and had often talked to them over the years. No one knows for sure, but it seems obvious to me that Wally was the love of Marlon's life. He was once quoted as saying "If Wally Cox had been a woman I would have married him and we would have lived happily ever after." It seems the world-renowned "bad boy" lothario believed in true love after all. Not a surprising revelation from this sensitive and complicated man. He lived and died by his own rules, setting precedents, blazing trails, and leaving an indelible legacy on the world he so desperately wanted to change for the better.

It occurs to me now that in this post I frequently compared him to the sun or described him as having characteristics of the sun. It was an unintentional recurring theme but testimony to the fact that he truly was a luminescent human being, generating and radiating from within his own light and heat for the whole world to bask in. There are more things I could say about Marlon Brando, but it’s probably nothing that hasn’t already been said. The beauty of his effect on me personally is that he has somehow awoken me. He’s awoken my passion for life, and..um..other things, and reading his profound words has stimulated my practically comatose mind back into intelligent thought. To steal a line from Stephanie Meyer's The Twilight Saga, I guess he's become "my own personal sun" at the moment. If he can do all this after death, just imagine the power he had in life. It’s no wonder few could ever resist him.








Even the kitty-cat can't resist his seductive charms :)


Okay, okay I'll stop bombarding you with all the Brando-licious beauty now. By the by, I own no rights to these photos and have shamelessly scavenged them and hundreds more like them from the internet. So if you're ever in need of a Brando fix, I can hook ya up ;)

The Common Dream

I think deep down most of us hope we have some yet undiscovered rare greatness inside of us.

My View on Love

The definition of being “in love” is liking someone so much that you want to know everything about them and you want them to know you like no one ever has. So strong is this desire that you bare your most vulnerable parts to them and trust you’ll be safe. “True love” is when both parties do this and neither abuses the power they’ve been given. "Soul mates" have all of the above, plus their union is so strong that it lasts forever. That's the way I see it anyway. And I don't see it as a failure if you never find the last two as long as you've experienced the first one at some point in your life. That's not to say that true love can be merely stumbled upon or magically appear. Some of what love requires is nature, but much of it is nurture.

Can't live with 'em...

...pass the potatoes.

I have a love/hate relationship with people. There are times when I see divine beauty inside others and their company enhances my life; other times I see ugliness and can't tolerate their presence. Psychologists might say that's a reflection of the way I see myself... or my parents. Perhaps, but I gave up the psychoanalysis crap a long time ago. In the end I found it utterly futile and pointless, raising more questions than answers. All I know is that I am happiest and most myself when I'm alone, and especially so when I'm with animals of the non-human variety or out in the wilderness. Nature is a never-ending source of beauty, comfort, and steadfast friendship for me. In that world I know what to expect because the rules are simple, well-defined, and unchanging. There's no confusion or emotional hurt, only peace and renewal of the spirit. Yet, I can't give up people entirely. I need them in my life too, more than I care to.

"There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of nature." - Henry David Thoreau

"On the whole I find the recordings of people more enjoyable than the actual company of people. My best friends are books, DVDs, and mp3s." - Me

The Poetry Phenomenon

Have you ever spent some time writing a little poem and when you're finally finished you go to bed convinced you've created a masterpiece? When you awake the next morning you can't wait to read it again, so you rush to the computer like a child on Christmas morning, only to discover the poem is total crap. Has this ever happened to you? Hmmm, me too.

Have you ever struggled to write and re-write a poem over a period of days or weeks until finally you feel the poem has become what it should be? Then when you go back and read it the next day the poem feels so familiar that it makes you doubt its originality. You can't figure out if that familiar feeling is due to the amount of time you spent with those words or if you unknowingly copied another writer. You suppose it's possible that your subconscious conjured up words you'd heard before, someone else's words. Or it may just be familiar because the seeds of that poem lay dormant in you for years until finally you brought them to fruition. I choose to believe the latter, how about you? Has this ever happened to you?

