Dustin Black's Oscar Acceptance Speech

Watch this inspiring speech and, if you are so inclined, sign the thank you note and invite your friends to watch the video as well.

Dustin Black's powerful and poignant Oscar acceptance speech
for Best Original Screenplay.

Send your thanks to
Dustin Lance Black, Sean Penn
and Cleve Jones for making "Milk" possible.
www.couragecampaign.org

I'm Only Four

For years, I've been telling friends that "I'm only four." And, for years, many of my friends have nodded their heads, laughed, and not known the origin of my words.

At long last, my friends will be able to unravel the mystery behind my words.

I invite you to watch Munro, the 1961 Academy Award Winner for Best Animated Short Film.



Pssst. I'm still only four.

Mustangs - National Geographic Magazine

The National Geographic Magazine feature article for February 2009 examines in detail the plight of our wild horses, including Cloud's Pryor Mountain herd. Although the article paints a disturbing picture regarding the future survival of an integral part and icon of the American West, the factual information, which it provides, warrants thoroughly reading it .

In this article, Ginger Kathrens, the Executive Director of The Cloud Foundation, contributes her long-term and first-hand observations, which point out the mismanagement of the wild horse herds along with its damaging side effects.

Excerpts:

Some herds are direct descendants of those brought by the conquistadores, notably the Pryor Mountain herd in Montana and northern Wyoming, whose centuries-old Spanish heritage was established through blood tests in 1992.

"In some cases," [Ginger] Kathrens said, "I've seen a stallion lose his mares in a BLM gather, and for that stallion, who has fought life-threatening battles for those mares, his life is over. He'll end up on his own, and I don't think it's too strong to say that some stallions succumb to a form of depression."

Contributions - Be It Large or Small - to The Cloud Foundation are always welcome.

President-Elect Obama: Our Democratic Tradition

Our Democratic Tradition, President-Elect Barack Obama's weekly address, made on Saturday, January 17, 2009

Excerpt:

In his final weekly address before assuming office, President-elect Barack Obama speaks about the upcoming Inauguration activities, a tradition at the heart of our democracy.

Renew America Together On January 19, 2009

Renew America Together: A National Call to Service from Michelle Obama for January 19, 2009

Your Call To Service

Find An Event

The Inaugural Schedule

There have been a number of inquiries on Facebook regarding the Inaugural Schedule. What follows is the same link that I have posted there.

Event Schedule
for the Inauguration of
President-Elect Barack Obama and Vice President-Elect Joe Biden

Please keep in mind that all times listed are based on Eastern Standard Time (EST).

Ballerina Carla

During my early college days in the mid-1970s, there were several young ladies who I was privileged enough to have as my friends. The one who most stands out in my memory, however, is Carla.

To me, Carla was magical. Humble, kind, supportive and loving, she quickly found a special place in my heart where she still resides. She treated me as if she were my big sister and helped me through a tumultuous period in my life.

Carla had been an aspiring dancer and understood loss. A car accident injured her back so severely that it ended her dreams of being a dancer. The physical injury also left lasting emotional scars along with it.

Little did I know --- or, perhaps more aptly put, what I failed to consider --- was that my birthday gift to her would open those scars to such a degree that her wounds would be made fresh again, causing her to recoil from me in a flood of tears and flee from the gaze of her other birthday guests. How could I have been so blind?

It was a poem that inflicted so much pain. My poem, a birthday poem, which I wrote for her and her alone. A special poem, a sonnet, each line starting with a letter that formed the words, "Ballerina Carla." So thoughtful, so personal --- too personal, and ultimately, thoughtless.

The poem is still in my possession, safely tucked away where it can cause no further damage. Only the last two lines echo clearly in my mind.

Life is her stage; her heart has prancing feet,
And dance, she will, until life's rivers meet.

My guess is that her grief prevented her from ever seeing those two lines.

The Perils of Poetry - first in a series.

My Selene

At a distance, you would not think of her as miraculous with most of her body draped a drab, olive green. As you neared her, you might notice, if you cared to notice, the bright splashes of lemon yellow gracing the very top of her head and the tips of her shoulders, as if the very contrast beckoned you to take a closer look.

Certainly, if you were lucky enough to chance upon her as she awakened from her afternoon nap, stretching her body before you, there would be no doubt of her unique beauty. A stunning column of color, peeking from her back in a vivid, turquoise blue, would reveal itself, drawing you even nearer to her.

Only then would you see the glorious blanket of green, clothing her chest, a vision more striking than the young blades of grass in spring. Your eyes would follow that lush carpet down her full length where you could delight in yet another outburst of sunlight, as if she were adorned with a pair of matching golden anklets.

Closer still, you would stare, transfixed upon this living jewel. With the wonder of a child's eyes, you would linger, devouring every detail of her. Elaborate, ornate, you would savor the fine weave, her tapestry of color, the intricate, interlocking threads symmetrically displayed, lovingly joined together.

And, if you dared, with the curiosity of a toddler's touch, you would caress her delicate fabric, the soft sensation capturing the fascination of your fingertips. Spellbound, you would be.

Then, spontaneously, inexplicably, you would lift it, as if an individual strand of hair, almost weightless in your hand, and marvel at one, just one, of her multitude of treasures, and this, a single feather.

Mare's Tails

The wind was howling in Malibu today. A eucalyptus tree toppled over and barely missed the house it once shaded. Down by the beach, consecutive gusts created rivers of blowing sand that swept over the ground and erased footprints within its path. Mare's tails were blown in long wisps atop the crest of each wave.

In the early afternoon, there was a low tide, a negative tide of close to two feet. Taking photographs of the tidepools and experimenting with my new camera seemed to be a great idea at the time. Of course, that was before the wind started showing some major attitude.

Although grains of sand sometimes ended up in my eyes and my skin was sometimes abraded by the relentless blasts, pictures were on my mind, and somehow or another I planned on taking those photos. And, I did. And, it was a lesson in futility, especially when attempting to take pictures of wildlife while being blown sideways, backward, forward, you name it.



Was it worth it? Well, it kept me busy for two hours, and it was good exercise. What struck me as odd was that a couple of guys on horseback would ride by the day after I published the post about Apollo. I'm unaccustomed to that sight. Maybe it's a sign. Ha!