CHAOS TROUBADOUR

MY 20 FAVORITE MUSIC OF 2011

2012-01-20T12:04:00.001-08:00

Being a fan of year end lists in general, this is a list that I compile every year mostly for my own personal enjoyment to reflect on and to celebrate the music that made me happy. I'm not so presumptuous as to call these discs 'the Best', but they are my favorites.

1. 'Let England Shake' by PJ Harvey: A brilliant hybrid of rock, punk and folk that is often times chaotic yet also extremely melodic and mostly sublime. War and it's consequences is the theme here and the album is an angry yet sad, open letter to England, the homeland that Polly Jean deeply loves, lamenting a history built on the horrors of conflict and the blood of too many young soldiers. The music clangs and jangles and churns along anchored down then set aloft by Harvey's quivering, hypnotic yelp of a voice. This is an important work by a true artist that for me was the best release of 2011.

2. 'Collapse Into Now' by R.E.M. : Could that be Michael Stipe waving goodbye to his fans on the album's cover? Possibly, as R.E.M. called it quits as a band after the release of this album, which, ironically, many fans and critics saw as a return to musical glory. No less than a compendium of their previous sounds and history, 'Collapse' draws from the folk rock of 'Out of Time', the college rock of 'Document' and the art rock of 'Automatic for the People' to create an album that is comfort food for longtime fans and the perfect sendoff for one of musics greatest bands. They were 'The Beatles' for many of my my generation and I miss them already.

3. '21' by Adele: There was no escaping Adele in 2011 as her odes to heartbreak were heard everywhere.. especially in my own home as my 9 year old daughter, who aspires to be a singer, fell in love with Adele's perfect voice and played this CD incessantly. Adele is not a poseur, but an artist who proudly wears her emotions on her sleeve and who is unafraid to bear her soul. Hit after hit confirmed the power of both her voice and her songs, including what for me was the best song of the year, the beautifully mournful 'Someone Like You'.

4. 'The Whole Love' by Wilco: After two good but not great albums, Wilco returns to form with their best collection since 'A Ghost is Born'. It's all here for those familiar with the Wilco sound; the Artsy Experimentation, the Americana infused pop and whispery, elegant ballads. Also featuring what may be Jeff Tweedy's best song to date, the long, mostly acoustic elegy, 'One Sunday Morning'.

5. 'The King is Dead' by The Decemberists: Folk Rock at it's absolute best as the Portland band pulls out the acoustic guitars, and with the assist of R.E.M's Peter Buck, conjures a collection of campfire songs and hoedown jams. Of all the albums listed here I probably played this one the most.

6. 'Bon Iver' by Bon Iver: Justin Vernon abandons the isolation of his mountain cabin that begat his last solo disc and enters the studio with an actual band to record a disc of simply beautiful and sonically perfect pop sung with one of rocks most unique voices.

7. 'El Camino' by The Black Keys: Kick-Ass, Bluesy, Gut Punching Rock 'n Roll by two nerdy looking white guys who got started by jamming in their basement. They are everything that The White Stripes wished they could have been and more. Featuring the years best rock single, 'Lonely Boy'. Roll down the windows and crank it loud!!

8. 'Ashes and Fire' by Ryan Adams: Marriage has certainly mellowed out bad boy Ryan Adams, and that's a good thing. 'Ashes' proves to be one of his best albums ever with song after song of wonderfully low-key, country infused pop sung in that buttery smooth voice. 'Lucky Now' is another of the years best singles. A gem of an album!

9. 'Ceremonials' by Florence + The Machine: Light years ahead of their very good first album, 'Ceremonials' finds Florence Welch stepping out and taking the crown from Kate Bush to be the new Queen of Art Pop. The production is pristine and repeated listens rewarded as new layers of luscious sounds are revealed. Simply gorgeous.

10. 'Days' by Real Estate: Dreamy, hallucinatory music that crawls into your brain and refuses to leave, sending echos throughout of soft melodies and velvety vocals. Serenely pretty Art Rock that unexpectedly comes from a band out of Brooklyn by way of New Jersey.

11. 'Parallax' by Atlas Sound: Atlas Sound is the brainchild of Bradford James Cox, who is the lead singer of Deerhunter, one of Alt Rocks best bands. With 'Parallax', Cox steps away from some of the obscure experimentation that he is most known for and delivers an album of surprising, 'almost' pop songs. Seemingly adopting the pose and sound of a 50's crooner, Cox delivers an album filled with wonderful, complete songs that, with repeated listens, sneak up on you and unfold in layers of melody.

12. 'Helplessness Blues' by Fleet Foxes: Beautiful folk rock!

13. 'The King of Limbs' by Radiohead

14. 'Bad As Me' by Tom Waits

15. 'Last Summer' by Eleanor Friedberger

16. 'Barton Hollow' by The Civil Wars

17. 'Circuital' by My Morning Jacket

18. 'Noel Gallager's High Flying Birds': Better than anything by Oasis, (his first group)

19. 'Wasting Light' - Foo Fighters

20. 'Torches' by Foster the People

MY 10 FAVORITE SINGLES OF 2011

1. 'Rolling in the Deep' by Adele

2. 'Someone Like You' by Adele

3. 'Lucky Now' by Ryan Adams

4. 'Lonely Boy' by Black Keys

5. 'My Mistakes' by Eleanor Friedberger

6. 'Edge of Glory' by Lady GaGa

7. 'Mona Lisa' by Atlas Sound

8. 'Lotus Flower' by Radiohead

9. 'Heart in your Heartbreak' by The Pain of Being Pure at Heart

10. 'Pumped Up Kicks' by Foster the People

Best Reissue of the Year: 'Quadrophenia' by The Who. A Rock Opera that is better than Tommy and is simply one of the best albums in Rock and Roll history.

KALEIDOSCOPE

2011-12-27T14:51:00.000-08:00

'Kaleidoscope' ©Jerry L. Kirk - words and images

'KALEIDOSCOPE'

In some brief moments
the universe splits
a wavering tear and I step into
the tapestry of lights and colors and

new sensations. A
kaleidoscope as silent as
the mind and long shadows.

In other moments not so brief
I am longing for reality
with all of its promise of
coffee in the morning and

sunlight filtering through
trees thick with green
leaves on
warm spring days.

Image and words ©Jerry L. Kirk

2011-12-02T06:14:00.001-08:00

MOUNTAIN WINTER WALK

The trees breathe whispers

that only I can hear. Blue

mountains fade as fog

clings desperate and

enveloping. Black hawk

against greying sky.

The sprinkle spit of snow

an annoying tease. Paper

thin crinkle to remaining

leaves crunch crunching

under foot. Shadows stretch

long fingers across the hard

hard earth as crooked trees

reach skinny limbed up, up,

touching God's sleeve.

The tranquility of isolation.

A slow, deliberate seduction.

The echo of whispers caressing

my cold, cold ears.

©Jerry L. Kirk

'Fog Descending' • acrylic on canvas • ©Jerry L. Kirk

'SUNBURST'

2011-12-01T08:44:00.001-08:00

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photograph ©Jerry L. Kirk

'GRACE STREET'

2011-11-15T06:01:00.000-08:00

Discussing Important Paintings in my Oeuvre - Follow this link to read about the origins of this painting

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'MIAMI' (a poem)

2011-11-12T19:16:00.000-08:00

Decadent sun spoiled
landscape littered with
dreamers and hedonists
and homeless and hispanics
and old people come here
to die.

Convertibles thump thump
the bass loud on streets
lined with art deco
pretensions and gaudy neon-
the vanity of Architects
the delusion of wealth.

Southbeach with its
silly men in speedos
and bare chests. Models
skinny and proud
with long legs and
disdain for

the macho boys who
shout them out. Umbrellaed
sidewalk cafes that
boast $10 beers.
Clubs that fill the night
with latin beats and disco
drones. Surprised to find
the street musician playing a
gentle guitar.

