Angel LaCanfora: News

I really like how this one turned out. In fact, I may never be able to sell it...

 

Poem for a Foggy Tuesday

Quizzical looks

Quizzical looks

I'm always receiving

such quizzical looks.

"Why does this gal

 live her life this way?

 What does she do

 with her night and her day?

 When will she grow up

 and settle down?

 Why is she always

 leaving town?

 Guitars are for boys

 with pimples and braces,

 Why won't she settle

 and accept the stasis?

 Boredom and discontent

 are the norm.

 Why, oh why,

 won't she conform?

 She just wants to dream

 and make pretty things...

 She wants to write songs when,

 Lord knows, she can't sing...

 So c'mon Angel

 this is your chance

 to explain why you have

 such ants in your pants.

 Well, I'm waiting for you

 to explain to me

 Why you seem to exist

 just to be?"

 Because I exist

  just to be, 

   says me.

 

I'll be performing at a songwriter's showcase, September 2nd at 8:30. The "Outlaws of Folk" program is hosted once a month by my old friend, singer/songwriter Michael Ubaldini. The show will feature a bunch of us noisemakers and conclude with a sure-to-be-sloppy-but-fun jam at its end. Hope to see you there!

 

Buddy, can you spare a dime or two? You can now purchase my artworks through RTist, which is a great place to peruse up & coming artists. There's so much great stuff here. Check it out!

http://www.rtist.com/index.php/public_profile/artist/2581

Now that I'm all unpacked & have had some time to catch my breath, I'm dipping my toes into the SoCal music scene. Just posted a Bandmix profile, in the hopes that I might find some musicians to make some beautiful music with...

http://www.bandmix.com/angel-lacanfora/

“Love Me or Leave Me,” a musical from 1955, starring Doris Day and Jimmy Cagney, is a great film for those laid-up and not feeling so hot on a shimmery, SoCal Saturday afternoon. “Love Me” is based on the true story of 1930s jazz singer, Ruth Etting, played by Doris Day. From the opening moments of “Love Me” with the heavy brass section blaring, I cringed and immediately adopted a skeptical posture. But the fact that it won an Oscar for Best Writing and was nominated for an armful more, made me determined to sit through it. What followed didn’t disappoint: Day does an incredible and commendable job of making an otherwise sleazy, manipulative character somehow seem saintly. But it’s James Cagney, as Chicago gangster Marty “the Gimp” Snyder, who gives an oft-times jaw-dropping performance. He steals almost every scene he’s in, which is to say, most of the film. Brutal, ruthless, uncouth, and prone to violent rages, Snyder isn’t a man who’s willing to take “no” for an answer. When he sets his sights on the radiant Etting, he’s both impressed and taken aback by her courage to stand up to him. This only strengthens his resolve to reel her in. But being the graceless character he is, Snyder’s manner of seduction is by the only means he knows how; by throwing his weight around to help catapult her singing career, therefore making her indebted to him. Little does he realize how cunning Etting is,though, for she too is using him as a means to an end.

 

The web tangles as Etting falls for her dashing piano player, Johnny Alderman, nimbly portrayed by Cameron Mitchell. The feeling is mutual between them, but Etting has her eye on stardom and must continue playing the game with Snyder to reach the top, eventually reluctantly marrying him. Alderman, frustrated and disgusted, moves to Hollywood to pursue a career opportunity while Etting continues to ascend the rungs to stardom, eventually winding up featured in Ziegfield’s Follies on Broadway. Meanwhile, Snyder shows little joy in her mounting success; if anything, he becomes increasingly more possessive and paranoid. 

 

There are some moments in Cagney’s performance that made me audibly gasp, he’s that vile and abusive. And I’m hard pressed to remember ever seeing a more convincing victim of abuse in the scenes where Day reacts to his violence. Keep the tissues handy, trust me. The increasing tension between Etting and Snyder is masterfully played, with Etting becoming more withdrawn and turning to alcohol, and Snyder’s rages becoming more frequent. 

 

 A good portion of the film is given over to musical performances by Day, who was at the peak of her career and in great, fine voice. While most numbers were of the “big nightclub with orchestra” variety (think Tropicana), my favorite number comes early on, when it’s just her alone with Johnny accompanying her on piano, for the bluesy-bittersweet song, “It All Depends on You.”

