It was a crisp, sunny
October afternoon
in the arboretum.
I was meditating.
My mittened hands
rested,
upturned on my thighs.
A chickadee hovered
in front of me.
Seeing a convenient perch,
it landed in my open palm,
then hopped upon my thumb.
She looked me up and down,
side to side.
Having seen
all there was to see,
she flew away.
She brought such joy,
this tiny feathered thing.
I valued her presence
as a gift of trust,
a gift of love,
a sign from nature
and the universe
that all was well.
It’s like you’ve been reading Dostoevsky
and your mind is heavy,
so you go for a walk.
You haven’t eaten,
but instead of soup,
you order two glasses of beer.
You know how Rodion felt,
because you’re him.
You walk into the street
and a dark horse is being beaten,
but, that can’t be,
because there are no horses anymore —
that was only a dream;
only in the book.
You think you’re going mad,
but, it’s alright,
you don’t have to worry.
Someone has just closed the cover —
you’re tucked away, safe inside.
Everything is alright.
~~~
Sample my books for free — To date, $1945.00 has been donated to the homeless:
Eugene had a mind of his own,
not, as some would say, a sound mind,
but his own mind, nevertheless.
“It’s awfully considerate of you
to think of me here.
And I’m most obliged to you
for making it clear
that I’m not here.”
Eugene was a great musician,
taking music to the limit;
his songs will always survive.
Eugene took drugs to the limit;
he’s now in Interstellar Overdrive.
When we observed him with an axe,
you may understand our concern.
Was he in danger, or were we?
Eugene had already left us in spirit,
but he wandered away that day
and was lost to us forever.
~~~
This poem is dedicated to the memory of “Syd Barrett (born Roger Keith Barrett; 6 January 1946 – 7 July 2006) who was an English singer, songwriter, guitarist and artist. He is most remembered as a founding member of band Pink Floyd, providing major musical and stylistic direction in their early work, although he left the group in 1968 amidst speculations of mental illness exacerbated by heavy drug use.”
Axe is also British slang for guitar. Pink Floyd’s use of the title Careful With That Axe, Eugene may refer to “Barrett’s behavior (which) became increasingly unpredictable, partly as a consequence of frequent experimentation with psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Many report having seen him on stage with the group, strumming on one chord through the entire concert, or not playing at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation.” (Source: Wikipedia)
~~~
Sample my books for free — To date, $1945.00 has been donated to the homeless:
“We planted you, we nurtured you, we protected you until you became a mighty tree that spread through our hunting grounds. With its branches you now lash us.” – Mississauga Chief
Steps used by the Rideau Lakes Mississauga Band of the Ojibwe or Anishinaabe Nation, for
traditional Sun Dance and other ceremonies.
…
I sit on ancient steps of stone
by myself, but not alone.
The presence of ten thousand souls
imbues me with their joys and goals.
The steps lead to a sacred place;
for Mississauga prayers and grace.
They danced to celebrate the sun
before the white man and the gun.
I seek what they sought; love and peace ~
for wars around the world to cease.
To live a life of nature’s plan
in harmony with fellow man.
In harmony with living things
and everything that nature brings.
I sit on ancient steps of stone
with souls to guide me on my own.
Two years after its initial release, the film, Take Me to the River, has been released on Netflix. This is a documentary about the soul of American music, particularly that of Memphis, Tennessee. While telling the story of Memphis and its music, this film centers around the recording of a new album. An album, produced by second generation Memphians that features legends from labels like Stax, Sun, and Hi Records, mentoring and recording with some of today’s greatest talent from the region.
The brainchild of director, Martin Shore, Take Me to the River debuted at the SXSW Festival in Austin, Texas in 2014 but was four years in the making. Mavis Staples and Booker T. Jones were the first “mentors” to sign on. From there, legendary artists including Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charlie Musselwhite, William Bell, Bobby Rush, Otis Clay, Charles “Skip” Pitts, Lester Snell, Marvell Thomas, the Hodges brothers and more were added as modern-day mentors of the Memphis sound.
Their pupils and recording partners are young up-and-comers from Memphis and beyond. Child actor and rapper, Lil P-Nut, not only recorded a cover of “Trying to Live My Life Without You,” with Otis Clay, but also received some impromptu singing tips from Bobby “Blue” Bland. Bland and Yo Gotti record a modern cover of “Ain’t No Sunshine,” with an old soul feel. Academy Award winning rapper, Frayser Boy teams up with Bobby Rush on the Rufus Thomas classic, “Push and Pull.” And these are just some of the highlights.
The men recording and producing these cuts are themselves, Memphis legacies. Boo Mitchell is the son of Willie Mitchell, founder of Royal Studios. Luther and Cody Dickinson are both members of the North Mississippi Allstars, and sons of the legendary Jim Dickinson, who was a producer, guitarist, and pianist. The elder Dickinson worked with artists including Bob Dylan, Ry Cooder, the Rolling Stones and scores of others.
