About Dianne

Dianne is a 27-year veteran of broadcasting and news journalism. She came into this life a whopping three and a half pounds, three months early, anxious to get started. She grew up hearing about family notables such as her great uncles, Judge R. Carter Pittman from Georgia, and Senator Key Pittman from Nevada who co-authored the Pittman-Robinson Wildlife Restoration Act, and her parents instilled in her an entrepeneurial spirit and the belief that she could do anything. She grew up with a strong sense of "family", her grandfather served as a county judge in Texas, and her great uncle was the first county clerk in the area of Texas where they were a pioneer family. In manufacturing, her dad traveled with the family all over the southwestern United States, promoting his invention. She saw a lot of country from the back seat of a Thunderbird. She once told her parents that when she learned to read, she was going to read every sign on the highway. She attended New Mexico State University, pursuing a degree in Journalism and Mass Communications with a broadcast 'track'. She's worked for seven broadcasting companies (10 radio stations), four newspapers, a television station, and freelanced news video for ABC and CBS affiliate television stations. She is a member of Voice123 (Dianne James - Voice Over)  She left television and produced commercial video, having taught herself editing, production, shooting, writing, and all other aspects of the business. She spent a year in the Leanin' Tree freelance versewriter program, writing one liners for greeting cards, to which she attributes her headline writing today. She is a songwriter, writes poetry, and paints in charcoal, pastel, oil, and acrylic.  She also cartoons.  The meander is truly a metaphor for her life. She says, though, had it not been for the Creator providing the opportunity for growth, learning, initiative, and a desire to create, she would not have been able to accomplish the things she's done.  She gives Him all the credit.

PHOTOGRAPHY

Her first camera was a Minolta XD11, and she spent many hours in the Mountains of Northwest New Mexico breaking it in.  Her favorite photographer, then, was Ansel Adams.  Most of her photography is color photography, and now she usually uses a digital camera.  Potter's Daisy, above left, Gizmo, above right, Carnation's friend, left, Wild and Purple, below left, and Birthday Rose were all taken with that ancient Minolta XD11.  Most of the photographs used in Meander Magazine are from a stock photo company, because, "I don't have to take pictures, except local ones, anymore, because of all the beautiful photography available from the agency and people like Daryl Black, who are much better at it than I am anyway," she said. 

ART

Dianne started drawing when she was a small child, mostly people, and her first pastel was Sole Survivor, above.  The title of the work embodies the meaning of the painting, with the lone tree standing with it's mate having been chopped down, among many other different kinds of trees, pine trees.  Sole Survivor was done several months after Dianne's fiance died of cancer, "Sole Survivor was what I call my "self portrait" and part of my healing process, and a statement that, yeah, he's gone and now there's no-one else in the world who understands me, but here I am standing, nevertheless. I think many times a person can be lonely in a crowd of people.  It is a universal feeling, I think.  But you have to go on.  It may hurt for the rest of your life, but you still have to go on, because there's a reason for that pain.  There's a reason we're all here."  Many of her paintings have a song or poem that goes with them.  The song Manifest was written in tandem with the painting Sole Survivor.  She is a self-taught artist.