Seasons

it began one sunny afternoon
with a wish and a promise
a simple joy
like running barefoot o’er grassy hills
you grabbed my wrists
and we spun and spun
until everything was out of focus
but you
gradually, like ebb and flow
came the push and pull
promises broke under the strain
the sun began to fade
and the parts of me caught up in you
like roots tangled deep in the earth
began to wither
then one day I grabbed your wrists
and began to spin
but you felt cold and pulled away
with a tear running down your cheek
if that's what you want
then go to the one
who's waiting o’er those grassy hills
and let me be
you may have moved on
as naturally as the seasons change
but it isn't that simple for me ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Friberg

The Schizo Poem

This simple poem had several incarnations within a single day. So many that I didn't even save all the drafts. In the end I like the original version best, with a few minor revisions. It may be silly to explain the gist of the poem in the last line. It may seem as if I'm insulting the intelligence of the reader, but I'm not trying to, that's just my style of writing. It's a natural pattern and flow that has existed in my poems for many years. (For another nifty example see Prescribed Burn). Well, no sense in changing the formula this late in the game. Silly or not, here goes...

You, sharp and jagged
like rocky cliffs perilously perched above the sea.
A lone rugged lighthouse,
seen but out of reach.
You winked at me.
And I know you feel my energy
like waves crashing over rocks,

unmoved but smoothed with time.
My love is wearing you down,
admit it. ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

When I decided to change it completely, this is one of the little gems I came up with:

sharp and jagged rocky cliffs
perilously perched above the sea
a lone rugged lighthouse
seen but out of reach
delicately carved seashells
swirling in the foamy tide
waves crashing over rock
unmoved but smoothed with time ~

What?? and Blah. zzzzzzzz. It managed to suck even worse than the first poem. The moral of the story kids: it's okay to reach for improvement and greatness, but don't lose yourself in the process or try to be something you're not. Lesson learned.

"Bad" Poetry

After reading several "bad" poetry sites that attempt to humorously lambaste the writing efforts of poor, unsuspecting amateur poets from around the world wide web, I'm more convinced than ever that my writing would be torn to shreds by most critics. But as I was reading (keeping an eye out for my own name!) and even chuckling along at times, I couldn't help but feel these "critics" were missing the bigger picture. Have these snobby academic scholars been standing up on their platforms and behind their podiums, laughing at their own jokes for too long? They seem to have completely missed the fact that very few of these writers sat down in front of a keyboard with aspirations of becoming the next Browning or Frost. If these were published authors looking to be taken seriously, I could forgive some of their harshness. But for the most part these are regular people, like you or me, who simply put their thoughts and feelings into words and hit "send" putting them out into the world. A brave thing to do, in my opinion. For most of them, and myself, writing is an outlet and an enjoyable hobby, nothing more. And sometimes, even if an author didn't spend years and hundreds of thousands of dollars learning what a poem should and shouldn't be, their writing can still evoke feeling and affect others in a positive way. Yes, it's true! One of the biggest rewards I get from writing is to hear that my writing has inspired, moved, or helped someone else in some way. I'll take that over a positive review from an "expert" critic any day!

Furthermore, these long-winded "professors", clearly in love with the sound of their own voices, went beyond dissecting and flambeing the poems to ridiculing the authors themselves, while chortling loudly with great satisfaction. Isn't this a simple case of tearing someone down in order to build oneself up? Isn't this something bullies do on the playground in 2nd grade out of their own insecurities? Well, if making fun of others makes these "adults" feel better about themselves, then I truly feel sorry for them. As an aside, I realize I'm using a lot of quotation marks in this post, but that's nothing compared to the mental air quotes this topic conjures for me. So this is me holding back on the quotation marks, k?

Hey, I'm no saint! Oh, no. I've been known to pee my pants laughing at American Idol audition footage. But in my defense, I didn't ridicule them publicly and I always applauded their courage. So here's my response to the "experts" who feel the need to flame, for what it's worth. It's not an original idea, but one that bears repeating because it's oh-so-true:

Dance, even if you're no Astaire!
Sing, even if you're no Pavarotti!
Act, even if you're no Streep!
Write, even if you're no Shakespeare!
Paint, even if you're no Monet!
Use the voice God gave you, and do so as if no one is listening.

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling" - Oscar Wilde

Oh, Oscar was there ever silence in your house? You just have to chime in on everything!

Do You?

Do you know me?

Do you feel me?

Do you need me?

Like flowers need the sun,

bending and curving to reach its light?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Will you love me forever?

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Poetry Diary

I came across these tonight. I wrote them between 2000-2003. I was not in a very good place when I wrote the first one. Reading the next two you can see the progression to a little healthier place. That's one thing I love about writing poetry, it documents where I am mentally and emotionally at any given time, sometimes even better than a diary ever could.

And Now...

