the color wheel...

So what's your favorite ride at the fair? Me? My favorite is the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Cupid's Jackhammer
28 August 92

I. Up

It's watching the carnival
fold in its tents,
dismantle the tilt-a-whirl,
and trudge on past
varied emotions of children
The wonder of it then
bitter longing as it slips away
then faithful anticipation
There's always next year...

II. Down

It's after a hot bath
on late summer nights
the cool wind in wet hair
whispers through worries,
agendas, the world;
an answered prayer of forgiveness
when the left brain sings
builds sand castles on the moon
but the right makes her list
of things to do tomorrow...

without a song...

*@#&%*#! Yes. That's right. That's exactly what I said. *@#&%*#! There. I said it again.

So I was going to record a song for the Silent Planet Records Mark Heard Songwriting Contest, but I've managed to completely hose the installation of my Cubase SL recording software. And why should you care? Well... you shouldn't really, but I was planning to record a song just for you, and now I can't. Well, I could record it, but it would sound like I was playing in a tunnel, and you, dear reader, deserve so much more than that.

I could be nice and give you a sneaky peak at the lyrics, but I�m annoyed and grumpy right now. I will tell you that it was written to be the official theme song of this journal. I even titled it Kudzu, mostly because I�m very unimaginative when it comes to song names.

Ok, so I know that the prospects of a new song don�t excite you as much as, say, X2 is coming out in 2 days or that Matrix 2 is only 2 weekends away... but I give what I have to give.

warp factor nine...

I"ve been rather lax and haven't actually written much the last few days. Sorry. Sometimes it just seems like Life is moving by you at warp speed. All you can do is watch from the road side, thumb stuck in the air, and hope for a lift into the next town. Other times you realize precisely how a june bug feels when, in the course of it's intended flight plan, it suffers a gut-popping collision with Life's windshield. Either way, Life rarely eases it�s lead foot off the pedal.

please proofread...

Yes it is 7:15 PM on a Friday and yes, I'm still at work and no, I'm not very happy about it.

This helps, however...

empty tip jar...

For the last few months I've been playing a tour with Rusty, Mike, & Peter. Our next and final show will be at the Paradigm Coffee House in Cary this Saturday, 7 - 9pm.

Stop by and say hello.

as the battery drains away...

Not much time to type this out... The little battery icon in the tool bar is nearly drained of it's blue, letting me know that I've just about wasted all the energy stored in the confines of lithium ions. Rechargeable batteries are wonderful, but they're not perfect. Sure, they are able to hold a charge lasting several hours, and then, once drained, store up another charge for another day. It�s almost magical, really. But, like I mentioned, they have a flaw. They can only store a finite number of hours of fun before they�re no longer able to recharge. They suffer from the same tendency to total system collapse that all of creation suffers. Some claim it's Murphy's Law. Scientists call it Entropy. Theologians call it Original Sin. Me? I call it Bed Time.

order of worship...

So yesterday was Easter Sunday and of course we were at the church early to make sure we got a seat. When you walk into church and see a guy in full Scottish formals, complete with kilt, tuxedo coat, and little dagger in his sock, you know you're in for something entertaining, if not quite spiritual. You know it�s going to be memorable when he walks on stage and picks up a set of bag pipes and begins, uh... tuning? (How do you know your bagpipes are out of tune? They're making sound.)

Ok, so everyone likes "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes, right? Right? Well, I heard them at the funeral for a fireman once. Husband of Jennifer's highschool friend. Service was very touching, even the piper. But does that really say Easter? Does that really make me think of Christ risen, death defeated, and empty tombs? Oh well. It was only 2 verses.

Next came the one-woman drama skit. I love drama in church. I've done quite a bit of skits in church. I've even written a skit or three for services. I tell you, one of the things you quickly learn in doing drama in the church is placement. Where in the order of service would this particular skit have the most impact? Is it funny? Maybe it should go up front. Serious? Maybe it would fit in right before the sermon.