 

Powerful and gripping, with a couple of scenes that truly shocked me, there’s never a dull moment. I give “Love Me or Leave Me” a big thumb’s up. If I had any gripes it would be that I could have done with fewer musical numbers. They came with relative frequency and took away some of the tension from the storyline. Still, it’s a minor gripe. I encourage anyone who loves classic films to see this. You’ve never seen Doris Day like this before and Jimmy Cagney will blow... you... away!

 

(Here’s a clip of Day singing my favorite song from the film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dtX0YBmeFY )

I tapped this entry up while on my recent flight from Virginia to SoCal. Hope y'all enjoy.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

 

Virginia was my home for a total of six years and in that time, I formed my impressions of the state and its denizens, as one does. To make a sweeping generalization that’s bound to piss off some Virginia natives, I have to say Virginians are a cautious and preoccupied people. Sometime last year I read that Virginia has the highest number of college-educated residents of any state. Economically, Virginia seems to exist largely as an annex to Washington, D.C. Many of D.C.’s operations can be found in Virginia, from Quantico to the C.I.A. headquarters, to the largest military base in the word situated in Norfolk/Virginia Beach.

 

Charlottesville, that home to UVA, Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, and lately, a constant presence in the news as a result of the tragic deaths of Morgan Harrington and Yeardley Love, was more of a home to me than anywhere I’ve ever lived save Huntington Beach, CA. And I’ve lived all over the place: Seattle, Arlington/DC, Georgia, Ireland & London, England, to name some of the more memorable locales. But Charlottesville, or C’ville, as locals refer to it, had that magical combination of soul, personality, and a bucolic charm, all imbued with a gracious composure common to the South. 

 

What I loved most about C’ville:

 

The architecture, especially in the vicinity of Court Square, and on the Downtown Mall. Historical buildings once graced by the likes of Jefferson, Madison and Monroe. An incredible melange of Greek revival, Georgian, Queen Anne, Federal, Gothic revival, Beaux Arts, Victorian, and so forth dot the city, in varying states of preservation. 

 

The people. While reserved, are a kind and big-hearted breed, yet quirky. Being a university town, many folks I interacted with leaned towards the overly-degreed. Yet even the not-so-degreed had to have wound up in a gentle, collegiate environment for some reason. I met lovable eccentrics, reminiscent of small English towns, and tweed and bow-tie clad UVA professors to tattooed, dope-smoking musicians toting their axes along the Mall. 

 

The culture. What initially drew me to C’ville was the legendary music scene. C’ville, it’s widely known, was put on the map by the presence of Dave Matthews & his band, who came to prominence while Dave was working in a humble old bar on the Mall, Miller’s. And the art scene is nothing to sneeze at either. Numerous galleries litter the city, a few of which I had the privilege of exhibiting my own mosaic art in. There was the always interesting Free Speech wall, essentially a gigantic blackboard on which the community is encouraged to share their thoughts, located on the Downtown Mall. The Wall quietly epitomizes the ethos of C’ville, which is live and let live, albeit healthily and harmoniously, while still respecting your neighbor. 

 

The pace. Those who had lived in C’ville longer than a decade still remembered it as a sleepier burg, one that exploded with development and an influx of people once it was  declared in 2004 that C’ville was the best place to live in the U.S. Locals would scoff when I would exclaim about the lack of traffic. Still, I found that you could breeze from one end of town to the other within a 1/2 hour on a bad day, in 10 minutes on a quiet Sunday morning. 

 

The coffeehouse scene. It’s no secret, I love coffeehouses! Everything about them, they feel like home to me. They are all at once funky & eclectic, yet with an oftentimes hushed, scholarly air, like a musty library. Few things instantly cheer me up like the friendly, earthy aroma of coffee. The almost universal understanding that there WILL be live acoustic music in the evenings at most coffeehouses. But enough of my waxing rhapsodic over coffeehouse culture. In C’ville, Mom & Pop coffeehouse operations abound. Some of my favorites: the Mudhouse (voted number one in the city by the populace year after year), Cafe Cubano (where they not only make a mean cappuccino but had the gall to exhibit my art!), C’ville Coffee (owner Toan is simply such a nice guy, say hi if you can), La Taza in Belmont, now known as Roast, and the ubiquitous Shenandoah Joe’s. 