All along the shoreline
Spanish houses and faux
Spanish condos bleached orange
and pale pink in the
unforgiving sun.

See the tall palms quivering
in the sticky breeze.
Elegant trees now decorative
elements in a sanitized landscape.

White stucco walls separate the
upscale white-washed community from
the grease-stained hot tarred
bottom of the barrel where
sun-burned bums lay in
piss soaked alleys using frayed
backpacks as pillows. A relic of
the wandering that brought
them South seeking

warmth and a new life now
lost in booze and bad dreams.
Every morning across the
street from my hotel a
strange rasta / reggae man
pulls up in a battered black
buick to buy a newspaper.
He wears only denim shorts
and his hair is long matted
dreadlocks cascading overfrail brown shoulders. His
seat belt is a rope.

The queers crowd one stretch
of the white beach like a
horde of slick shiny bronzed
seals anonymous and content in
the protective comfort of the group.

Along Ocean Drive tourists
gawk at the empty palace
of Versace shrine to
vanity ghost-filled home of
the murdered icon.

Miami is a playground for
rollergirls and skateboard boys
boulevard cruisers and fashion
freaks freeky people fun
seekers sun bathers.
Some fun.

Not for everyone.

©Jerry Lee Kirk

CLOSE WINDOW

'DayDream' (Elly)

2011-11-11T10:06:00.000-08:00

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'DayDream' (Elly) photographic print ©Jerry Lee Kirk

'Winter' (Plattsburgh, New York)

2011-09-16T13:11:00.000-07:00

Recalling the 4 brutal winters that I spent in the little town of Plattsburgh in upstate New York while stationed at the Air Force Base there... (click on the image to see it larger)

'Richmond Blues' (Remembering a special place and time 1985-87)

2011-08-31T06:04:00.000-07:00

Avalon Sunset

and we watch

from our Grace

Street balcony.

Grifters and

hustlers exit the

building briefly

illuminated

flickering

revealed beneath the

street light before stepping

into the enfolding

darkness.

Cat calls and whistles

echo.

The night is for

the young. We are

Princes of the 'hood

Royalty in the clubs.

The Fan District

our Kingdom. We

stagger

drunk through alleys

untouched, confident

in our beauty.

The trophy's we

bring home remain

nameless passing in

the morning light like

shadows into memory.

The veil of night

will lift it's cloak the

masquerade giving way

to the

stumbling ragged

thick tongue

morning.

III

Without a car I

run/ walk everywhere in

the Fan strapping on

backpack

jogging to stores

bars cafes even work.

I am fit by necessity.

Lean alert

aware one with

the streets in tune

with the rhythm outside

of the in.

I was both adorned

with and adored women.

Terri, Vickie and others

less significant. I

broke a few

hearts in vain disregard

inevitably my own heart

was shattered battered

stomped into a

million billion blood

stained pieces. The

wound was almost fatal.

There were moments I

wish it were. That

was the beginning of

the Richmond Blues. That

was a test for life. That

was why I left.

On a rainy day

the Village Cafe

is my favorite

place to be.

A table by the

window basket of

fries pint of draft

reading

Bukowski, Hunter S.,

John Updike or similar.

Outside washes away

familiar stains. Steam

rises off black tar roads.

VCU students file

in wet and loud. The

waiter brings me another

beer and eventually another.

I turn slowly

blurring pages my

own words slurring. The

rain continues the afternoon

fades and I am content to

be immersed in

my beautiful melancholy.

Floating falling drowning in

such exquisite delectable

Blues.

Long walks down

Monument Avenue (fading)

brunch at the Strawberry

Street Cafe (fading) flipping

through racks of

used LP's at Plan 9

Records (fading) Saturday

afternoons at the Virginia

Museum of Fine

Arts studying Monet up

close and of course

Picasso (fading). Writing

bad poetry on the

Grace Street balcony

stoned. Such pleasant

memories of Richmond Oh

my city Oh my heart

break

fading.

CODA

Strange days those last days.

Burned sugar, morals tested.

Shoes travel escape run till

it hurts. Blinding sun wrath of

everyone. Sanity answers

the question "why evil?".

There's truth in everything but

nothing is real.

There must be something

somewhere. Rising I rose

to a point. FALLING

LEVEL.

'Willy's Gift' - An excerpt from my ongoing memoir

2011-08-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

I was 15 years old the first time the work of a ‘real artist’ had a profound effect on me. Interestingly, this experience had nothing to do with the visual arts, but instead was brought about by my introduction to a work of literature. Still, the lessons learned from one art form can easily carry over to another. Art is Art, after all.

The reason this book had such a dramatic effect on me was because reading it changed not only the way I thought about the written word, but how I felt about all forms of art and enforced within me my own desire to become a professional artist. This encounter with destiny occurred at, of all places, The Bowl America in Falls Church, Virginia- my very first place of employment.

I loved my job at the Bowling Alley. I loved everything about it; sweeping the lanes between games, busing tables on league nights, assisting at the snack bar. Hell, I even loved running the dishes through the washer and taking out the trash. Now, to be honest, cleaning the bathrooms I could have done without, but I truly enjoyed every other aspect of my job. Assisting at the snack bar was probably my favorite, because it was easy to sneak a plate of fries or slice of pizza while performing my ‘duties’ and I could fill up on free coke all night. Also, I got to know the ‘regulars’ while working the snack bar. These were the customers who came in week after week, some night after night, to bowl and drink beer and just hang out. At my tender age I was more than intrigued by the way adults lived their lives, the stories they had to tell and how funny some could get after a few beers. On slow nights I would hang out at the snack bar counter, listening to red-faced Phil banter on about how lousy his job was, sitting at a desk all day and taking shit from his boss. Phil came in to the Bowling Alley straight from work every single night, not even bothering to stop off at home and change out of his suit and tie. He belonged to a league that bowled on Saturday nights, but except for that he would just sit at the counter and drink endless amounts of beer. Some nights he would stumble out at closing time in a drunken haze to drive himself home, but most nights he could control his drink just fine and would sit on his stool, face growing redder with each beer. I used to think that maybe if he wouldn’t spend every night at the Bowling Alley he could find the time to look for a better job. In the course of the 2 years I worked at Bowl America, I came to realize that Phil was the type who would complain no matter what job he had. He hated the job because it got in the way of his drinking and his hanging out at the Alley, which he loved doing. We were the only friends he had; maybe the only family – Phil wasn’t married and I don’t remember him saying anything about family or relatives. And what a dysfunctional but interesting ‘family’ we were! The immediate members of our Bowl America family included the big boss Dave, Yvette the snack bar manager, April, the ditzy but sweet hippy who assisted Yvette and my best friend Craig, who shared the same job as me. Craig and I didn’t really have job titles. Our responsibilities were too varied. We were simply known as part-time ‘workers’ and we were basically assistants to all other employees.

Other ‘family’ members included the front desk cashiers who assigned lanes to the bowlers, passed out rental shoes and collected money, the mechanics who took care of any problems with the pin sorters or ball returns and Willy, the janitor.

Yvette was the unofficial head of the family. The single Mother of teen-age daughter Marcine, she had moved to America from France years earlier to escape an abusive husband. Yvette was a fiery redhead who took bull from no one and watched over Craig and I like a protective Mother. Marcine had an apparent crush on me, and Yvette was always reminding me, (in a more joking than serious tone), to stay away from her daughter. She claimed that she didn’t want me ‘corrupting’ her little Marcy. Truth is, if the daughter were anything like her Mother, it would probably have been me being the one corrupted.