Evening At Copper Canyon

30 x 40 Oil on Canvas

© 2005 B.D. James

MUSIC

When Dianne was 9 years old, her dad built a stage in the backyard for her and her siblings. Her dad, Bill Pittman, had been a songwriter and performer, playing lead guitar until he lost all the fingers on his left hand on a swabbing line on a drilling rig in Texas. Stubbornly determined to continue performing his music, he took up the steele guitar, playing with a bandage for his first new gig. He had played in Bakersfield California with Buck (known then as Buckie) Owens. Dianne's parents met at a radio station in Seminole, Texas, her dad was playing live on a radio program, and Dianne's future 7-year-old step-brother Gene was singing live that day. Her family was a very musical one, in addition to her dad's music background, her maternal grandfather was a violinist, and her grandmother played guitar. Dianne has been a member of the Nashville Songwriter's Association, International, as well as other regional music groups. In 1987, she was nominated for New Female Vocalist by the New Mexico Country Music Association, with whom she played concerts at various places, including the Western New Mexico Correction Facility when it was a women's prison. "I'll never forget that concert," said James, "we had to leave our driver's licenses at the front desk, and they issued us ID badges, telling us emphatically, 'Do not lose these, whatever you do'. We were all kind of scared, I think, especially the one man in the group, but it turned out to be a very rewarding experience. I sang Amazing Grace, and they really liked that one. Sure made a great audience." Performing since she was about five years old, Dianne, at 18, was a member of Jim Washington's band in Fort Garland before leaving the Valley for 23 years in 1975. Born in Seminole, Texas, also the birthplace of Tanya Tucker and Larry Gatlin, Dianne was named, this month, a semi-finalist in the national songwriting contest by the Dallas Songwriter's Association with both Hometown Faces and Shady Lady,  which were performed by Robin James and produced by Don Richmond of Howling Dog Records in Alamosa. 120 songwriters entered the Country category, and 25 semi-finalists were chosen.  Rollercoaster Ride (will take a couple of minutes to load).  

"My parents encouraged my sister, Debbie (whose work is in Gallery 1), to do art, and me to do music.  I have a brother, Robert, who is a sculptor, and another brother, Carter, is a writer and songwriter, and my brother Gene, who passed away last fall, was a poet.  My first, and only piano teacher was a widow by the name of Mrs. Tom Stansell.  I never knew her first name;  we always called her Mrs. Stansell out of respect.  She made me play classical music, so I learned classical before I learned to play anything else.  I still love it, as a result.  I remember my first piano was an old upright player piano with the sliding doors in front.  When I could get away with it, I'd open up the top all the way, open the doors on the front, and just play like the only two things in the world were me and my piano.  I used to get up in the middle of the night, sneak into the den, which was far away from the bedrooms, and play.  One time they moved my piano out on the porch.  I guess they'd had enough," she said.  "I don't have a piano right now, and one sure misses it."  She said keyboards are great, but they're not the same.  "A piano talks to you, much like an acoustic guitar, it's just very different, and hard to explain.  You can't get the same thing from an electronic instrument, in my opinion."

POETRY 

A self-taught poet, an avid reader from an early age, Dianne began to write poetry seriously in 1996.  The writer's group in New Mexico that I used to belong to was my sounding board on my songs and poetry.  One of the members said that poetry is difficult to share with other people, "Because it lets your guts hang out there..."  I used to only write rhyming poetry, and then one day, Nightfall just happened, when I was going through a difficult time with my mother, right after my dad died. So, now I write freeform as well. 


Music

Click on the treble clef/notes to listen to full songs.  They take about 40 seconds to load on high speed internet, so will take a little longer with dial up.  Please be patient.

 

SHADY LADY

Words and Music by Dianne James

Sung by Robin James / Produced by Don Richmond

Click picture to listen

The Story Behind the Song:

Dianne wrote Shady Lady in 1987, originally an anti-drug song, with the "shady lady"  a metaphor for addiction.  Most people who hear the song, however, just think it's the "other woman."  It was written when the singer, Robin James was still a small child.  Robin included it on her first CD project, and Shady Lady, along with Hometown Faces, has received radio airplay. 

© 2002 Dianne James (Original copyright 1987)


 

Liar's Promise - Guitar/Voice demo

Words and Music by Dianne James

Sung by Robin James / Guitar by Don Richmond

Click picture to listen

The Story Behind the Song:

© 1990 Dianne James


 

Hometown Faces

Words and music by Dianne James

Sung by Robin James / Produced by Don Richmond

The Story behind the song:

Hometown Faces, originally, was written about Dianne's hometown, Seminole, Texas, after sending her grandmother a long letter about the birth of her son.  The letter never reached her grandmother, and was returned.  Apparently the address wasn't complete, and though Seminole is a small town, it was not delivered.  Her grandmother died before she could tell her about it.  That loss was expressed in a song-  Hometown Faces.  She realized, later, that it could have been written about any town.  While pursuing a singing career, Dianne James could never get good tracks recorded on this song, so twenty years or so later her daughter, Robin James, included it on her first CD, Green Winter.  The voice you hear singing this is Robin's voice.  You can visit Robin's website here...   To listen to more of Dianne's songs and radio ads visit this website...