 

So why did I leave, when I have so many good things to say about the ‘ville? Primarily, the weather, which was a killer on my health but also general homesickness, which I’d carried every day like a little cloud over my being since the day I first arrived in Virginia. This past winter brought us over four feet of snow in total. The thunderstorms, while exciting, would often knock out the power. While C’ville is theoretically a four season environment, in reality, it seemed more like two: winter/summer. Winter would set in around the end of November and last through April. Next, summer would come crashing in, with no subtlety whatsoever. Then out would come the mosquitoes, the poison ivy, the perfumey humidity that made me gag the instant I walked outside. No doubt about it: life in the South is for the hardy. 

 

That which doesn’t kill you makes you blah blah. So what have I learned from my six year Virginia odyssey? For one, I’ve learned how to drive in crap weather. How to turn into my skid when I hit the ice patch. That driving in a hailstorm is not a good idea.I also had the opportunity to indulge the latent anthropologist in me, to try my hand at assimilating into what is a vastly different culture from southern California. Let no one tell you otherwise; the South is definitely its own unique and distinct culture. And after inhabiting the land for 6 years, I can honestly say I understand why Southerners are so proud and stubborn, why they tried to secede to keep their way of life (the slavery part notwithstanding). 

 

As I took a walk one morning recently near Monticello, I rolled over in my mind the following questions: “How is it that the region that is the South came to be so distinct? And, why is it, when borders on a map are largely arbitrary, that Southern culture begins and ends where it does?” Big questions, these, though I’m sure they’ve been asked before and most likely cogently answered. But this is my gig, so here goes. Anthropologists typically cite language as the origin of a culture. But Southerner’s speak English (though folks in some parts of the country might find that statement debatable!) I blame Southern culture on three elements: the weather, the geography and its slave-trading history. On the first point, the humid sub-tropical climate creates an environment for the growth of flora, the likes of which can only be found in the South. Point two: the South is encompassed by the Appalachians to the west. On the northern end,  once you’ve gone past the Mason-Dixon line, you leave behind the humid sub-tropical climate and the slave-trading past, hence your exit from Southern culture. Point three: Nowhere else in the country did slavery proliferate and exist on the scale it did in the South. According to Tony Horwitz, in his fine book, “A Voyage Long & Strange,” at one point, there were more African-born slaves in the young U.S. than white Europeans! And the Africans brought with them their heritage, their food and music, to which the South was infused and injected. 

 

I admit it, Virginia was an acquired taste for me. But acquire it, I did, though I never felt completely at home. The “where” I am is something that’s always been important to me. I’m someone who is keenly aware at all times of my environment, my surroundings. It’s almost more important to me than anything else. If I’m not comfortable with my “where,” I’m one miserable gal. C’ville came close to being a great fit. Plop it down beside the Pacific Ocean, and it would’ve been my dream town. Alas, it was not to be. Sniff. But I’ve moved on and resettled in my actual hometown, which to my surprise, seems to be that fit I’ve always been looking for. Who knew!

 

Bye Charlottesville! I’ll never forget you~

 

The radar clearly showed a tight squall line, thick with red cells, heading straight for Charlottesville. Nearly a bar of solid crimson, stretching from Louisiana to Canada. A line of destructive storms like this was unprecedented, creating enormous tornadoes of a magnitude that had left the scientific community breathless. And it was heading right for us.

 

Here at the amusement park, it had been a radiant day, with kids at play and a cloudless sky. But by late afternoon, the sky had taken on a split pea soup hue simultaneously as the siren began sounding. Now, seized by confusion, everyone scattered for cover. I ran into the Tilt-A-Whirl, this ride enclosed in a small hangar-like structure. Instinctively I knew that the odds of this building continuing to stand after the storm struck were low, but I was in a panic and there were not many options. I stepped into one of the ride’s oversized, swiveling chairs, lowered the safety bar and waited. 

 

At the sound of the first faint freight train rumbles from the distant superstorm, a sudden paralysis gripped us all. An eerie calm penetrated the room, everyone holding their collective breaths, muscles taut.

 

SLAM! It was on us: chaos and confusion; screams and flying things; the clang of metal on metal; wind tearing the air; lungs sucked dry from the pressure; water spraying; a hundred knocks to the flesh. 

 

The roar was gone. The metal settled. Moans and groans and cries and wails echoed through what was left of the structure. I was damaged, bleeding but alive. Around me were mangled bodies; some writhing, others still. I slinked up out over the now stuck safety bar, grateful that it had stopped me from catapulting through the air. I clambered down from the tower of debris that was once a ride. 