Yvette was no great beauty, (she looked much older than her age- late 30’s was my guess), yet lots of male patrons and workers at Bowl America were enamored with her. On most Friday and Saturday nights the snack bar stools were filled with men, smoking and drinking and chatting her up. I was convinced that Yvette was one of the reasons Phil hung out at the snack bar every night. Yvette’s ballsy attitude, twisted sense of humor and deep French accent lent her a certain degree of sexiness. She constantly smoked, letting each cigarette linger between her lips until the butt was stained bright red from her heavy lipstick. Yvette had seen and done it all and was weary with life and men. Through vision obscured by the naiveté of my youth and my poet’s heart, I envisioned her as some exiled princess or disillusioned, has-been movie star whose cynical, almost fatalistic demeanor gave her fading beauty a forlorn attraction. The obvious attention from all the guys meant nothing to Yvette – taking care of her daughter was all that she cared about and, I believe, all that kept her going.

Even Big Boss Dave, or simply ‘Boss’, as we all called him, was at the mercy of Yvette’s whim. Even though he was the Bowling Alley Manager, Yvette had worked there longer and so Dave would often go to her for advice on any problems that might arise concerning employees or customers. Dave would call Yvette into his office for long meetings with the door shut and Craig and I used to ponder that perhaps more was taking place than just talk. After all, Dave did have a bit of the scoundrel about him; with his pencil thin mustache, fast talk and expensive looking suits. He was genuinely nice to Craig and I though, and hooked us up with our jobs despite our being too young to be employed according to Virginia State Laws. Craig’s Mom was a Captain on one of the League teams and one of the Alley’s ‘regulars’. She had talked Dave into giving both of us a chance. Dave broke the laws more by allowing us to work long hours that often had us leaving the Bowling Alley well past midnight on some school nights. Craig and I didn’t care. We were happy to be making good money, (mostly in tips), and doing something much more fun than sitting at home watching TV or doing homework. Sometimes, while working those late shifts, we would sneak canned beers out of the cooler in the back of the kitchen area and hide them in the woods outside the back door. After our shift ended we would hang out in the back catching a good buzz before either taking the long walk home, riding our bikes, or catching a ride with Craig’s Mom. Sometimes, if it was really late and Craig’s Mom wasn’t available, we would call a cab. My Mom, with her extraordinarily keen sense of smell, would always complain about my clothes smelling of cigarettes and beer. I could always blame the smells on the hazards of the job. It was, after all, 1975, years before the bans on public smoking would come to pass. My nights were spent working in a haze of stagnant smoke wiping spilt beer and soda off sticky tables and delivering full pitchers to thirsty patrons. Even if I weren’t sneaking the occasional drink in the back of the Alley, my clothes would have been ensconced with the smell. Nevertheless, Mom always held her suspicions. She would have been happy to know that I really had no interest in smoking cigarettes, even though my lungs were getting their fill each night with second-hand smoke.

The most interesting character in that group of cast off’s and rapscallions was, without a doubt, Willy the janitor. Willy was a Vietnam Vet left somewhat addled by the war. He was a black man with a wiry, athletic build, confident stride and a penchant for wearing button front shirts and trousers of matching, drab colors. With his monotone clothes and little round glasses Willy resembled a member of the American Communist group of the 1950’s. Behind the glasses were bright, soulful eyes that projected both distance and intelligence. Willy seemed way too smart to be a guy whose job consisted primarily of scrubbing latrines and mopping floors. In fact, I don’t remember him ever being without a book; usually a worn paperback that he kept tucked in the back pocket of his trousers for reading whenever he had a break.

For everyone else at Bowl America Willy was quiet, almost introverted, but always polite. Most thought he was weird. I liked him. He was more open with me, talking about many things, including books, music and his strange philosophies on life. Once, he held up to the light an almost empty glass of coke that he was drinking. “See how all that’s left is just that little bit of crushed ice and swallow of coke? That’s the perfect ratio. That’s heaven. I wouldn’t trade that for a million dollars.” He then drank it down, chewing on the ice, enjoying every last bit. I truly believed that he wouldn’t have traded it for the million dollars. Money didn’t seem to mean much to Willy. Once he spent his entire weeks pay on a fancy bicycle as a birthday present for his daughter, Louise. He didn’t even allow himself to keep enough money for food and relied on his one free meal at the Bowling Alley to stave off hunger until his next payday. I snuck him baskets of fries, hushpuppies and whatever other goodies from the snack bar that my quick fingers could nab.

Like Yvette, Willy was divorced with one child who meant the world to him. The difference between Yvette and Willy in this was that while Yvette had custody of her daughter, Willy’s ex-wife had custody of Louise. Willy never smiled more than when talking about his little girl. Of course, given his penchant for privacy, he never really talked that much about her, and not at all about any other aspects of his personal life. All I knew about him, aside from him having a daughter, was that he lived alone in an apartment in Arlington, took the bus to work and was on no easy terms with his ex-wife. I also knew that he loved to spend his time off scouring flea markets for used paperbacks, clothes and jazz records. It was Boss Man Dave who leaked that Willy had served a tour in Vietnam. He also told us that Willy had a brief stay in a mental institution after he was discharged. Hard to know exactly how the war had changed him since I didn’t know him before, but Willy did have a habit of talking to himself. He could also be a little too quiet sometimes and a bit intense. I always felt that under his Zen-like demeanor was a volcano of rage waiting blow. I suspected he liked working as a janitor because it was a job without real pressure, that didn’t require much thought or was too demanding. This enabled him to keep it together, to maintain his cool. Either that or, given his history, the only job he could get at the time.

Willy had a keen interest in my wanting to be an Artist and also encouraged my fondness for poetry. I was constantly drawing on pads of paper I’d bring in when work was slow or, lacking those, the backs of bowling score sheets and even napkins. Willy was always watching me. He’d say that he could tell I was a real Artist because my drawings didn’t seem to take much thought- they just flowed out. I could usually render an idea in minutes in a very loose, sketchy style and Willy thought this showed me to be instinctive, born with my talent. Sometimes I would just practice drawing the human figure. Other times it would be weird, surrealistic scenes straight from my lively imagination. Often I would draw the barflies as they sat drinking at the snack bar. If Willy liked any particular drawings he’d ask me for them and I’d give them to him without qualm. Most I ended up tossing in the trash anyway. The other employees at Bowl America knew about my artistic inclinations and thought it was cool. Often they, or even regulars, would send their visiting children or nieces and nephews back to the kitchen area so that I could draw pictures for them. Once, during a particularly slow shift, Boss Man Dave’s little nephew hung out with me the entire time while I taught him to draw comic book superheroes.

If I wasn’t drawing during my down time I was writing bad poetry. These were more like lyrics, really, influence by the songs of singer songwriters like Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne. I did read poetry collections and enjoyed real poems, but was too young to really get what much of them were saying. The words of many of the songwriters of the day read like poetry to me but were more direct and obvious. Yvette’s assistant April, having been heavily influence by the 60’s, idolized Bob Dylan and tried to turn me on to his words. She even brought a big book of his collected song lyrics in for me to read, but I found much of his writing too cryptic. I recognized the artistry but nothing I read or heard of his touched me in any meaningful way. It wouldn’t be until I was in my mid-30s before I really listened and understood where Dylan was coming from. Now he remains one of my favorite Artists. Back then I was a young romantic looking for words I could identify with and Joni and Jackson’s tales of love, heartbreak, loss and travel drew me in.

Willy admired some of my writing but recognized that I really didn’t have much to say about life at that point. He loaned me a few of his poetry collections and turned me on to the other Dylan, Thomas. He also tried to get me to appreciate jazz music, but I was definitely not ready for that. My favorite thing to do after a shift at the bowling alley was to unwind by filling the jukebox with quarters and rocking out to Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones while playing the pinball machines.

One slow Saturday afternoon, as Willy and I sat in the kitchen, he pulled a wrinkled paperback out of his back pocket and handed it to me. “I want you to have this”, he said, “a gift. But you got to promise me you’ll read it. This book, my young friend, will blow your mind.” I took the book from Willy’s hands and stared at the bright yellow, ripped cover with an illustration of two cool looking dudes standing beside a big convertible car. I read the title and author- ‘On The Road’ by Jack Kerouac. Now, I was, (and still am), an avid reader who not only enjoyed reading books, but also liked reading about them. I especially liked reading the Washington Post Book section on Sundays and also book reviews in my two favorite publications of the day, ‘Rolling Stone’ and ‘Cream’. I knew of ‘On The Road’. I knew that it was considered an important literary work and spawned the ‘Beat Generation’. That was all I knew.