Now, the look upon his face is like sunshine,
it warms my sheltered heart.
Now, his soft kisses are like whispers,
they reach the very core of my emotion.
Now, his loving words are like gifts,
they stay locked in my soul to be treasured.
Now he finally sees me, Now he finally appreciates me,
Now he finally wants me, the way I've always wanted him.
And now I am torn
between his cruelty and his tender smile ~


Just a Moment

for a brief but beautiful moment
I closed my eyes
distantly I felt the swirl of chaos around me
the melee of my own tumbling thoughts and emotions
but I was magically untouched by any of it
deliciously detached and free in that moment
overcome by an inner calm
all residue of worry evaporated
and I remembered,
life is really good ~


Solitude

outside alone, silent snow
drifts through the still night air
landing softly all around,
I hear only the sound of my breathing
and I feel alive

there's a full moon tonight,
snow flakes sparkle
like a galaxy of twinkling stars,
the white earth glows with
a fresh blanket of heaven's kisses

Sometimes it's when I'm most alone,
that I'm certain I am not ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

He Lived Loudly

He lived loudly,
and with great pride!
He injected energy into everyone around him
with fervent smiles and handshakes, funny stories,
and a unique exuberance for life.
People for miles in every direction knew his name.

He lived softly,
when it came to children,
wiping tears and holding hands.
And not just his own children --
from miles around they flocked
to his warm and generous spirit,
full of humor, tinged with mischief.

He lived hard,
stretching his body to the very limits,
until finally it began to fail him.
But everything kept whirring by
as he was in the decrescendo of his life.
And when he rarely left the house,
the world began to forget.

And then, when there was nothing more to say...
He quietly left.

And life roared on
and the world forgot,
but we did not.

We did not. ~

In loving memory...

Raymond "Shorty" Simons
5/3/24 - 10/8/05

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

My Love for Josh Groban... and Cake

I've loved Josh Groban for years now. And believe it or not, (and no disrespect to the "Grobanites" out there) it has little to do with his dreamy brown eyes, curly locks, and charming, charismatic personality.

Those things are great, sure, but just sugary icing on an already perfectly sweet cake. (And of little consequence since I'm never going to meet the guy.)

The Sweet Cake...

What I am able to fully appreciate about Mr. Groban is:
- his musical genius (yes, I said genius)
- what he stands for
- who he is as an artist
- his global vision and compassion
- the risks he takes
- the songs he writes
- the music he makes
- the causes he supports
and so on and so on...

But most important of all, I'm profoundly in love with his singing voice. If his big heart is the pinnacle of his beauty as a human being, then his big voice is its instrument. There are very few people who can bring me the kind of chills one gets when they know they are hearing the voice of God. The music of Mozart has this effect on me. Andrea Bocelli’s voice sometimes brings me tears as well as goose bumps. There are a few others too, but at the top of this list is Josh Groban, who's so humble that he'd be sure to disagree.

A la mode...

Whether he realizes it or not, his gorgeous music is such an important contribution to this world. It’s inspiring. It’s a reminder of things that are lovely in life, and that reminder alone can give hope and comfort during depressing times. Not to mention how he uses it to directly help others with his foundation, getting involved with just about every charity and relief effort out there. All the while, enriching lives by sharing his amazing gift. I hope he continues to do so for years and years to come.

...Oh, and did I mention he appeared on the dear-to-my-heart TV show Glee twice? That's a double-scoop bonus!

Okay, I'll stop gushing now. Why am I suddenly hungry for cake and ice cream? Strange. Anyway, here are a few of Groban's many delicious recordings. Enjoy!

The Gateway to Angelou

I was introduced to the writing of the great American author and poet, Maya Angelou, the same way I suspect most people are - high school English class. The autobiographical "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" wasn't an instant favorite of mine, but it intrigued me a little. While the rest of the seemingly bored and aloof class moved on to Shakespeare's Macbeth, Angelou's words were still tumbling around in my head. I think I needed time to digest them and read them again before the full gravity of their meaning struck me. Then my interest and curiosity overfloweth.

So, I went to the library after school and checked out everything they had in her name. One book did become an instant favorite, it was a complete collection of her poems in hardcover. I read it that night, returned it the next day, and bought my own copy. Sadly, my Macbeth essay only received a C+ or so (low for this enthusiastic fan of English). And I loved Macbeth, I really did. I even memorized my lines when we had to recite a scene in small groups in front of the class, something no one else bothered to do. But I put in sloppy effort on the essay because I was up that night reading Angelou's poems. I should have at least received extra credit or something, right? ha!