 

I limped across the concrete floor, carefully picking my way over beams, scraps of metal, shards of glass. I was suddenly confronted by a man or a woman, I couldn’t tell. Its head was grossly disfigured; huge, misshapen. Knots where a round, smooth skull should be. Sallow, fuzzy skin. Swollen, puffy eyes. No clothing. This being looked me in the eyes menacingly.

 

My heart sunk with the realization that the being was here to harvest what remained of us.  My pulse racing, I quickly scanned my surroundings. There were more of these hermaphroditic creatures, with the same oversize, lumpy heads. It was feeding time. 

 

(Thanks a lot, Stephen Hawking...)

Central Virginians! I'll be marching/sauntering/strolling in the Dogwood Parade here in Charlottesville today, about noon, come rain or shine. Look for the Charlottesville Center for Peace & Justice banner & wave hello!

“How ya doin’?” said the parking lot attendant as I handed him my ticket.

 

Well, I had a terrible nightmare right before I woke up this morning, for starters. Mobsters told me that I had an hour to come up with $3000 or they would slowly torture me. Next thing I know, I’m in a backyard next to a pool, and I know that there’s a problem with the plumbing and that if I can’t fix it, I won’t be able to get ahold of that money. Suddenly a pipe must have burst, for chocolate syrup started filling the pool, spewing from a jet out of an interior wall. I knew my chance was blown. It was over.

 

“Three dollars.”

 

Can I just collapse into your arms, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant? It’s been a terrible day. I just want someone to hold me, tell me it’s going to be ok.

 

Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, I broke down in the park today. I laid on a bench in a grove of pine trees and sobbed. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it. I’m tired, really, really tired of slamming my head against life’s wall every day.

 

Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, this town can be so dull sometimes. I went to the Mall thinking it’s a beautiful spring evening and there’ll be lots going on instead it was Deadsville. A handful of people. Many businesses closed for the day. Closed! At 5:30pm! What’s wrong with this picture, when downtown retailers close at 5:30pm during the height of tourist season??

 

(73 over 31. It’s no wonder I’m so mellow, or that some people think I’m stoned all the time.)

 

(73 over 31. Much lower and I’d have been in a coma. I’m like the walking dead. No wonder I keep passing out all over the place.)

 

(73 over 31. I found the medical report from several years ago sorting through papers in a box. The doctors at George Washington University had shaken their heads. “Yep, she’s got it,” they said, with an air of defeat.)

 

I’ll give you my bills, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, if you can promise me that I’ll sleep tonight? That no one will chase me in my dreams. That dogs won’t attack me anymore. That sirens won’t sound. That I won’t wake up yet again with my heart racing. 

 

(73 over 31. I don’t know why it never sank in before just how low that is. Oh my God, that’s mere points away from death. And this is how I live?)

 

That’s Wilco playing, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,” which I’ve listened to a thousand times, but I need it right now. It’s reassuring if not new.

 

I’m not going to give up, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, on anything or anyone. I’ve got hope. I don’t know why, but it’s there and it’s strong in me, in my core. The nuclear reactor of my soul is the hope that’s constantly churning.

 

The Free Speech wall on the Mall had been wiped clean, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant, the first time I’ve ever seen that. And the elaborate, vintage carousel was gone. It was just the usual buskers and homeless characters peddling for change.

 

The community festival at the Pavilion was a bust, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. A sea of men in suits, schmoozing. Shi-shi hors d’oeuvres from Hot Cakes. No live music. But the weather’s so glorious. So where is everyone?

 

“Have a good day.”

 

Oh, I’d love to, Mr. Parking Lot Attendant. I’d really, really love to. Maybe tomorrow.

 

"California Dreaming"

Check it out in the Photo Gallery!

Spent much time today giving this here site a much needed overhaul. Now when you view photos of my mosaics, you will notice a sale price when one is available for purchase. That's the firm price, tax & shipping costs include. Where there isn't a sale price, then that piece is not for sale. And I'm open to haggling. If you wanted to offer me, say, an autographed Bob Dylan poster, for one of my mosaics, then I can tell you right now, we've got a deal!

I don't know...but here's my rendition of it anyway.

...for that recovered version of "Just a Matter of Time." 

through some stuff today, I was so relieved to find a copy of a recording of my song "Just A Matter of Time," from 2002. This is the only copy of this version I have and I've always really liked it. It was recorded one afternoon with the assistance of Steve Frutos (fellow one-time band member from Cowboy Buddha) & his wife Ruth (on violin). I was going through a phase where I was obsessed with Beck's album "Mutations," and I think some of that alt-country influence had seeped into my subconscious when writing this! 