“What makes you think I’ll like this?” I asked Willy. “Because I know you”, Willy responded. He reared himself up and got animated, flailing his hands about while speaking in that way he would when something got him excited; “I’ll bet I know you more than you know yourself”. “This book is about a part of life you’ve never experienced. It’s about an America that you’ve yet to discover and it’s written in a voice that you need to hear. Reading Jack Kerouac is like listening to Miles Davis play the trumpet – it’s jazz put to paper, man! These words have rhythm and a flow and they don’t stop till you get to the end. Trust me when I say, this book will open your eyes!”

Okay then. I was sold. If Willy thought enough of me to pull this book out of his collection and give it to me, and then to sell the idea of it so eloquently, well, how could I not read it? I took the beat-up old paperback home and began reading it that very night.

Three days later I was finished. “What the hell was that”? I thought, as I read the last few lines and put the book down on my night table. The entire reading seemed like it went by in a blur and it took my brain a short time to unravel the knotted tangle of words and ideas. Willy was right- the words did flow. They flowed and flowed, one sentence into the next pausing only to catch a quick breath at each chapters end. My initial thought was that ‘On The Road’ was simply one long, rambling narrative about two guys out on the road, cruising up and down the highways of a changing America in search of something, but never sure what. On second and further thought it all began to take on deeper meanings. The sheer poetry and romance of it began to stick to me and I couldn’t let it go. I realized the book is about many things. It’s about the struggle to find a place in this world and the desire to live a life of meaning. It’s about one man’s quest for identity and his need to see and do it all along the way. It’s about cars and bars, booze and broads, smoky jazz clubs and late night parties.

The two main characters, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, are 20th century explorers, discovering post-world war II America. They are adventurers, rebels, and misbegotten youth. ‘On The Road’ chronicles their journey from one end of the country to the other and back again, including a fated detour down to Mexico. It’s about the deep bond of friendship between these two men and the women who come between them. Most of all it’s about the solitary, searching life of an Artist, as embodied by Jack Kerouac in the form of Sal Paradise. It is written like no other book I’d encountered in my young life. There seems to be little punctuation as each long sentence folds neatly into the next. The writing style itself represented a new art form to me and for the first time I realized that the act of writing could be about more than simply telling a story.

I loved the idea of it- Sal Paradise hitting the road in search of meaning and reality and truth for the sole purpose of fueling his art, giving himself something to write about. Knowing that the story was mostly autobiographical and that in real life Kerouac risked everything to get to a destination that was more spiritual than physical only added to my admiration.

Reading ‘On The Road’ gave me the realization that in order to be a true artist, for my art to come from an honest place, I needed life experiences. I needed to get out on my own and see the world, meet interesting people, grasp opportunities. I needed to fill my heart and soul and imagination with the whole shebang and then spill it all out onto canvas or paper or whatever medium I chose to express myself with. Then and only then could I create Art that matters, Art that has a purpose, Art of relevance and importance.

That was it. That was why Willy gave me the book, wanted me to read it. He knew that I needed to see what it took to be a real artist, what was required to take the next step.

‘On The Road’ fueled in me a desire to strike out, get on my own road and blaze my path to glory. It left me with the itch to learn, see, feel, hear and do. There was a whole wide world out there beyond Falls Church and I needed to see it and experience it before I could even begin to think of myself as an Artist. Of course, I still had three more years of High School left so all of this would have to wait, but it was in me now, festering, and it would not go away.

In those remaining three years I would continue to do my little sketches. I would continue to write bad poetry/lyrics and keep on drawing comic book characters. But the difference then was that I knew it was all just superficial; I knew what was waiting. I knew that life would happen and as I experienced it my art would change. I was preparing myself for that moment when I could hit the road and absorb everything in my path, allowing myself to evolve and my art along with it. ‘On The Road’ provided me with a blueprint to being a better Artist and I would lock that precious information away until the moment came when I could put it to use.

‘On The Road’ also opened the door to literature for me. Now that I had discovered the power of individual style in writing and realized that good books truly were works of art, I was eager to read more. I leapt from Kerouac to William Burroughs to Hemingway. From there I went on to read Hunter S. Thompson, Steinbeck and even Dickens. I read and was transfixed by Allen Ginsberg’s epic poem, ‘Howl’. They were all revelations for me, these wondrous works of writing. Of course I was still a teenager and read comic books and continued to collect ‘Doc Savage’ and ‘Conan’ paperbacks, but my mind was more open now; I wanted to know about everything. I craved it all, high brow and low, fine and pop art.

I gave Willy a more sincere thank you for the book when next I saw him after finishing it. I tried to explain what it meant to me but struggled to find the right words. There was no need. He understood. Willy may have been a bit addled but he was also wise beyond his years and did, indeed, know me better than I knew myself.

Willy quit Bowl America a few months later. He had managed to save enough money to buy a used car and, no longer reliant on the bus line, was able to find a better paying job. I missed Willy and our talks, his insight on my art and recommendations on books I should read. He was a cool guy with a perspective on life different from anyone I’d met and knowing him left an indelible impression on me. At some point, as I moved on through life, I lost that beat up, old paperback copy of ‘On The Road’. Of course I replaced it with a newer version, and then another after that, but wished that I’d managed to hold on to the original. It was, after all, a gift- in more ways than one.

Later, during the summer of that same year, I heard Bruce Springsteen for the first time and the desire to get out on the road was again ignited within me. As I lay in bed late one night with my clock radio resting on my chest and the sound low so as not to wake the rest of the house, I listened intently while a local station played in its entirety the just released album, ‘Born To Run’. To my ears, this was everything Rock n’ Roll should be about. This was what was missing from the radio. This was ‘On The Road’ put to music. Bruce Springsteen would replace all of my musical idols and become something of a folk hero for me. He represented the blue-collar side of life, which my family definitely was a part of. He was all about being an artist as opposed to manufacturing singles for the top 40. He was an everyman doing what he loved and his music was the polar opposite of the sterile disco and tired heavy metal that perpetuated the airwaves during those years. To me, Bruce Springsteen’s music felt alive and vital. 1975 became a milestone year for me as I was awakened both culturally and spiritually. I was eager for adulthood, for it’s struggles and triumphs. I was ready to become an Artist.

I stayed at Bowl America long enough to buy my own car, a ’72 Ford Fairlane, then quit for a job in the kitchen at the local Nursing Home where a bunch of my High School buddies worked. The pay and hours were a little better but I did miss the excitement of the Bowling Alley. I missed the frenzy of league nights, joking with the ‘regulars’, getting Yvette all riled up, and working with Craig. It was an unexpectedly special place for a young man to work and learn about life and a wondrous time for me. One small irony of my working at and enjoying the Bowling alley was that, as much as I loved the job, I never really liked to Bowl.

©Jerry Kirk

'Picture This' - A poem / reflection on what it means to be an Artist

2011-07-22T22:56:00.000-07:00

Color is everything.

Desire to caress, blend,

shape. Colors

should twist and swim

across the white.

Flowers in my window.

Matisse saw

colors thick, black

consuming. Convulsions

in my soul. Who lives in

me? Who was I? I am desperation.

I can twist your thoughts.

I am need. Aesthetics

is a gift. Charming days;

Mozart, F. Scott Fitzgerald,

the smell of beautiful women,

boating on the canal. Blue-violet.

my greatest creation

will be me.

I read Nietzsche and

Aldous Huxley.

Men who think too much.

I think, but what of it?

I hate now.

I should be creating,

seducing, doing. The

closest we get to

God is art. Everything

is the future which

may not be. Light, romance,

music.

France is waiting.