The book of poems had an image of a colorful patchwork quilt on the dust jacket. It also had its very own space on my crowded nightstand. Over time it took a beating from my clumsiness though; if it were possible for liquid to have a magnetic mate, it would be that book. But like my favorite pair of jeans it was just lovingly worn-in, a familiar comfort I was attached to.

Some time later, when I was perhaps 19 years old, I read in the Star Tribune that Ms. Angelou was going to do a book signing at a book store in Minneapolis. Oh, Joy! I practically leaped out of my seat. She was like a hero and role model to me, getting me through my difficult teenage years. And having been born the same year as my grandma, another important female role model in my life, she was like a second grandmother to me. So, the opportunity to actually meet her and get her autograph on that book sent me over the moon! Almost as much as NKOTB did in junior high. Almost. (I'm not afraid to admit, I pierced eardrums over Jordan.) I daydreamed possible scenarios of the intelligent conversation Ms. Angelou and I would surely have. I gazed at the blank inside cover of "the book", as it shall be hereforth known as, and envisioned some nice words of encouragement along with her signature in her pretty handwriting. How cool would that be?!! The adult me is still a little giddy at the thought.

The next week dragged by and when Saturday finally came I sprang out of bed at the crack of dawn. While my friends were sleeping in or hungover (or both) I drove myself and "the book" downtown in my '76 Chevy Malibu, incidentally manufactured the same year I was born. Now, I'm a country girl and I generally refuse to drive downtown because I hate doing it and I'm bad at it, so this was true devotion here, folks. I got lost of course, and this set me back a good 45 minutes. But eventually I found the store and a parking spot. By the time I was done with a sad attempt at parallel parking, fiddling with the parking meter that was a foreign object to me, and hoofing it 5 blocks, the line of autograph-seekers had wound around the corner and down the street. Great.

But I didn't come this far to give up now, hell no. Even my line neighbor's rancid morning breath couldn't dissuade me. I stood there for what seemed like hours and hours as the line inched forward at an agonizing pace. During this time we were briefed on the rules, what we could and couldn't do and say to Ms. Angelou, etc. - but all I recall hearing was "A new purchase is required to receive an autograph." My heart sunk as I looked down at the stained and tattered book in my hands that would never pass for new. I dug through my purse for every little coin I could find, but McDonald's didn't pay much and after feeding my gas-guzzler and the parking meter from Hades, I had a whopping $5 left. Here my memory gets a little fuzzy... my next clear memory was the announcement that she was nearing the end of the signing, but if she didn't get to us we could still go inside and make purchases, of course. Of course! Because I always wait in line 2 1/2 hours to buy a wall calendar! What a racket. I began to doubt if she was even in there. It was another blow, but I decided I wasn't giving up; I clung to the narrowest of hopes.

Then, all of a sudden I was there. I was the very first person in the outdoor line! The building entrance was a mere 3 feet away and things were looking up. Then came what seemed the final blow, they announced they were ending the autograph line. No one standing outside the store would get an autograph today because she was tired and had somewhere to be. I was the cut-off person! Of course. The pimple-faced guardian of the "Gateway to Angelou" must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he said that I could still give it a try. So I went in and bought a small copy of her inaugural poem and got in the autograph line anyway. I got a few glimpses of her but she left before I could get the autograph. *weep*

Wasted:
$3 for gas money (this was the 90's)
$2 to feed a parking meter I didn't know was free on the weekends
$5 for a copy of a poem I already owned
4 hours of my life (on a Saturday, no less)

Crushed:
My dream of meeting the living legend and poetic heroine whose writing I leaned on and courage I admired.

Even though it wasn't personal at all and she wasn't even aware of my existence, it felt personal to the emotionally fragile teenager I was. My feelings were hurt and I was angry. "The book" was chucked into the nightstand drawer. And even though I knew it wasn't really anyone's fault, my feelings about the incident and her were a little on the bitter side for years.