The skit yesterday morning was meant to be serious. The cries of a woman who had just witnessed the crucifixion were meant to draw us in emotionally, put us in the moment. We should have watched her anguish and been reminded of the price paid. But no. The three of us on our row couldn�t stop laughing. About the time I stop giggling, I look over at Scott who is losing his composure again because he just looked past me to see Jennifer crying because she�s laughing so hard, so I start laughing under my breath again, and we completely missed the point of the skit. All because it came directly after the bagpipes and began with a woman�s loud voice saying �Stop that noise. That horrible, horrible noise.�

And yes... I told her to change her opening lines before the second service.

easter, the photos...

Happy Easter!

the lost saturday...

One of the most magical moments of any week is the time spent watching Saturday morning cartoons. Any Saturday morning that begins before 9 am and doesn't include at least 2 hours of animated entertainment is a bad Saturday morning. It is the anti-Saturday. When I was in high school, my father would ask the same question every Saturday: "Are you going to grow up and watch cartoons when you're 30?" Well, duh! What else is there to do at 30 on a Saturday morning? Work in the yard? Sure. Whatever.

Today began before 7 am. Today began with a 30 minute drive to Chapel Hill and an hour plus sitting in the waiting room (without a TV, much less X-Men.) Today was an anti-Saturday. On top of it all, the news from the doctor was, well... inconclusive. It could be bad, or it could be nothing, and we won�t know for days, maybe weeks. More �hurry up and wait.� Hurray.

Of course, the stress and the frustration manifests itself in us differently. Some people try to distract themselves at work and ended up in tears. Me, I revved the Passat just past 100 on the I-440 and drove straight to Guitar Center. Speeding and fooling around with a Dobro can be very therapeutic. Even on an anti-Saturday.

more fun with car tags...

I don't know why, but lately I've started writing this down on scrap paper in the truck as I'm driving to and from work. Make your own guesses as to their spiritual, eternal meaning...

LOVU4LIF
ESCAPENY
PETRUS 2
I'M A CMP
NCSU4EVR
OWNNIT
PUDGEPOD
LIK2BIKE
TEN8SHUS
NCSUGRLS

how did you find me here?...

Here are a few of the recent searches that brought people to this, our land of mental kudzu :

• 2x3+Plastic+photo+key+chains
  
• car+door+alignment+fix
  
• picture+of+iraqi+child+kissing+soldier
  
• which+type+of+snow+chains+are+best+for+a+honda+accord
  
• pictures+of+tropical+kudzu
  
• judgement+at+nuremberg-+dog+fox+field
  
• snaggeltooth+definition
  
• clipart+of+someone+doing+a+180+on+a+dirt+road
  
• bad+arabs+girls+pics

two sides to every story...

Sorry to subject you to more of pseudo-narcissistic historical photo safari, but I couldn't resist giving you the full picture. Sure, he's 27, has me in height by nearly 2 inches, and now outweighs me by 30+ pounds, but he's still my baby brother.

obfuscation...

There were several things on my mind that I couldn't wait to tell you. I was itching to sit down and write them down for you. But not tonight. Maybe next week.

I will say that we gave Uncle Sam his 1.5 pounds of flesh tonight and I'm currently finding it uncomfortable to sit. I've been told the teeth marks in my already under-padded butt will heal in time.

live songs and stories...

Last night, we played hooky from our Church's Easter musical. Instead, we drove out a dive of a bar/club in Chapel Hill. No, I'm not about to confess some percieved sin. We were there to see a concert by one of the best singer/songwriters of our generation, David Wilcox. If you've never been to a concert of his, do yourself the favor and buy the new live cd. Not only does it include raw performances of his best songs, but it also includes the stories woven in between.

In concert, David is equal parts comedian, poet, therapist, and prophet. Listening to him emote in a deep, silky baritone voice is nothing short of infectious. You cannot help but give him your complete attention, as he draws you in, makes you part of the song. You savor everything he gives. You give him all you have. You make a full emotional investment and you enjoy it. You laugh, you hold your breath, you cry... and at the end of the night, you thank God for the experience.