Til next time, from rain-soaked Virginia...

My art has been juried in to Art Upstairs gallery on the Downtown Mall in Charlottesville! You can find it on display starting Friday, April 2nd. C'mon by for the First Friday opening reception at 5pm. I'll be there!

Art Upstairs website: http://www.artupstairsgallery.com/index.html

A Poem - 

 

Don't Call Me Joni

 

Yes, I know I play acoustic guitar

and sport a head of blonde hair

and you know I like the folk music

and that my skin is rather fair

But I'm nothing like that other singer

Don't say I'm a dead ringer!

Because I'll know you're full of crap

and that the concept of "girl guitarists"

you can't grasp.

For the last time...

Don't call me Joni Mitchell!

Don't mention Ricki Lee Jones...

and for God's sakes

I'm not Jewel!

I'm just another blonde

pseudo-folky-indie chick

with a bit of a chip

on her shoulder.

I swear I'm not a phony,

it's just that I ain't Joni!

 

 

The podcast of last Sunday's radio show on 91.5FM featuring music by yours truly is now up online for your listening pleasure! Woo hoo!

http://doncampau.podomatic.com/

Here's a piece I wrote in remembrance of a great place I once thought of as my "home away from home."

********************************************************************************

In Tribute - Jam's Coffeehouse in Huntington Beach, CA (1993-1996)

Where to begin!! First, I'll start by saying that Jam's played a pivotal role in my life. For me, it was more than a coffeehouse; it was a nexus of creativity, it was a place that felt like home, where I could be my quirky self and feel accepted amongst other quirky, creative types. It was a place where I could relax, let my thoughts and ideas flow freely over a cappuccino. It was a place where great music was being made by talented people on what seemed like a nightly basis. And it was a place conveniently located within a 5 minute drive of my home straight down Slater Avenue!

The early 90s in Orange County saw a sudden out-cropping of mom and pop coffeehouses. They were seemingly everywhere overnight and this excited me greatly. In 1991, I had been living in Venice Beach, and one night while sitting around with some friends, we discussed how we could bring about a renaissance (pretty sure certain herbs were involved in the sparking of this thought-train). I hit upon the idea of a magazine, one that would be community-centric, featuring the art of a city's local denizens. I held onto this idea and the more I fantasized about this concept, the more it started to seem like something tangible. I moved back to my hometown of Huntington Beach the following year and spurred on by the bursting coffeehouse scene, created Burnt Toast. In these pre-internet days, I envisioned Toast as a kind of community gathering place, where creativity and community happenings would be fostered and highlighted, though the focus would be on the art. It would feature poetry, short stories, reproductions of drawings/paintings, etc. This wasn't to be a news journal. And it seemed important to me, as publisher/editor, to do as little editing as possible, to keep the contributions in the raw form in which they were offered. And I only ever censored material when there was blatant violence involved, as was the case once when I received a menacing submission from a neo-Nazi. 

But the Toast couldn't have happened without Jam's. Proprietress Carolyn Churchouse kindly let me use her computer in the back of Jam's, as I had only a shoddy old IBM at home. So away I'd work, typing up poetry, rants, the thoughts of folks from around town. While my zine was by no means the only one on the scene, (others were cropping up all over the place, like Lob's great Never-Ending Page), I was really excited at the way Toast was received. It seemed loved by everyone who bothered to thumb through its pages.

As a musician, I took full advantage of Jam's nice, big stage and played there regularly; as a solo singer/songwriter, as the bassist for Cowboy Buddha, or sitting in with various other talent. How I loved just lolling about in a comfy chair or sinking into a couch, being entertained by wonderful musicians like Rocky & Dan, Michael (Anthony) Ubaldini, the Fireants, Chaze K, Hundred Acre Woods & so on & on. I even co-hosted a couple of open mic nights... 