I've since forgiven Maya Angelou. But never have I stood in another line for a book signing. In fact, I hate all long lines and avoid them at all costs. The pay-off is rarely worth the wait anyway. I'll still drive downtown if the occasion is special enough, for instance Twins games. I'm still really bad at it and get lost while looking for parking ramps because I'm afraid to parallel park. Today "The book" and printing of the inaugural poem are somewhere in Seattle, hopefully comforting and inspiring someone else. I left them behind when I moved back to Minnesota last year. I didn't have enough room in my little Ford Focus so my books were sacrificed. Even my complete Anne Rice collection in hard cover *sob*. Thank goodness for libraries. I don't need to own books anymore, it seems I never have the space to store them anyway. But there's one book I do wish I would have hung onto, can you guess which one?

Ms. Angelou, if you're reading this, you are the very essence and embodiment of feminine strength, wisdom, and grace. You are phenomenal and I treasure the gifts you've given me. I still carry with me the messages and lessons, if not the books themselves. In my imagination "Letter to My Daughter" was written just for me. I am your daughter, but one of millions. And your life has touched and affected ours in ways you will never comprehend. So, thank you and God Bless. (And I still want that autograph!)

No doubt she's a regular reader of this blog, lol. Okay, long story over. Here's my hands-down favorite of her poems. Besides the obvious awesomeness of the message, I love the rhythm. I swear that woman has a natural symbiosis with words and rhythm.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

A Poet is Born!

*chuckle* Ummm, yeah. Anyway, these are a few of my earliest poems, written between grades 8-12. I was studying the classic poets in English class and reading Stephen King and Anne Rice in my free time. Their influences show. I'm actually shocked at how half-way decent and seemingly mature some of these are. Some were even a little too mature to share on here, if you know what I mean. Ahhh, high school. Unfortunately, my writing really hasn't advanced much since then because I've been focused on other things.

Beauty

beauty’s glimmer in the eye
beauty in the cloudless sky
beauty in a fragile rose
in wild earth gently beauty grows

now everywhere I go, I look to catch a glance
of fleeting beauty’s timeless grace and mesmerizing dance
I thought I heard it in a song once
but that was long ago,
and now and then it calls my name
in hollow winds that blow

finally I go to seek
beauty on the mountain’s peak
and there I see through dark below,
in tiny houses, beauty’s glow ~


Spring's Joy!

I traveled the woods and field on the loveliest of days;
white blossoms and bird songs lead me on my way.
Brother blue jay, sister skylark, you have nothing over me;
for at the end of this long journey, my love’s sweet face I’ll see! ~


Winter

bare trees, thick snow
power lines against the pale gray sky
buds on bushes await the sun
to blossom once again ~


Wings of Hope

I saw a star fall and it gave me hope.
I heard a baby cry and it gave me hope.
rocks, clouds, and trees have not these things...
earth, sky, and forest have not these wings! ~


Passing

I leave a trail of my footsteps through time
places I have been, people I have known
all linked together by a mysterious force
a destiny I never understood
but now it all merges in a miraculous realization
as I take my last breath in this life ~


The Dance

rhythm like a heartbeat pulsates through the room
and they dance
happy souls absorb the music, theirs to keep forever
to remember the good times and set them free
as they look around the room, this is what they see

voices dance and feet sing, hands touch and hearts ring
with ecstasy at every glance across the dance floor
eyes flirt and hips sway, hearts mingle and minds play
with the possibility there could be more in store ~


Hold Me

hold me tonight, please don’t let go
your eyes reflect the candles glow
gentle music fills the air
but with your touch cannot compare

how I love to be with you
you surely know why this is true;
you’ll always be a friend of mine
even if love we lose in time

hold me again before you go
my love, my friend, only now I know
how it feels to be loved by one
with all the warmth of the summer sun ~


The Nightmare

it began when I was ten, still has yet to end
it waits until I safely sleep, then every night it thinly creeps
underneath my bedroom door, crawls beneath my sheets
clawing and inching it’s way to my head
to weave it’s dark, evil plot of dread
it invades my innocent dreams
leaving a trail of slime in my bed ~


The Other Side of Night

sweet flavors of the night reach out to me
colors, textures of the day, a distant memory
the path I’ve chosen is of the dark, the dark where I belong
free of mortal coil, free to sing my timeless song
take my hand and come along, a good time you’ll receive
once you feel the pulse of night, you’ll never want to leave ~


Night Song

branches of a willow struggle in the wind
there is no moon tonight
outside my window something stirs
the earth is still with fright
a strange silence fills my ears
the cricket chirps have ceased
a ferocious wind is all I hear
ready for it’s feast ~