This film isn’t just watching artists in studios, however. It’s chock full of vintage footage of live concert performances, Memphis neighborhoods, and civil rights unrest, including the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and the aftermath that spelled the end of the Stax label and studio.
Many of the old timers share stories of how things were done back in their day and talk about one another’s accomplishments and failures. One of the most touching of these is when “Skip” Pitts once again runs into former band mate, Ben Cauley, describing to the filmmaker how Cauley is the only survivor of the plane crash that took the life of Otis Redding. Another is the obvious excitement of Mavis Staples when Luther Dickinson learns the guitar part of a song written by her father, “Pops.”
Also, particularly hard hitting, are the still photos of some of the elder artists, with production notes stating it was their last, or almost final session. Artists that passed away after appearing in this film include Bobby “Blue” Bland, Hubert Sumlin, Charles “Skip” Pitts and Teenie Hodges.
There are great interview clips with other famous Memphis music makers that were even more behind the scenes. Art Bell, owner of Stax Records and Deanie Parker who was not only a singer but secretary, liner notes writer, photographer, editor, publicist and more, all for the Stax label.
One of the greatest scenes is near the end when three generations of artists have only a short time to record a piece. William Bell, Snoop Dogg, and students from the Stax Academy, record, “I Forgot to be Your Lover.” That, in itself, is a pretty amazing feat. What becomes, even more, mind boggling is that the young students learned and recorded the song, Snoop wrote and recorded his rap verses, and the entire project was in the can in less than 30 minutes.
Narrator, Terrence Howard begins the film with the words, “There are special places on this earth. Places of origin. The Mississippi Delta is one of those places.” Nothing could be closer to the truth, and Take Me to the River does an outstanding job of documenting not only the origin of Memphis music but its passing to the next generations.
With this gem of a documentary streaming on Netflix, we would also urge everyone to purchase a copy of the DVD. If for no other reason, then knowing that over 75% of the money made in sales goes to musician funds in Memphis. These include the The Soulsville Foundation, The Blues Foundation HART Fund, and the Memphis Church Health Center.
In the past two weeks
I’ve had a lot of time to think
about important and unimportant things
(long story).
I have come to some very basic conclusions
as is my right and obligation.
They may seem obvious to some.
To others they may seem inflammatory.
Deal with it —
say what you want on your own page.
I believe that as humans
we deserve:
UNIVERSAL EQUALITY IN ALL ASPECTS OF LIFE,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS: TO FOOD, WATER, SHELTER,
MEDICAL TREATMENT AND AVAILABILITY OF MEDICATION,
UNIVERSAL ACCESS TO EDUCATION,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF CHOICE OVER OUR OWN BODIES,
UNIVERSAL FREEDOM OF MOVEMENT,
FREEDOM OF SPEECH,
DEMOCRACY.
These are big issues
that have repercussions in news events
around the world.
I haven’t worked out all the details, yet,
but I have seen a lot of headlines on television
in print media and on the internet.
On our planet
we must eradicate (as much is humanly possible,
as opposed to what is economically viable)
HUNGER
DISEASE
VIOLENCE
HOMELESSNESS
BIGOTRY
WAR
(and others too numerous
to mention).
My neighbor:
MUST NOT starve while I eat,
MUST NOT die of illness while I have access to a cure,
MUST NOT BE CONFINED BY NATIONAL BORDERS
if his life, health, or opportunities
are at risk,
MUST HAVE universal access to the best education
in order to best express his natural abilities,
MUST HAVE equal access to meaningful, rewarding and satisfying employment,
MUST HAVE the freedom to make their own life choices;
these choices MUST NOT be dictated by GOVERNMENT
RELIGION, SOCIETY or self-proclaimed MAJORITIES.
LYNCH MOB DEMOCRACY MUST BE ELIMINATED.
In short, I AM my brother’s keeper.
I WILL treat him as I would prefer to be treated.
I WILL NOT be the cause of abuse,
whether physical, verbal, mental or emotional.
I WILL live my life
according to the best of my potential.
I’m not an expert geneticist.
I’m not an expert in anything,
but, I read a lot.
I watch documentaries on television.
I have my own ideas.
This is what I’ve come to believe:
Around 500 B.C, Hanno the Navigator,
a Carthaginian explorer,
with sixty fifty-oared ships
visited the Galápagos Islands.
Hanno and his crew discovered gorillas
and gorillas discovered them.
Although the sailors could not make peaceful contact
with these creatures,
they considered them to be
related to humans.
Geneticists now believe
that archaic Homo Sapiens evolved
to anatomically modern humans
solely in Africa
between 200,000 and 60,000 years ago.