Hometown Faces © 2002 Dianne James (Original copyright 1984)


MANIFEST-Home Demo

Words and music by Dianne James

Sung by Dianne James

Click picture to listen

The Story Behind the Song:

Prior to writing Manifest, Dianne had been through a divorce which took two years.  She was talking with her pastor, one day, about overcoming adversity.  She told him that with two small children, she didn't have a washing machine, nor money for a laundromat, so she'd washed clothes in the bathtub for a year or two.  She told the pastor, "I felt very resentful of my ex-husband while bent over that tub full of laundry, and then one day I thought of how my grandmother had washed clothes on a rub board, without the benefit of hot running water and laundry detergent, in the Texas heat."  For her grandmother, it was a matter of carrying buckets and using lye soap without gloves.  "I realized, then, that I was so blessed, and from that moment on thanked God for the blessings I had.  A week later, I was able to purchase a washing machine on time payments.  I think that the Lord was waiting until I appreciated what I had, in order to give me more," she said.  The pastor looked at her and said, "You have found victory."  She never forgot that.  The experience, and a subsequent loss of a fiance to cancer, inspired her to write Manifest, which she describes as a song about spiritual rain, and thanking God for all things, good and bad.  He does, indeed, work all things together for good for those who love Him. 

Manifest was originally copyrighted in 1990 under the name Thank You, Lord, for the Rain.  Dianne performed it for the first time at Second Baptist Church in Lamesa, Texas, when Jerry Luck was the Music Minister.  "There were people crying, and I was amazed to see how a song that I had written could touch another life and connect on such a deep level," said James.  "Jerry, later, helped me to get a recording of it using the microphone in the sanctuary and the church's recording equipment.  He's the one who suggested I call it Manifest.  After a while, I did change the name to Manifest.  He's one of the few people who believed in me at that time.  I'm so thankful for that encouragement."  Another demo was produced with more instruments, the home demo that's here on this site.  "I had recorded a New Mexico thunderstorm on video tape and we used that in the intro and various parts throughout the song," said James.  "I still need a good recording of the song, but I guess that will happen when it's supposed to." 

Manifest Lyrics:

Manifest (Thank You For the Rain)

Words and music by Dianne James

(Thunder and rain intro)

I may never paint a portrait, or see fifth avenue,

Lie upon a sandy beach, warm beneath the moon.

I may never climb Mt. Everest, nor sail on emerald seas,

But You have walked with me this far,

and that’s good enough for me, Good enough for me.

I may never play Carnegie Hall, fly a plane above the clouds,

See the things that Renoir saw, but I will sing it right out loud-

Your kind of love is needed, in a world so torn with pain.

My own life had been a desert, Lord, so I thank you for the rain,

For the rain.

CHORUS:

Thank You, Lord, for the rain that falls.

Falls like manna from the sky.

And the Love You sent, so that I might live-

Love, manifest in Jesus Christ.

BRIDGE:

I asked for wisdom, and the rains came.

Then I asked for strength, and there you stood.

I know, now, that whatever form the rain takes,

You’ll work it all together for my good.

I haven’t been to see the whole world, yet,

But I have been to feel the rain, on a poor excuse for life.

I know you can make a garden grow, where nothing could survive,

Nothing could survive.

CHORUS: "Thank You, Lord, for the rain that...."

TAG: (Thunder/rain)/ Love, Love, Love, Love, His love/ (rain out)

© 1990 Dianne James


 

I'LL BE MISSING YOU-Home Demo

Words and music by Dianne James

Sung by Dianne James / Guitar & Sequencing by Mel Lockhart

Click picture to listen

The Story Behind the Song:

Written just two weeks before 911, Dianne saw a small bird in a hedge outside the dining room window.  The song starts with "A little bird sings..."   Later, she found that bird lying dead beside the hedge, and it wasn't until later, that she connected it with the September 11th tragedy.  It's about loss, survival, and somehow moving on with one's life.  The song starts with "A little bird sings..."  It's a song about loss and the process of survival.