Falling

daytime mocks me, the night is my enemy
with disturbing dreams I wrestle in bed
haunted by images of the past and
fearful of what lies ahead
a victim of gravity, I plummet in darkness
with nothing soft to break my fall
in fact, it is beginning to seem as though
I will never land at all ~


I'll Know

church bells are ringing
you've begun to cry
I hear your private thoughts and feel your sorrows
don't think you're alone in this world
I would take offense
you know you'll always have me in a sense
close your eyes and feel my presence
just as I feel yours
I'll guard you on your journey to my world
don't waste your thoughts on self-pity or the past, for I'll know if you do
find hope for the future and take care of yourself,
I'll be watching you ~


Pandora

crystal soul
light penetrates
the raw beauty of her form
beckons the deepest desires in him
she stands in the open
looking up at the jealous moon
even the stars glare with envy
at her unnatural glow

she has already sensed
his vital presence
his longing
subdued for the moment,
he turns to leave
but feels he cannot
strange sensation
he closes his eyes

perfect stillness
darkness penetrates
the tender flesh of the neck
suddenly wounded
from behind, her strong body
presses against his
he surrenders to the comfort
and serenity of her embrace

sweet bliss
tender kiss
he is forever safe in her arms ~

Author's Notes:
At the time I wrote "I'll Know" I thought it was incredibly touching and emotional. Now it looks a little creepy - "I hear your private thoughts" - "I'll be watching you". How is being stalked by their dead loved one going to give someone in mourning comfort? lol

et cetera

As this useless stuff comes to me I just write it down.

Be careful what you pour your love into and how you pour it, there's always back splash.

If ever I became a fully-functioning person who kept it all together, I fear I would cease to be me. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be a writer.

I may be beyond repair, but one person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

Poetry may be better at shining light on problems than fixing them, but it would be a mistake to think poetry is without merit or purpose. In the chaos of life, something must light the way.

to create a deep canyon takes time
for thousands of years waters flow over the stone
wearing it, smoothing it, shaping it
so it is with beautiful writing
the words flow over us time and again
-- or rather we flow over them
molding with care so they become
what they were always meant to be

When you write there is the sound that each word makes as it falls against another word, and there is also the sound of silence in between the words.
- Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Prescribed Burn

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
meteors blazing through the night
in panic how they scatter

Run! I don’t need you
digging deep and meaning well

your tears can't quench the fire in these skies
you only fan it with your fear
you can't stop the pain that's burning me alive
so let me burn

of all the things you couldn't be...
if you can’t be still and bear the heat
then leave

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
I don’t need for you to fix me
I need for you to love me,
in spite of all the things that need repair ~


Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Author's note:
I wrote this last night. At first I loved it, then I hated it, then I loved it again. Now I've just surrendered to it. As my mom would say, it is what it is. It was I who wrote it so here it stays, love it or hate it.

People of the Great Spirit, I Honor You

As soon as I clicked "PUBLISH POST" I couldn't help but feel my last posting had inadvertently slighted the native peoples of this great land and I want to address it. I was looking at it more from a writing standpoint than anything. While I do appreciate the pioneering spirit of my European ancestors - their fortitude to survive, their courage to blaze trails in search of a better life for themselves and their children - I haven't forgotten that it was some of those same "Pioneers" from the Whitman poem who stole from, raped, and ravaged this land, its people, and wildlife for profit. Of all people who've called this land their home, the Native American Indians have understood it best and respected it most. To do them honor and balance the karmic energy of this blog, I'd like to do another mash-up, this time using some famous Native American poems, prayers, and quotes.

(Please note, I did not author and do not own this material, I have simply compiled and arranged it. Try as I might I could not get the footnotes to work properly. The sources are below, in order, but without corresponding line numbers. Sorry, I tried!)

Angela's Native American Mash-up

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.

I can dance
below the surface
upon the rocky sand
I shall dangle near
the river bottom
suspended, floating free
like the embryo
I used to be.

Oh Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds
And whose breath gives life to everyone,
Hear me.
I come to you as one of your many children;
I am weak... I am small...I need your wisdom
and your strength.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever
behold the red and purple sunsets.
Make my hands respect the things you have made,
and make my ears sharp so I may hear your voice.
Make me wise, so that I may understand what you
have taught my people and
The lessons you have hidden in each leaf and each rock.
I ask for wisdom and strength,
Not to be superior to my brothers, but to be able
to fight my greatest enemy, myself.
Make me ever ready to come before you with
clean hands and a straight eye,
So as life fades away as a fading sunset,
My spirit may come to you without shame.