But all wasn't coffee and roses. One night I played a solo gig at Jam's and afterwards, some pals and I ducked into the bar next door, as we were wont to do. While I sat there in Centerfield sipping a beer and yapping away, my Volvo wagon parked in front of Jam's was at that moment being broken into. I walked out a half-hour later and with a sinking heart, saw the Volvo's side window shattered, my beautiful Ibanez acoustic guitar gone, along with the bag that held my microphone and cords. I was devastated. I'd had, held and loved that guitar for nearly a decade. In the following days though, the Jam's crowd rallied and set up a tip jar on their counter, with a flyer attached to it explaining the story of the break-in and asking for contributions to help me obtain a new guitar. I was so totally touched by this act; just really blown away. Then one afternoon, about a month later, I was summoned over to Jam's. I walked in and a new guitar was thrust into my arms! I could hardly believe it! I laughed, I cried, I hugged... this was a moment I'll never forget!

It was the people; that's what made Jam's special. All those enormously talented, creative folks gathered in one large room made up the heart and soul of Jam's; made it thrum. Some of those memorable people have passed on: artist and gentle soul Tim Mitchell, who created oil paintings imbued with passion; Storme Warn, eccentric poet, with whom I'm happy to say that I helped her to get her first book published by having published her poetry in Burnt Toast. Some other memorable folks still with us: Janie Toben, who created great jewelry (I still have a pair of her handmade earrings she gave me). And, of course, the Churchouse's. It's my own belief that proprietors of establishments such as coffeehouses or music venues are real community heroes. These are people who work hard, long hours, so that our cities and towns will bloom with culture. I have so much admiration for them, and I've often fantasized of opening my own coffeehouse and/or music venue. I also believe that an establishment's "vibe" originates from its' owners and spreads outwards. And this is why Jam's was a place with a lot of love, heart, soul and laughter. 

In '95, the Churchouse's were ready to move on, as was I. I folded Toast and in the spring of that year, went traipsing off to study in Cambridge, England. When I returned, Jam's was but a shell of its former self, having been sold and under new ownership; the couches removed, the bookcases that had once lined the walls, overflowing with tomes, now gone. 

Life goes on but memories persist. Thanks to Carolyn Churchouse for all the great ones!

-Angel LaCanfora 1/18/2010

http://www.facebook.com/pages/all-over-the-world/Jams-Coffee-House-Huntington-Beach/282182001753?ref=ts

Attention everyone in the San Francisco/Monterey Bay area! Tomorrow's your chance to catch my music live on 91.5 FM (  http://www.kkup.com  )  @ 3pm. Tune in to "No Pigeonholes," hosted by Don Campeau. The show will be archived and posted as a podcast to his website afterwards ( http://www.doncampau.com )

Thanks! You may now return to Mafia Wars...

Some of you may recall that a few years back, I rejiggered a batch of song lyrics then entered them as poems in the annual Writer's Digest writing competition. To my amazement, all but one entry placed (think I submitted a 1/2 dozen) and I soon thereafter received a batch of certificates in the mail for my troubles. Then I promptly forgot all about this competition, til today. So, I've entered again, "cheating" by submitting my reconnoitered lyrics as poems. We'll see what comes of this! 

Here, though, is an actual poem, not lyrics, that I wrote today;

Tomb of the Unknown Dreamer

You wanted a woman

who'd share your fate.

You wanted a woman

who'd never gain weight.

You wanted a woman

who could knock back ten beers,

and still gaze at you lovingly

while calling you "dear." 

 

You wanted a father

who'd never get mad.

You wanted a father

to be a pal and a dad.

You wanted a father

who'd never raise his hand.

You wanted a father

who perhaps gave a damn.

 

You wanted a mother,

who'd be strong and wise.

You wanted a mother

who'd never criticize.

You wanted a mother

to be gentle and kind,

whose unyielding love

would see you through time.

 

You wanted a life

of riches and fame.

You wanted a life

with a popular name.

You wanted a life

with no stops and starts,

no beginnings, no endings;

immune to the heart.

 

But your wife put on weight...

And your dad was full of hate...

And your mother was cold...

And you too got old

before you could make 

your mark on the world.

Unknown Dreamer;

Rest in Peace.

************************************

...and on that note, I say, have a sunny day!

 

 

 

This morning dawned gorgeous and sunny in Charlottesville and I decided to take full advantage and finally make the trek out to James Madison's Montpelier. Just a hop, skip and jump over some hills and dales, and I was there in only 40 minutes. Once there, I found I practically had Madison's house and 2,500 acres to myself, this being the tail end of winter on a weekday morning.