We all share a common DNA.
We are all one family.
Families have differences
They argue a lot.
Some of them move away and refuse to talk
to other siblings.
That’s natural,
it happens all the time.
We are all the same.
We seek happiness
and an end to
suffering.
Eugene had a mind of his own,
not, as some would say, a sound mind,
but his own mind, nevertheless.
“It’s awfully considerate of you
to think of me here.
And I’m most obliged to you
for making it clear
that I’m not here.”
Eugene was a great musician,
taking music to the limit;
his songs will always survive.
Eugene took drugs to the limit;
he’s now in Interstellar Overdrive.
When we observed him with an axe,
you may understand our concern.
Was he in danger, or were we?
Eugene had already left us in spirit,
but he wandered away that day
and was lost to us forever.
This poem is dedicated to the memory of “Syd Barrett (born Roger Keith Barrett; 6 January 1946 – 7 July 2006) who was an English singer, songwriter, guitarist and artist. He is most remembered as a founding member of band Pink Floyd, providing major musical and stylistic direction in their early work, although he left the group in 1968 amidst speculations of mental illness exacerbated by heavy drug use.”
Axe is also British slang for guitar. Pink Floyd’s use of the title Careful With That Axe, Eugene may refer to “Barrett’s behaviour (which) became increasingly unpredictable, partly as a consequence of frequent experimentation with psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Many report having seen him on stage with the group, strumming on one chord through the entire concert, or not playing at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation.” (Source: Wikipedia)
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
In China,
Kuan Yin (who represents compassion),
is sometimes portrayed holding a willow branch
symbolizing her capacity to bend
in the face of the most fierce storms
and winds of life
without being broken.
I was lost, but now am found,
was fear, but now am love —
from sunrise to compassion,
the willow guides my way.
Sunlit days and starlit nights,
seasons change from green to gold.
Blackbirds perching row on row
await the winter’s chill.
Worrier to warrior,
completeness is my quest.
With each breath out I die,
breathe in, I’m born again.
I was lost, but now I’m found,
was fear, but now I’m love —
from sunrise to compassion,
the willow guides my way.
Buy my book for $0.99 — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home; Conversations with Street People http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
It was a crisp, sunny
October afternoon
in the arboretum.
I was meditating.
My mittened hands
rested,
upturned on my thighs.
A chickadee hovered
in front of me.
Seeing a convenient perch,
it landed in my open palm,
then hopped upon my thumb.
She looked me up and down,
side to side.
Having seen
all there was to see,
she flew away.
She brought such joy,
this tiny feathered thing.
I valued her presence
as a gift of trust,
a gift of love,
a sign from nature
and the universe
that all was well.
I sit
beneath the cedars,
in solemn serenity.
Face red
with asking questions,
seeking answers
to the ways
of life and death —
molecules and atoms —
and how we’re all
connected.
My fingers
stiff, from cold —
a child’s stubby crayons —
make difficult the task
of turning pages,
jotting notes
about impermanence,
attachment
and letting go.
I’m surrounded
by spirits of seasons past.
I fear not —
they mean no harm.
Their faces radiate,
coming from the light.
In their eyes
I see peace and love —
they are free
of mortal suffering
they endured
in life.
They comfort me.
“Grieve not,” they say,
“soon enough, you will join us.
You will experience the universe
and all it has to offer.
You still have much to learn.
When you are ready,
we’ll be waiting.”
I feel the joy of life —
(maples sailing leaves
of red and yellow)
moments, lifetimes pass…
then they’re gone,
as they should be.
I lived a dream,
everything was possible,
a spirit, a whisper
of love.
Beneath the cedars,
in their realm of wisdom,
reverently
I sit.
i’m sitting on the sidewalk
as a woman, huddled in a blanket,
a patterned do-rag on her head,
sobs on my shoulder.
i put my arm around her
and say, “it’s okay.”
knowing that nothing is okay,
it will never be okay.
i’m beyond my depth.
i don’t know what to do,
or what to say…
anything that comes to mind
is shallow and meaningless.
this woman’s experiences
are completely foreign to me.
what do I know —
about alcoholism?
about motorcycle gangs?
about sleeping on the streets?
all i can do is let her cry,
tell her that she has forgiveness,
that what saddens her,
what keeps her awake,
or gives her nightmares,
is all in the past.
it’s time to forgive herself
and love herself
and live
in the present moment.
she can’t go on.
she can’t stand the pain.
she can’t do this any more.
drink is the only thing
that numbs her mind;
enough to endure,
enough to pass out at night
and do it all over again
the next day.
i can only do
and say so much.
it’s always a pleasant surprise
to see her sitting on the sidewalk,
knowing that she’s made it
through another night;
that she hasn’t been taken
by violence, sickness
or the police.