Last night, this is the song that watered my eyes :

Let Them In

Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires

Let them wake whole again
To brand new dawns
Fired by the sun not wartime's
Bloody guns

May their peace be deep
Remember where the broken bodies lie
God knows how young they were
To have to die
God knows how young they were
To have to die

So give them things they like
Let them make some noise
Give dance hall bands not golden harps
To these our boys

And let them love, Peter
For they've had no time
They should have trees and bird songs
And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pearAnd girls sweet as meadow wind
With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed
But say not to fear
It's gonna be alright
With us down here

Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter
� John Gorka, all rights reserved

minister fiction...

I just can't write fiction better than this.

side effects...

The worst thing about playing a show with sinus trouble is not what the drainage does to your voice. As bad as that is, the really awful part is what the drugs do to your ability to remember lyrics. Singing through a chemical fog, groping for words like a half drunk teenager after the senior prom. At least there was free coffee. Ummm... double espresso w/ a vanilla shot. I love playing the coffeehouse circuit.

cute cup o' coffee...

event horizon...

Stacey has posted a few more candid photos from the Boston subway.

girl under park street

mussed hair and wrinkled dress
left stocking fallen, forgotten
passing train shakes the platform
blows little lost papers
to cyclone in corners
teases hair to cover her face
break the gossamer chain
between eye and page
the book gently opened
spine neat and seamless
top pages slightly curled
the event horizon of prose
pulls her inward and apart
slows her aging
the other life
a singularity
stops time

eskimo kisses...

the upgrade...

You are now a Blogger Pro subscriber. May you use your new powers for good and not evil.

I have new powers, huh? Will I use them for good or for awsome?

good, better, best...

There's a lot that I want out of life. Like most Americans, my list of wants so far out paces my list of needs that the one gets lost inside the other. Eventually, however, most people narrow their list down to a few items of elevated interest. Most people find at least one item on their they enjoy above any other. They enjoy it so much, they are driven to be good at it. For most, there�s a natural drive to take this single activity and pour all their heart, sweat, and soul into it, becoming good at it, perhaps becoming the best at it.

Me? I�ve never wanted to know the most about anything or be the best at anything. I want to be able to do anything. I want to know something about everything. I guess you could say I want to be a Jack-of-all-trades, but I much prefer the older term �Renaissance Man.� There are very few subjects out there that I�m not interested in (besides biology... ick...) There are very few things that I don�t want to try/do/experience.

My parents always accused me of being a quitter. I always thought of myself as overly curious. A short list of activities I�ve experienced :

• Piano
  
• Tae Kwan Do
  
• Diving
  
• Scuba Diving
  
• Skateboarding
  
• Computer Engineering

There are, however, a couple of things that I�ve started, and, of yet, have not given up on:

• Christianity
  
• Poetry
  
• Guitar
  
• Jennifer

About five years ago, I had a talk with a good friend regarding my desire to be good at a lot, but great at nothing. That�s pretty much still true today. However, in the midst of sharing my life�s goal with Phil, I realized there was something I wanted to be great at. In fact, I realized that there is one thing I wanted, and still desperately want, to be the best at: Dad.

slow fade of history...

This is the Rev. William Daniel Brooks (1824-1905). Rev. Brooks is my Great-Great-Grandfather. My Father's Mother's Mother's Father. (I think.) This was found in his pocket the day he died. I'd love to hear the story of why he held on to a worthless scrap of paper. Did this dollar have a meaning I'll never know about? Was it given to him by someone special? Where did he come from? Where was he born? What church was he pastor of? Does that church still exist?

So much of our history is lost. Slips through the fingers and runs down the drain like water from the tap. A couple of years ago Jennifer and I gave our grandparents empty photo albums for Christmas. The intent was to have them fill it with pictures of family photos, and the older the better. I want to know more about the people who made me me. This past year, my Grandmother gave hers back full of old photos, each one with a disappointingly short caption of who/what/when. A genealogical tease wrapped in Christmas paper.