©Jerry Lee Kirk

We Love (Because)

2011-07-09T06:02:00.000-07:00

We love because the

world is ambivalent and loneliness a

bitter companion.

We love because sometimes
it seems as though there’s nothing else.
We consume, never satisfied...

We devour each other hungering
for the soul of another to keep
company with our own.

‘Desire’ is such an understated
word. In truth we inhale each other
seeking the rapture that is passions promise,
longing to be one.

Love humbles us,
confuses us,
empowers
us. Love
creates destinies. We are
reborn in its wake.

We love because
from the second we are born
we begin our lope towards death.

Let me crawl inside of you and
live out the rest of my days in

ecstasy.

©JERRY LEE KIRK

Chaos Troubadour

2011-06-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

SHOUT
at the indignities
the transgressions
the crimes against
God
and Earth.

HOWL
(like Ginsberg) at the
inhumanity the
futility the
certainty

that man will never change.
Technology does not equal
Evolution we are all still

children immature wrestling
on an expanded playground of
land sea and
sky.

“Bang you’re dead!”
“I’m telling Mom!”
“Wait till your Father gets home!”
News flash:
Father
is
home.

God created Man.
Man created religion to
redefine God to
make God in Man’s image to
use religion as an excuse to
murder
judge
sin.

SCREAM
at a future
in jeopardy.

CRY
because a voice
of reason goes
unheard.

Order like peace
is hard to evoke
without marring the
very definition.

Chaos is easy.

2003©Jerry Lee Kirk

'BUS PEOPLE' DRAWINGS FROM 1994

2011-05-06T09:58:00.000-07:00

Back in 1984-87, while living in Richmond, VA during my 'Bohemian Years', I relied on public transportation to get around- most specifically the city bus. These are drawings of fellow passengers that I did to occupy my time while riding the bus. None of them were aware that they were being drawn. Click the link below to view this album....

Drawings of Bus Passengers from 1994

'AFTERNOONS AT THE VILLAGE CAFE'

2011-04-26T15:11:00.000-07:00

(A Poem about my favorite hangout in Richmond, Va, back in the mid-80's)

Prism glass shifts to
mirror from this angle. I
ignore my reflection to watch
Art School students in thrift
shop clothes and weird

hair. The new Beat
Generation hangs dangerous in
this withering cafe. William the Poet
hovers, (no doubt stoned), over a
notebook calling up

Kerouac's ghost. Outside
is the pumpkin dusk. Neon signs
click click on to hum pastel bright.
Across Grace St. dirt woman sits
big-bellied waving to the

Fags who see him as a
gross old Queen. My good friend
Jorge lopes in to drift among conversation and
beer. Marti Jo serves another pitcher.
She laughs cracked at our

bad jokes. The jukebox plays
old Rolling Stones and Lou Reed.
I stand without legs and float to the
intriguing bathroom. In the
morning the rest of the

evening will be

forgotten.

'Afternoons at the Village Cafe' by Jerry Kirk (Click to view larger)

My Favorite Music of 2010

2011-02-24T09:53:00.000-08:00

In my opinion 2010 was a really good year for Rock music, especially in the alternative and indie circles. What I liked in particular was that, for a lot of artists, there seemed to be a return to the concept of the 'album' rather than the 'single'. By this I mean that most of my favorite CD's were those where the songs were of a certain theme and the album was meant to be listened to beginning to end instead of it just being created around a few obvious singles and the rest filler. There is further proof of this in the fact that there were more vinyl LP's released last year to accompany CD's than have been in many years... and the vinyl actually sold well! There is nothing more satisfying than putting on a CD, (or album), and enjoying every song and knowing that they belong together, are part of a whole, are perhaps telling one story and in doing so making that particular CD something that aspires to true art. This aspiration to 'Art', to rise above mere 'Pop', are a common element among my top 10 favorite CD's...

1. 'The Suburbs' by Arcade Fire: The third full length CD by one of the best rock bands in the world is epic in scope and ambitious in structure. 'The Suburbs' is built around themes of childhood, alienation, longing and escape using songs that are anthemic and rocking juxtaposed with others that are quieter but no less intense. An instant classic that topped the year end list of most critics and, in a bit of an upset, won the grammy for Album of the Year, 'The Suburbs' is definitely meant to be taken as a whole and preferably listened to from start to finish as each song builds upon the last culminating in the masterful 'Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)'.

2. 'Halcyon Digest' by Deerhunter: By jettisoning a lot of the weirdness that made previous CD's hard for some listeners to get their heads around and introducing a more melodious side, Deerhunter have crafted a CD that is much more accessible without having to 'sell out'. Halcyon Digest is the sound of an innovative and creative rock band concentrating hard on making 'songs' rather than soundscapes and in doing so have produced a unique hybrid that owes as much to classic rock as it does to modern.

3. 'The Promise' by Bruce Springsteen: What a welcome gift to true fans of the Boss! Although all of the songs on this collection are at least 2 decades old they easily stand up to anything being recorded today and are much better than most. Outtakes from the 'Darkness on the Edge of Town' sessions, these gems showcase Bruce and his E-Street Band's 'pop' side in, (mostly), sunny, soul-inflected odes to the boardwalk, cars, and romance. Taken as a whole, this timeless group of songs form a complete album that ranks alongside Bruce's best.

4. 'High Violet' by The National: Built around Matt Berninger's deep, almost monotone voice, this Brooklyn band produce dark, impassioned, rainy day rock that speaks to the angst of every day life. 'High Violet' is their best CD and perhaps even a minor masterpiece. The album as a whole weaves a wonderful symphony of depression and includes the droning, fuzzy, 'Blood Buzz Ohio', the best rock single of the year.

5. 'Beach Fossils': This self-titled debut from the Brooklyn by way of Charlotte, NC band harkens back to early 80's college rock and reshapes that sound to fit their own bright but melancholy vibe. Dustin Payseur, lead singer, chief songwriter and all-around head honcho, is at the forefront of the 'lo-fi' movement and, in keeping with such, makes sure that the CD maintains the raw, under-produced quality identified with that sound. The end result is a spaced-out, blissful pop jewel where guitars chime amidst righteous melodies that float through your brain like aural candy.

6. 'Lungs' by Florence + the Machine: Though Florence Welch's debut CD is a 2009 release I didn't catch up to it until late 2010 and I'm thrilled that I did! Welchs' powerful vocals combined with great songwriting produces an eclectic sound that recalls both the melodic lushness of Kate Bush and the passionate, celtic howl of Sinead O'Connor. The big, catchy single, 'Dog Days Are Over' is easily one of the best songs of the year.

7. 'Sigh No More' by Mumford & Sons: Jamming mandolins, banjos and other assorted instruments of acoustic ilk combine to create a British version of American Bluegrass filtered through rock'n roll. Alternating between soft and loud, soulful and epic, these songs, performed by young, skilled musicians, are passionate, energetic and surprisingly commercial.

8. 'American Slang' by The Gaslight Anthem: Fired up, straight ahead guitars and drums rock'n roll performed by a Springsteen worshipping, Jersey band that is both old school and fresh at the same time. Nothing complicated here- just good old fashioned rock with a few, nice slow tunes thrown in to break up the pace. Best listened to loud on the car stereo while cruising down the highway.

9. 'The Age of Adz' by Sufjan Stevens: Sufjan continues to expand on an already expansive sound by leaving the dense orchestrations of earlier work behind for a suite of songs that rely heavily on electronics and studio tricks to tell the story. And there is a story, for this is definitely a concept album, but what the story is I have no idea. It doesn't matter, though, because the songs are beautifully strange and a listening pleasure. I've found that the album works best when listened to from beginning to end as they create a sumptuous symphony of contemporary, enigmatic and often bizarre sounds. 'Age of Adz' is, without a doubt, an album that defines the word 'challenging'.