Ever since moving to Virginia back in '04, I'd become consumed with a passion for early American history. It's kind of hard not to. History smacks you in the face at every turn. I'm always conscious with each footfall that a founding father or maybe even one of my own ancestors on my mother's side, could've trod the exact same patch of land I'm now walking. Anyway, back at Montpelier, I had to gulp when I turned up the lane towards his house. The view in front of me was like none other I'd personally experienced. I knew this was going to be special.

The interior of the recently renovated Montpelier was lovely, with sunlight streaming in the large and plentiful windows and gorgeous views of the Blue Ridge all around. After the house tour, I wandered idly over to the formal gardens, not expecting much, given the time of year. But as I passed through an impressive brick archway I felt like I'd been ejected back into time. It was obvious that the graduating path down the middle of the garden was created with the views in mind. I was surrounded on all sides by lovingly manicured shrubs and the odd urn or pedestal. The sun was warm as a light breeze blew and I felt like I'd stumbled onto a wonderland. I couldn't believe that I was the only person there. The only sound was the light rustling that arose with the breeze. I kept looking all around, thinking, "this isn't right. A place this great, this peaceful, this beautiful and I'm the ONLY person here??" I took a seat on a bench in the shade, closed my eyes and let the peace sink into my every pore. It was like taking a long drink of water after a few days spent parched in a desert. I opened my eyes expecting to see people coming down the path, but no, I was still alone. I imagined Dolley or James sitting on a similar bench or wandering through this garden.

I made my way out of the garden through the archway, feeling refreshed and oddly giddy, and continued walking the path towards the family cemetery. After about 10 minutes, I arrived and reverentially opened the gate to the small cemetery, still marveling that I seemed to be the only soul around for about a 1/2 mile. I made my way over to the obvious grave of Madison, his looming granite obelisk. Beside his was a more modest, demure obelisk, that of his wife Dolley.  I stood there a long while, drinking it all in. This was the "father of the constitution," the man whose intellect created the U.S.A. My home.  My ancestor's home for hundreds of years on my mother's side. While my Italian ancestors on my dad's side arrived only about a hundred years ago, the fact is that it was the U.S., Madison's vision, that drew them across the Atlantic. Jefferson may have penned the Declaration of Independence, Washington may have lead this country successfully through the Revolution and been a gracious inaugural president, but it was Madison's mind that engendered the vision, the idea, of what the U.S. should and could be. Every American citizen owes his memory a debt of gratitude. 

As I left the cemetery, I found myself fighting back tears. Not only was this one humble person responsible with the creation of a vast country, but he accomplished all this while battling ill health his entire life. I'm someone who always likes to root for the underdog, and they don't come much more underdoggy than Madison. His health problems, his shyness, his small, frail stature, are time and again cited as making him an unlikely character for the history books. But the power of his mind proved them all wrong. I think a story doesn't get anymore beautiful than that. 

I got in my car and drove off, reluctant to leave, feeling in a daze, still misty-eyed. Winding down the highway towards Route 20, I realized that I hadn't even turned on any music when I got in my car, for maybe the first time in recent memory. I was still pondering the beauty of Montpelier and the story of Madison. I caught myself and thought, "what just happened to me back there??" Something inside me was stirred by this trip. It seemed transformative. I feel changed, but I can't quite pinpoint why just yet. But I think the answer will reveal itself in time.

(To see photos from my sojourn, check out my Flickr photostream:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/angeldan/)

I got word last night that my music is going to be featured on a radio show next Sunday, March 14th, broadcast from a station based in the Bay area of San Francisco! DJ Don Campau has a show which features "underground" music, homespun recordings by those of us out of the eye of the mainstream. ( And I don't think they get much more underground than me! I can only hope to rise to the level of fame of, say, Jandek, someday...) He will also post a podcast version of the show to his website afterwards. 

-Below is a convenient breakdown (heh. Think I once had a "convenient breakdown," but I digress...);

What: "No Pigeonholes," hosted by DJ Don Campau
Where: 91.5 FM, KKUP, ( www.kkup.com )  broadcasting to the San Francisco/Monterey Bay areas
When: 4pm, Sunday, March 14th
You can check out the online podcast after that date here: http://doncampau.podomatic.com/

Come hang out with me on Facebook, where you can handily peruse my (stronger) mosaic artworks!

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mosaics-by-Angel-LaCanfora/361546493256?ref=mf

I'm on a roll! Check out "Mojave Sunset" in the photo gallery. The design for this was inspired by a photo that author/photographer Chris Epting, recently shot.