I'll Be Missing You © 2002 Dianne James (Original copyright 2001)


TEARING ME UP - Home Demo

Words and music by Dianne James

Sung by Dianne James / Guitar & Sequencing by Mel Lockhart

Click picture to listen

The Story Behind the Song:

Tearing Me Up was written to be sung by a man, about a character who overcomes perilous situations, just to be undone by love.

Tearing Me Up © 2002 Dianne James (Original copyright 2001)

ENTERPRISING GUY - Guitar/Voice Demo

Words and music by Dianne James

Sung by Robin James / Guitar by Don Richmond

The Story Behind the Song:

Dianne was traveling many years ago in West Texas, and saw a billboard near Andrews, TX which said "We believe in God, country, and free enterprise."  She made a mental note of what a good song that would make.  The original title was God, Country, and Free Enterprise.

Enterprising Guy (God, Country, & Free Enterprise) © 2002 Dianne James (Original copyright 1986)


Poetry

NIGHTFALL

By Dianne James

I

A knight, debonnaire

and quick to smile

a perfect smile-

a light

in a young woman's soul.

In memory, bitter-soaked,

echoes of happy dreams,

friends,

laughter,

love killed over and over

until it could not rise again

to fight,

to thrive.

A weapon, words.

Let loose,

floating in the universe

to land on angels' ears,

to sink into the heart,

where once love lived.

A poison, alcohol.

Strong,

deadly,

to the heart that love made warm.

Each thrust of angry, cruel word

bludgeons deep until

a bloody silence lay

upon a landscape

once filled with promise,

hope,

and tenderness.

II

Irretrievable, trust.

Lost long ago

in other love affairs.

An ebbing wake it left,

widens,

ripples,

into mist-

and swallows ever after

any vessel daring there to sail.

A ghost, the soul.

Unreachable.

Unloveable,

immaleable;

trust earned,

slapped away

until it could no longer bear

the return.

All that's left, words-

from drunken lips

left lonely and useless

in their solitude.

No steaming cup,

nor birdsong,

nor shining morning sun

could right the wrong

of words so cruel-

III

Undone, a life.

A withered soul.

The victim, not one-but two, the victor spoiled

left bleeding too.

Yet, victor, cover the wound;

shroud with anger,

justify,

self-protect,

project.

But hide the weapon, words.

With lies.

Deny.

Toss a thick, ornate blanket-

guilt,

over one who dared to love and trust you.

The stupid fool.

Unattended,

festering

rotting stench-

word wounds,

seeping into generations.

Rendered and gone, love.

It worked once, so kill again.

Self-hatred, take another heart,

and another.

Pound them down.

Take it. Steal it.

Every shred of hope and love and trust,

until you've taken all they had.

IV

In the chest or in the ground, a victim's grave.

Cold and speechless

in the shadows of the moon.

All victims of your words-

but peaceful, now, away from you.

Oh victor, mourn

what you could not get:

the knight,

the love,

the trust,

the life,

your child forever searching

in the aftermath

of your insatiable lust

for power,

control,

and all things borne of these.

Wasted years, your life.

Old one, weep

self-pity tears.

Curse God

for all the wasted years,

the wars,

the knights that fall beneath the words

you brandished well.

V

A lodestone, your impoverished heart.

A thin-skinned hand

raise spoon to wasted face-

no laught lines there.

Barren valleys etched

where mountains, smiles,

could have been.

Twilight wanes to the click of neon time

a bitter sting with nightfall,

jab and twist your wicked weapon, words.

Watch the darkened ebb-

the blood of love.

Sit alone

where love once lived,

called sweetly

whispered softly your name

with gentle eyes

and opened hands. Alone,

in your tomb of meager things

you cling.

Your heart, a rock

weighs you to despair.

daily bathe, no bask, in hate-

familiar

your comfort zone

a simmer, a boil

the dance begins and night will fall again.