Great Spirit, we send greetings and thanks for the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is still around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest words of greetings and thanks to the Creator. Now our minds are one. Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring. There is no death. Only a change of worlds.
One does not sell the land people walk on. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The time will soon be here when my grandchild will long for the cry of a loon, the flash of a salmon, the whisper of spruce needles, or the screech of an eagle. But he will not make friends with any of these creatures and when his heart aches with longing he will curse me

Great Spirit,
give us hearts to understand;
Never to take from creation's beauty more than we give;
Never to destroy wantonly for the furtherance of greed;
Never to deny to give our hands for the building of earth's beauty;
Never to take from her what we cannot use.
Give us hearts to understand
That to destroy earth's music is to create confusion;
That to wreck her appearance is to blind us to beauty;
That to callously pollute her fragrance is to make a house of stench;
That as we care for her she will care for us.
We have forgotten who we are.
We have sought only our own security.
We have exploited simply for our own ends.
We have distorted our knowledge.
We have abused our power.
Great Spirit, whose dry lands thirst,
help us to find the way to refresh your lands.
Great Spirit, whose waters are choked with debris and pollution,
help us to find the way to cleanse your waters.
Great Spirit, whose beautiful earth grows ugly with mis-use,
help us to find the way to restore beauty to your handiwork.
Great Spirit, whose creatures are being destroyed,
help us to find a way to replenish them.
Great Spirit, whose gifts to us are being lost
in selfishness and corruption,
help us to find the way to restore our humanity.~
Sources:
Chief Seattle
From a Haudenosaunee “Thanksgiving” Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
A poem by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Ojibwa Prayer
From a Haudenosaunee "Thanksgiving" Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
Chief Seattle
Crazy Horse, Sept. 23, 1875
From “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (A Native American Elder)
Chief Dan George
A Native American Prayer, origins unknown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I understand the need to grow and advance civilization, but why at such reckless speeds? I understand the desire to prosper, but at what cost? There must be balance. Harmony and balance are as essential to life as air and water. Even the squirrels in my backyard understand this. They know if they do too much damage, Mother Nature will step in and keep them in line. So, who is keeping us in line? We, the arrogant, rebellious teenagers, must be grating Her very last nerve.

- Angela Friberg 7/2/10

Patriotic Inspirations

In the spirit of the upcoming Independence Day celebrations, or what the spirit is supposed to be anyway, I discuss a few of my writing inspirations.

O Pioneers!

First, I saw the glorious 1992 Hallmark Hall of Fame movie starring Jessica Lange - and loved, loved, loved it. This lead me to read the 1913 Willa Cather novel it was adapted from. Ms. Cather's writing had a beautifully familiar feeling to it, like coming home. She has a gift for the descriptive, vivid and poetic, and touches on truths we didn't know we knew. Finally, I re-discovered the Walt Whitman poem from 1865 which had inspired her. That which I had studied and dismissed in high school. But reading it again through different eyes, I saw Whitman's ideals, his passion and fervor, expertly brought to life on the page. (If anyone should be a presidential speech writer, it's this guy.) In fact, I'd have to say of all the poems I've read, this one feels the most exciting and alive. Maybe it's just all the quotation marks. Kidding. There's a reason Levi chose it for their ad campaign. I'm glad they did because it's now been exposed, with a cool image, to the younger generation. Something that just doesn't happen in English class, I'm afraid. Unless your English teacher happens to be Robin Williams.

For those who haven't yet experienced all the O Pioneers! goodness, I will pass along the inspiration by doing a little medley just for you, combining some favorite bits and pieces from the novel and poem*. Think of it as a mash-up like they do on Glee.

Angela's O Pioneers! Mash-up

The Genius of the Divide, the great, free spirit which breathes across it, must have bent lower than it ever bent to a human will before. The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Fresh and strong the world we seize. Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways. We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, the grain so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d. We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while. Pioneers! O pioneers!

There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they have never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same notes for thousands of years. All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Now for a couple more treats I present the movie trailer and the Levi's TV commercial:


Now go forth and party -- barbecue meats, drink alcoholic beverages, have picnics at the lake, bonfires at the cabin, and enjoy aerial fireworks displays -- you youthful pioneers of this great land!

* Excerpts from the novel O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, 1913 and the poem Pioneers, O Pioneers! by Walt Whitman, 1865. I do not own this material, I simply compiled it.