10. 'No Better Than This' by John Mellencamp: Recorded in Mono using non-contemporary recording techniques in atypical places like old Churches and hotel rooms with famed producer T-Bone Burnett, Mellencamp has crafted a throwback album that could easily fit in with folk and country music recordings from the 1930's and 40's. The songs are all by Mellencamp, so, surprisingly, for an album striving to accurately capture the sound of old time Americana, there are no covers. But, nevertheless, the songs do capture the feel of that era and are all very well written, albeit with mostly downer themes of death, misery and woe-is-me. Backed by mostly, if not all, acoustic instruments, Mellencamp's voice sounds older and raspier, lending the music a real poignancy. An experiment that works, in large part due to Burnett's outstanding production, 'No Better Than This' proves to be one of John Mellencamp's more memorable releases.

OF GOD (I SAY THIS) - A Poem

2011-02-12T17:00:00.000-08:00

Of God I say this...

I choose not to seek him out
within the confines of a Church nor
adhere to the agenda of any
man-made religion.
I'm confident in the whereabouts of
my God. I feel him in the
hum
of my body as I
jog for health and in celebration of
this amazing vessel that plays host
to my soul.

I hear God clearly in the voice of Dylan
singing about the hour his ship will come in
and in the transcendent beauty of a
Mozart melody. Even more so
in the soft tinkling of my little girl's
fingers dancing playfully across
piano keys.

I do not see God
in the faces of so-called Christians
so quick to judge to profess such
desire for a life beyond this to
believe that there could actually be a hell.

I see God in the details;
in the flash of sunlight that
bursts
out between trees as I hike
deep woods, in the soft darkness of long
shadows and intwined somehow,
configured, within the mystery of all places
quiet.

I most certainly see God's handiwork,
(God the creator! God the artist!)
in the shifting white terrain of
clouds mountainous and majestic that

roll out the day beckoning me
into the vast blue horizon of
hope and promise that is my own personal

heaven.

© Jerry L. Kirk

'Here Where The Light Shines Bright' (Alaska) painting by Jerry L. Kirk

'Born to Run (A Revelation)'

2011-01-05T08:04:00.000-08:00

Click on the image to view larger

'SOLILOQUY' (A Wordless Poem)

2010-12-03T12:47:00.000-08:00

Click the image to view large...

'CUBICLE LIFE' (A Poem)

2010-11-23T18:24:00.000-08:00

Black sky cloudy mornings turbulent
mood swings looking out for myself
watching my back watching my tongue
black to purple tinted windows the
buzzing of my computer the humming
of fluorescent lights the inner workings
of the political machine phone rings

no message blank stares voices
in the air murmuring murmuring
the slow breathing of a long day
the self-portrait of a cookie-
cutter man head squeezed out of

a tight collar aching wrist watching
the clock tick tock tick tock
5 o'clock is

forever.

© Jerry Lee Kirk

'Cubicle Life' © Jerry Kirk

WHILE LISA SLEEPS (A poem - Originally published in MELTING THE SNOW Renaissance Poetry, 1992)

2010-11-20T17:20:00.000-08:00

Lights out except T.V.,
the strangest light.
Carpet is brown, walls
revealed. A playground
for the shadows. I have
tip-toed across this room

stared at your face
blue in the light.
A silent jewel wrapped
in sheets and sleep. I
have tickled your feet,
caressed soft legs while you

whine and smile
my touch creating
scenarios for your dreams.
The low whisper of television
is my soundtrack the
window a closed

eye. Maybe I am sleeping
and you are awake in some
reversed reality. Crazy thoughts
late at night.

©Jerry Lee Kirk
Originally published in MELTING THE SNOW
Renaissance Poetry, 1992

Continuing (A poem)

2010-11-16T06:46:00.000-08:00

27 years old, on a train, on the road, searching for my place in this world....

CONTINUING

I am I and mostly
an observer of
events transpiring
around me.

All is green and
beige kissed
with rich browns
caressed by creeks,
inlets and bays.
And I'm on a
mecca, a

meditation staring at
infinite sky.
How quiet,
untouched.
Virginia
was like this
once.

Suddenly
New York City.
The tall stain and
dirt
along the tracks.
This is gone land,
wronged land.
Believe in you and I.
And I'm on a
ghost ride, a
side step,
cruising
alternative waves
looking for a
home.

Somewhere in
New England
under
repetitiously grey
clouds in wet air
beneath
artificial light.
I see a building I
remember from a
dream but
I have never been here
before.

And I'm on a
mind tour a
soul rub,
an appraisal of
who I am. America
should know
I'm along just for
the ride.

© Jerry Lee Kirk

'Southern Cross in a Northern Sky' (Self-Portrait) • Pastel on paper • 1987

'ON RUNNING' - AN ESSAY

2010-11-12T19:10:00.000-08:00

I started running seriously at the age of twenty-five while living the bohemian life in Richmond, Virginia. I’d been on the track team in High School but had gotten away from running and working out all together in the years after. In Richmond, after years of abusing my body with some seriously hard partying, I felt the need to get back in shape. Running was the easiest way for me to accomplish that goal and one other; Since I had no car and almost everything that I needed could be found within a two mile radius of where I lived in the ‘Fan District’, running allowed me to get to my destinations faster than walking. I would strap on a backpack and take off from my apartment running to the grocery or bookstore or record store or often, when I couldn’t get a ride, even to the restaurant where I worked as a waiter. There are bars practically on every corner in the Fan District and, somewhat ironically, I would often run over to meet friends for drinks. Instead of running home from these particular trips I would more often than not stagger.

Running got me back in shape then and keeps me in shape to this day. It’s a great workout and the one that I truly enjoy. Even now, at 50, as my knees begin to cause me problems from all the pounding they’ve taken over the years, I continue to run – though the distance tends to be much shorter and the runs less frequent.

Running has also been a muse for my art. Nothing sparks my creativity more than a good run. When I jog ideas flow from my mind as if from a faucet turned on full. I needn’t be focused on any one specific thought to get my imagination going, images for paintings simply appear as do titles and themes and even poetry. Often I would arrive back home from a run and immediately seek out notebook and pen to write down the ideas before they were forgotten.

I got Lisa into running before we were married and in the years before Elly was born we would often run together. Even when running with her and conversing while doing so my mind would still produce images and ideas. Many times I would excitedly discuss these creative thoughts with Lisa while we ran. After we’d lived in Charlotte for a few years we began to enter local races just for fun. We still, when not out of town spending the Holiday with relatives, enjoy running South Charlotte’s Annual Thanksgiving Turkey Trot.

I took pride at being able, in my thirties to mid-forties, to take off for a quick 2 to 3 mile run at any given time, evening runs being my favorite. I have run religiously, almost every other day, for over 25 years now. I also began lifting weights while in the Air Force and have kept that up now into these middle age years. On the days I don’t run I usually lift, using the makeshift gym that I have now set up in my garage but managed to always find a place for no matter where we lived. Working out has helped to keep my mind alert and provided my body with the energy, (helped along by the half a pot of coffee I drink daily), to pursue a career as a painter even while holding down full-time jobs and maintaining the obligations and responsibilities of a married man living in the suburbs.

Running has been my outlet, my escape, and my shield against the encroachment of old age. Running has kept me feeling more than alive both mentally and physically. After all these years it has taken on an almost spiritual aspect for me. Aside from Art, the closest I feel to God is when I run. Each foot fall, every mile down is a celebration of this earthly vessel that has been provided for my soul.

Lisa and I have experienced great adventures running together; on back roads through the mountains of western North Carolina, along the beaches of the Outer Banks, on Military Bases from Mississippi to New York. Running is almost as much a part of me as painting. It saddens me to think, as my knees begin to go, that it won’t be long before I won’t be able to run at all. As I segue into the Elliptical machine and biking as replacements for running, I know that they won’t be the same. I won’t get the same rush. I always envisioned myself running with Elly as she got older but the sad realization is that probably won’t happen. What I’m experiencing now is the undeniable limitations of age and the reinforcement of a lesson that I’ve learned over the years – time is brutal.