VI

God's vessels, victims,

lovers.

Each, the promise of tomorrow

stands to grieve

in low voice

and silence

and pain unmeasured

in search of the lost child

buried somewhere deep inside

with a boundless love to give away

to someone who can understand

and be there to the end. And still love.

An unending search for mutuality

spiritual sobriety

and depth in another

just a whisper, "I understand"

I stand naked before my God

"Here I am"

He loves me still

after all the things I've been as my spirit dances

to the song of my dreams, in a cemetary wind.

He watches

He hears the song and blows my hair

with gentle breeze, His kiss

unconditional love

new life

in the setting of the sun-

As the light descends, I know

He is preparing a place in a heart such as mine

It's nothing to Him, time.

He knows where and when, and who.

It is I show searches futily

It is He who has the answers,

and the one for me.

Again, He was right.

Love does conquer all.

I need not fear

nightfall.

©1996 B.D. James

Sing It

There is music
Indigenous
Soulful
Longing
Tempting
Breathless
Inside the heart
For which
we all long
...if only
to be heard
this once
or
for a lifetime
A bird
A bug
A firefly
A baseball game
A midnight echo
of a memory
Crying out to
be relived or not
A soul
Yearning
To be loved
for the song that
belongs to it alone
To be recognized
For its particular note
Its timbre, flash, pizazz
Or quiet softness fleeting
Through a forest
Through a crowd
A song
A life
Shared or not
It will still be
If kept under lock
and key
of the timid heart
or If bursting forth
A thunderstorm
A song
It belongs to you
Sing it...

Copyright 2005 B.D. James

My Father's Hands

It was my father's hands that tilled the soil,

He braved the sun- enjoyed the toil

With piercing eye, removed the stones to make things right.

They were ands which brought sweet moistened earth

To meet the sun.

His vision- a sea of green in clumps of hardened sand.

My father's hands clasped to pray for the happiness of a daughter, a son, a day

Hands, which, trembling, held his baby child at birth

Would gesture, teach that child how to work.

My father's heart saw for me a life much likened to that land,

The need of preparation for joys to come

Reparation for deeds that can't be undone.

My father's soul alone could see the pain, the grief inside of me,

Because he'd tilled the soil, seen the stones I couldn't see,

and would have tossed each one aside,

but now the land, the life was mine.

Now, beneath a watchful, quiet sun,

I will turn the soil, to wield the "planter's trowel",

I will loose the stones, and plant the seed

With my Father's help, I will water and weed

The land, the life, the time that was given me.

©1998 B.D. James

THE GOLDEN BIRD

A twisted tree

Too much drought

Too much wind

Beneath its knarled and roughened branches, sighed;

Leafless in the desert rain

Blackened, hardened by its life,

By time.

Silent weeping, here and there,

Set in its way

To never leave the comfort of its hardened bed,

Where roots grow deep and hidden from the morning sun.

No more words for the golden bird,

Which sits in arms of seasons

No reasoning.

Its heart beats strong and longs to fly to chart the sky,

To walk a path of its design.

Looming,

Stoney, grey, and black,

The fortress said, "Come back".

The golden bird prepared to leave,

Escape

To breath the air of new beginning,

To soar on its beliefs.

It shook its speckled fearless wings,

Judged the distance to be free.

The dangers there surveyed, though,

More dangerous, now, to stay,

To live a life not meant to be,

To die

Before it sees

Splendor in the flight,

The heights,

...life.

Though it loved the dark old tree,

Which in a winter stood imposing,

Promising

Safety, comfort, peace,

The golden bird was meant to fly,

Its eyes to see the rainbow's peak,

The mist of mountains on its beak,

To land and peer from lofty place

To see it all

without disgrace of having stayed

In solitude of moonlit night, hidden

In the branches, out of sight.

The golden bird took flight,

Left its earthy, bended friend.

Who knows what he would see?

What treacherous wind will whip,

Will teach,

Will be.

What vistas to be seen,

To soar with angels

Be alive.

God will provide,

Yes, He will feed

The golden bird,

The dream.

©1998 B.D. James

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