There you are
an almost stranger.
Who am I to take your hand?
What I give is nearly nothing –
but the heart to hear
and understand.
You tell me
you’ve been beaten,
stabbed with a machete,
made some choices
now regretted.
Sparking
eyes of azure blue
show a spectrum of emotions,
happiness, frustration,
pain and sorrow,
but, always
love.
Arisen
from behind a dumpster,
to living in a clean, safe house,
your life in order,
independent —
a miracle.
Inspiring
to me, and to everyone
fortunate enough to know you.
I would like to introduce you
to a wider audience
so that they too
may take inspiration
and see the miracle
that is your love,
that is you.
Dennis Cardiff has been involved with street people since 2010, when he began to reach out, on his own, to some of the people without homes who he enc…more
At once bold and unassuming, Jesse Moss’s documentary “The Overnighters,” now streaming on Netflix, delivers an unsettling exposé of the crippled American Dream. In the heart of the Great Plains, the rich petroleum deposits of Williston, North Dakota attract thousands of working-class men – month after month – from all conceivable corners of the country. Triggered by the state’s nearly decade-long and still ongoing oil boom, this influx of blue-collar laborers has disturbed the town for years. Immersing himself in the turmoil, Moss admirably captures a well-meaning pastor’s attempts to reconcile these homeless job seekers’ dreams of success with the established community’s concerns for safety and solidarity. Shortlisted for the Oscar’s Best Documentary Feature, the film is an exceptionally well-chronicled narrative of crushed fantasies, an account that is both heartbreaking and chilling.
In stark contrast to his neighbors, Pastor Jay Reinke understands the sacrifice made by the migrant men when they arrive on the doorsteps of his Concordia Lutheran Church. Escaping unemployment or hoping to find higher salaries, these individuals are also parting with family members and friends from back home; they are under incredibly intense emotional strain. In pursuit of a better future, they enter scarcely populated territories at the epicenter of a multi-billion dollar industry not known for its receptiveness to strangers. Given Williston’s inadequate infrastructure – the town is unable to support its ever expanding population – Pastor Jay opens an “overnighters” program, allowing the drifters to sleep on the floor of his church. Over time, these nightly lodgers begin to exasperate the congregation’s community. Untidy and scruffy, a few of these men bear dark secrets: some are low-level criminals, others are registered sex-offenders.
The beauty in “The Overnighters” lies in its ability to expound upon complex realities without ever needing to spoon-feed its message to the audience. Long, slow-paced shots of North Dakota’s ethereal prairies are juxtaposed with short, biting takes of men passed out in grimy trucks. A dilapidated RV, stationed in the church’s parking lot – which houses a jobless overnighter and recovering alcoholic – directly precedes an image of a three-floor mansion, only a couple of blocks down the road. “Little Miss Oil Country” parades around in a shiny car while frustrated overnighters make unsuccessful calls to prospective employers whose numbers they have written down on pieces of discarded cardboard.
The dichotomy between Williston’s financial promise and the lives of its struggling workers is alarming. Yet Moss is never explicit about his ideological stance regarding the overnighter situation. Within a politically-charged arena that is begging for judgment, he chooses to remain silent. His presence in the town is merely observational. Even though Moss spent nearly six months living in Pastor Jay’s church during the film’s production, his own voice is never heard. Several talking head interviews transpire, yet Moss’s questions are never included, concealing his identity. His absence establishes a sense of objectivity in the film’s depiction of a flawed pursuit of American ideals, as viewers cannot attribute the events taking place to any single idiosyncratic frame of thought. In this regard, “The Overnighters” lends an otherwise invisible crowd of powerless individuals a fair share at being heard.
As an equitable confidant, Moss offers an alluring mixture of security and protection that encourages the men to be vulnerable and exposed in his vicinity. Even Pastor Jay utilizes the film project as a platform to expose his personal set of sins – notably during the feature’s final minutes – and to symbolically confirm his actual likeness to the visitors. Through visual juxtapositions of need and privilege, Moss creates a stunningly poignant portrait of a spurious system that is consistently failing its humble pursuers. Even so, who is to blame for the problems afflicting Williston? The community or Pastor Jay? The oil business or the weakened economy? The overnighters? Deftly and discretely, Moss leaves the judgment up to his viewers.
Contact Ena Alvarado at enaalva ‘at’ stanford.edu
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Ena Alvarado hails from the boisterous city of Caracas, Venezuela. She is a hopelessly undecided freshman who enjoys reading literature and watching films as much as understanding science and studying math. Someday, Ena aspires to learn how to whistle, improve her current juggling skills, and compose a full-length music album. In the meantime, she finds solace in books and nutella crepes. Writing about documentaries and foreign cinema never hurts either.
today’s greatest talent from the region.