Me and Boo at the Outer Banks

'WINTER (PLATTSBURGH, NY)' - A Poem

2010-11-09T18:26:00.000-08:00

Flakes as big as
a fist.

Dirty wet
almost rain.

The longest season is
the coldest.

Exiled in dark houses
daydreaming of nights
with the window open.

This town is so grim
when it snows.

© 1989 Jerry Kirk

Reflections on my Years in the Air Force (A 4 Part Poem)

2010-11-05T06:47:00.000-07:00

LACKLAND A.F.B.
(Basic Training)

The green
muddy green
repitition.
Wind blows sober across
infinite flat.

“Hut 2-3-4”
“Left, right, left.”
Hurry up and wait.
Mind games played on

a non-visual board.
Clones
marching without
identity without

personality. I
don’t want to shoot a gun.
I don’t want to give the
orders. I just want a job.

What's not green is
grey.
Redneck sergeants yell deep
in the

heart of texas. I
fold my underwear in
6” squares to better my position
in life. I chose this place because

I feel we all must do our time
in hell. Momma save me from
this Texas. Remembering
childhood remembering

my Art.

II.

BLUE LINE
(Lackland Air Force Base)

Everything in formation. The beds, the
lockers, the sinks, the marching. A
strange time zone. Days line up and fall
out one-by-one. Sunset in Texas is

God painting slow. Pure pink caresses
brilliant orange. I will never forget these
evenings. My eyes have seen to many. Dust
floats invisible and collects. My nose and

throat are always full. dorm boys brag loud
about cars and lie about sex. Among strangers
people can reinvent themselves. I tune them
out and turn on inside thinking about home

and women I have known. Suddenly an old
song plays on the radio and I want to be
in love again. Glad to be self-sufficient or
loneliness would waste me. I will put away

this pen to shine my boots and sweep the
floors. After lights out I will close my eyes
and remember. The guard will make his rounds
trying to be quiet but heavy in his step.
Day twenty-two will fall out.

III.

UPLOADIING BOMBS

(Plattsburgh AFB, NY)

Deep in the bowels
of this flightline are the
men, the lights, the hum
and the whirr;

the heartbeat of this
war game. I am
a sentinel of this dark
corner, far removed.

The closest plane is merely
lights playing off the wings
of a menacing shadow. A soulless
mass patient and dull.

My task is to walk this
line posing as a threat
to any not allowed to cross.
This is an
illusion.
I am only cold and
tired with an endless walk, a
heavy gun and a numbing
hate
for the hours left before I rest.

IV.

NIGHT MOODS

(Plattsburgh AFB, NY)

I.

Its raining
and I’m thinking of
death. Everything falls
down,
down.

Airplanes blast
the sky day and
night. In between
trees is
black.

I walk into the forest
seeking the void but
the shadows give way
to light.

I don’t want to be
here at the edge
of the world. This
little room,

mindless T.V.
I am less now
than I ever was
and I’m forced to look

at nothing to see.

II.

Imagine
a slow roar
just beyond the trees.
Thick in its noise
gently vibrating the window glass.

My cup
sweats, leaving water drops
quietly dancing on the table.
Building,
climbing,
higher,
louder.

Now
an electric scream.
The table shakes,
my cup falls.
Reflections vibrate in the mirror.

This space is in a moan.
It rips the air,
brings a man to his knees,
then fades away.

Chaos
stops for stillness
in the soft after.

III.

Outside. The dull thud
of heavy steps on
a thin green carpet. Running
fast looking up at the black

velvet pin-pricked
with lights and a
blue moon cushion. Running hard,
almost falling. Like vertigo. Sweat

invades my eyes so
I close them tight and
watch bright flashes dance
through darkness as I scream my
mind to the
holy night. Shadows collect
thoughts set free. This is
a bargain with Jehovah. This is

the value of
me. The night was
not so still until I
noticed. Wind is a quiet breath

seducing me. Romance
and wonder in the evenings.
Mornings are too revealing.
Sunlight it to

transparent.

©Jerry Lee Kirk

'TEENAGE ANGST' A Poem and a Drawing

2010-10-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

In that damned bleak landscape
of suburban malaise
I used to sit on the edge of my
bed in a house filled with
shadows and

SCREAM SO LOUD

no one could hear.

So loud the echo would
bounce off the wall and
smash me in the gut.

Screaming in desperation
for a freedom still
so many years away.

'Self Portrait with Exploding Angst' 1986

MY YEAR AS A CELEBRITY CARTOONIST

2010-10-04T05:49:00.001-07:00

CARTOON CELEBRITY

I sat bored and anxious at my desk in the cramped, little cubicle by the back door of the ‘Globe and Advertiser Newspaper’ offices. My partner and I had finished dropping off our bundles and now waited for the inevitable calls from both carriers and customers about missing or undelivered papers or missing inserts or sections. It was 1978, I was 4 months graduated from High School and experiencing my first foray into full-time work. As a ‘Distribution Manager’, (a glorified title if ever there was), my job consisted primarily of loading dozens of tied bundles of newspapers onto a van, delivering the bundles to the houses of individual carriers and then spending the rest of the day delivering any missing papers or parts of papers to whomever called with a complaint and trouble shooting any other related problems. I did these particular tasks once a week with my partner on the day the paper was printed- known by everyone who worked there as ‘Print day’. Print day was long, arduous, taxed my back and made me often think that I should get smart and find a way to go to college. Of course print day was actually the lesser evil. What really made the day hell to get through was the night prior to Print Day. That night was spent in the dark, grimy, loud pressroom, pulling heavy stacks of freshly printed papers off the conveyor, bundling and then piling them by the dock doors. Print night often went very late due to persistent problems with the presses and on most of these nights I would not get home until well after midnight only to return at daybreak on ‘Print Day’ to get the bundles out to the carriers so each paper could be delivered by noon. Truth be told, some of the fatigue of Print Day was brought on by myself and could have been avoided; During one or more of our breaks on print night, (usually when the presses were shut down due to paper jams or ink was being loaded), I would sneak off outside behind the building to smoke a joint with several of the workers. Pressmen were always high and had the best weed. Hell, it was the 70’s; everyone was high!

Working stoned broke up the monotony for all of us and allowed my mind to wander into daydreams about my future as a serious artist, something I was convinced I was destined for. This was all before the ‘pot paranoia’ would kick in to ruin the fun and return the rest of the night to the grind that it actually was. This combination of partying and working always left me totally exhausted the next day. Luckily nothing of this job required much brainpower, so as long as I could get myself out of bed and to work on time, I could pretty much just put myself on autopilot and cruise through the day- no matter how out of it I felt.

The rest of the workweek, after ‘Print Day’, was spent with not much to do. Different departments would borrow me for help with this or that or I would be on the phone or on the road trying to recruit new carriers. It never really amounted to a full 40 hours since I was paid by the hour and the boss would send me home once I’d exhausted all options for keeping myself busy, which almost always fell well short of the 40 hour mark.

As I sat at my desk on this particular day, I alleviated my anxiousness by doodling. This was something I often did when there was nothing else to occupy my time; sketching out little cartoons of superheroes or strange creatures, caricatures of my fellow workers and whatever else came to my fertile imagination. I used the doodles to decorate my cubicle, hanging the scraps of paper on the walls with clear tape. The back door of the building was where most employees entered since it was closest to the parking lot and once through those doors anyone entering had to pass by my cubicle to continue into the main work areas. This included the newspaper’s Editor, Jim, (or John, I can’t remember which it was), who on most days would stride by without glancing into any of the cubicles on this end of the hallway. He seemed to have little interest in Distribution Managers or pressmen or laborers of any sort and made it quickly through this part of the building, eyes forward, as if wearing invisible blinders. Hell, on the mornings I happened to be standing in the hall or found myself walking directly towards him I was lucky to get a nod. I was sure he didn’t know who I was and that he could’ve cared less. On this day, however, as I doodled, oblivious to anything going on around me, Jim or John did pause on his way in. He paused as something in my space caught the corner of his eye and then he did the unthinkable- he looked in. “Did you draw these”? He asked. I turned reluctantly from my current sketch to face my inquisitor. Jim John was what would be considered boyishly handsome- youngish looking, tall with dark, wavy hair. Most of the women in the building got weak-kneed in his presence and I once heard his looks compared to those of the movie star, Warren Beatty. I just found him to be a bit puffy looking with sloped shoulders. Jealousy no doubt factored a bit into my perception.