Still, I got a song out of it. Mostly because of this picture. (And yes... that�s my grandfather in Alaska with Jamie Farr. I've not had the courage to ask about why the picture was taken in front of the ladies apparel and boarding house...)

purple flowers weeds...

A week ago, I mentioned Jen's photo safari in the wilds of our backyard. Now that I have a working scanner, I thought I'd share.

Spring '03

my inner child...

tumbleweed...

Sarah Hatter has been over at her blog gearing up for her cross-country move. She�s been going all out, asking for gas money donations, looking for readers to offer a couch, and really making quite a nice sounding adventure of it all. I�m sure her readers will enjoy the lovely anticdotal stories of missed exits, wrong turns, bad directions, ad nausium. She�s darn near obligated to write about these things. These are the stories that make a rode trip. These are the fables we expect to read and enjoy. (After all, her life�s purpose is to amuse her readers, right? Jason?)

I find truly fascinating, however, the attachment that Sarah has to a particular Starbucks in Sacramento. I�m not sure I feel this way about the Jumbo China I eat at every other day. I�m not sure I feel this way about my own house. I�m pretty sure I�ve never been this attached to any particular place. Ever.

There are places I remember. The memories float around the back of my mind like the scent of a woman�s perfume after she leaves a room. And like Sarah, I think I keep these postcard memories, not so much because of the location, but because of who I was with, or why I was there, or some other life event that frames the mental picture I keep. I don�t give much credit to the place, however.

Maybe it�s because I�ve called so many cities home. Or maybe, I�m just cold and heartless. But of all the places I still keep locked in memory, I can�t think of a single one I�ve ever regretted leaving. Guess I�ve got too much wanderlust to sit around long enough to plant roots that deep. There�s just too much world out there to see.

gig bag update...

The new gig bag for my electric guitar was waiting out on the porch when I got home in a big, brown UPS box. The logo on the front isn't quite as nice as the old one, but the straps are made of a stronger material and even have little reflective strips in them. Very nice.

Thanks again Jim!

video of the day...

I hear the company that made this car got the contract to design the next generation French tank.

sirloin stack...

Nothing much better than free food. Truely. But I still hate being at a restaurant and having to send food back. And it�s not so much that I�m scared the cooks in the back are going to spit in it. Matter of fact, I�m pretty sure they do. I worked at McDonald�s years back. I know the score. The worst part is having to sit and watch everyone else at your table eat, knowing they�re going to have to sit and watch you eat once they�re done.

But when a steak comes out cold, grey, and dry and you asked for medium (�pink, not red�) you have to send it back. The waitress apologized twice, but it wasn�t her fault. The manager came out to apologize, brought the food out when it was done, and waited for me to cut into it and check the color. He came back later to let us know my dinner was comp�ed. Nice. Jennifer tipped on the original amount.

why i sing...

I find my self on the bed again, laptop whirring faintly and warming my left thigh as I search for something I want to talk about before the last 37% of the battery drains away and the screen goes dark. I�d love to have something to rant about at the moment, but I�m just not in the mood really. Been one of those days that pulls you in so many directions at once that your not sure you�ve moved at all, but you sure are exhausted from the effort.

Jason sent me the chords to the �Wedding Dress�. I was trying to remember them before practice and see if I could sing a little of the chorus. I got Derek�s song so horribly wrong that it became my own. I spent several minutes singing my poor soul out for an audience of two. They asked me questions about my week and I answered in the very next verse. Sometimes, the lines even rhymed.

This is what I have. This is my release valve. I used to do this when I was young, about half my life ago. When I was just starting to drive, I would come home from work at the Red Foods, a little too fast through the curves of East Brainerd Rd. I would roll the windows down in my mother�s Buick
Riviera, the heater gently pushing back the early spring chill, turn off the crap on the radio and just sing. Not a song I knew, or a song ever written. I would just belt out whatever I needed to get off my chest. Mostly they were prayers. If you look hard enough, you�ll see remnants of those here in the kudzu.

We all need release, catharsis, cleansing. I make up silly songs. What�s your release? Drop a comment and share with the rest of the class.