“Yep”, I replied, feeling a little unsure and even suspicious as to the reason for his question. Was I about to be fired for doodling on the job? He leaned further into my workspace without actually taking a step in, carefully studying each drawing. Then, without ever actually looking at me, he said, “I’ll be back”, and was gone.

A moment later he was back and with him was Alan, the Assistant Editor. They both stepped into my cubicle and, ignoring me, began studying the drawings. “Well, what do you think?” Jim John the Editor asked. “These are great” responded Alan. They both turned to me. “Jerry, is it?” asked Alan. I nodded. “Jerry, have you ever done any drawing professionally?” “Um… no. I only graduated from High School last June. I’ve just always drawn”. The Editor finally looked at me and said, “The Editorial Cartoonist quit yesterday and we need a cartoon for this weeks paper. Do you think you could draw one for us? We’ll pay you seventy-five bucks for it”. I sat straight up in my chair, obviously excited. “Sure, no problem. I can do it!”

“Great!” said Alan, as he and Jim John stepped back into the hallway. “Meet me in my Office in 30 minutes and we’ll knock around some ideas”.

“Oh my God”, I thought, “This is incredible!” I didn’t even care about the extra money. I would’ve done the cartoon for free. It was the chance to get my art published that excited me. Discounting cartoons in the High School newspaper and drawings in the yearbook, I’d never had my work printed in a real publication. I thought this to be a dream come true for a fledgling young artist.

Exactly 30 very long minutes later I met with Alan and, instead of any ideas being “knocked around”, he pretty much just told me what to draw. I was fine with that. The Globe was a newspaper for and about the Northern Virginia area and the Editorial Cartoons focused mostly on local politics and government issues. I was not into politics or issues of any kind then, local or otherwise, so was happy not be asked for input.

The Editorial commentary that week, (written by Alan, as they usually were), was about inspectors not being able to do their jobs properly on building sites around the area. I don’t remember exactly why the inspectors weren’t being allowed but it was apparently leading to accidents during and after construction and was quite the local controversy. My cartoon, which I rendered with a sharpie marker and labored on for no more than a couple of hours that very night, depicted one such inspector at a construction site. He had a zipper across his mouth and was flailing his arms madly in an attempt to warn an unsuspecting hard-hat worker that he was about to be crushed by a huge piece of scaffolding plummeting down from the sky. I don’t recall what the punch line written across the bottom of the cartoon was, but I felt like the image accurately conveyed the story.

The very next morning I brought the finished cartoon in to Alan’s office and both Alan and the Editor loved it. Alan in particular was excited because it was the exact image he had in mind. I got the feeling that the previous cartoonist, being older and a pro, had no problem coming up with his own ideas and that this was really the first time Alan had been able to contribute so much; both story and cartoon- even if it was actually drawn by someone else.

The rest of the Editorial staff seemed equally impressed and before long copies of the cartoon were being passed around the building for all to see. I was congratulated and patted on the back everywhere I went. My youthfulness was serving me well; I felt like the new boy wonder. My pals in distribution and the pressroom were totally blown away and acted as if I’d achieved some sort of miracle – mingling with the ‘suits’ and actually having a face-to-face with the Editor. I had crossed over from the shadows into the light. Many of them had worked at the paper since it’s inception and had never had one word with the Editor or anyone on the Editorial staff. I actually thought that to be ridiculous considering how small the building was and how few people were actually employed there, but human nature being what it is, even at a small local newspaper there was an invisible line dividing the workers from management.

My distribution partner told me, “This is it. You’ll be out of this department and working with the big boys in no time!” I told him he was crazy but, in truth, the only thing crazy was how right he was.

Before the cartoon was even published Alan and the Editor called me back in for a meeting and asked me if I wanted to be the permanent Cartoonist. Knowing that one of the reasons they were so hot to get me for the job was that they wouldn’t have to pay me nearly as much as they paid the previous guy; I decided to seize the moment and use it to my advantage. I explained that, of course I wanted to be the Cartoonist, but I actually had even more to offer. I told them that if I was working full-time in the Production Department instead of Distribution I would be available to do any other illustrations needed for advertisements, stories, whatever. These types of illustrations were usually farmed out to freelancers for significant dollars. If I was working in Production at my own drafting table I would be able to do them as a regular part of my job and salary. The Editorial cartoon would still cost them extra, though. Jim John saw the logic in my words but questioned whether I could draw anything other than cartoons and I assured him that indeed I could. I knew that what I was offering made good sense from a business point-of-view, but I also had the feeling that both the Editor and Alan would rather have their Cartoonist working on their side of the building rather than down in distribution with the grunts. The Manager of the Production Department was invited into the meeting. The Manager was a short, manly sort of woman who wore dark pantsuits, glasses and kept her hair very short. Her demeanor was gruff and professional but I could tell right away that a lot of this was just a front; probably her way of dealing with being a woman in an environment ruled predominantly by men.

The Editor asked her if she could use me in her department. She had seen and been impressed by the cartoon and so her interest was piqued. She asked me about my background and I explained that I’d taken all the Art classes available in High School, been voted my graduating classes’ ‘Most Artistic’ and that being a professional Artist was my only goal in life. That was all I had to offer her – I really didn’t have much of a portfolio or resume to show at the time.

She told the Editor that she would give me a shot and lo and behold that was it! The entire meeting lasted less than an hour and in that short time my world was completely changed. The situation was explained to my current boss in distribution and I gave him a proper 2-week notice to find my replacement before I began my new position as Paste-up Artist and illustrator in the Production Department’s Composition Room.

Working in Production was a dream come true and really my ultimate goal when I originally applied to work at the paper. I was one of only 2 males among a pool of about 15 workers. In addition to Composition, Production included Proof Readers, Typists and the Camera Room. The other male was a tall, lanky, laid-back Proof Reader named Dave, who was married. Most of the women were older and also married, but there were a few close to my age and some very cute. The Production Department was large and centrally located in the building, close to both the Editorial offices and the Distribution cubicles, so I could easily visit with my old buddies. Each Paste-up Artist had a drafting table with the appropriate supplies. These were big, wooden tables with individual lights and still the best drafting table I’ve ever worked at. Since the tables also served as the Artist’s desk, each was adorned with personal items unique to the owner. I quickly set about hanging cartoons and drawings on mine so any visitors would immediately identify me as THE ‘Artist’. I really didn’t have to worry about trying to make myself stand out from the group. It was amazing how quickly my ‘fame’ spread. Again, this was a by-product of my youth. Most Cartoonists and Illustrators for the paper were older, educated professionals. I was a greenhorn straight out of High School with no experience under my belt, and this automatically made me unique and interesting.

I liked my new position right away and quickly became friends with fellow Artists. In my first few weeks of work I was being asked to lunch and invited to parties by different coworkers. The girls in the typing pool, (who typed the stories that were then transferred into film canisters which, once developed, were passed on to our department where we would cut, wax and lay them out on page mock-ups), began visiting my desk and before long I was going out with a dark-haired beauty named Jennie. Our dating was in no way exclusive because I also had the hots for Stephanie, who was about 3 years older than me and worked in the camera room. Besides, Jennie was a true pothead and stoned 90% of the time. She would get stoned before and after work and even during her lunch break. This made her a dull conversationalist, to say the least, and in the end looks can only take you so far. If it wasn’t pot she was smoking it was cigarettes, mostly in attempt to hide the smell of the pot. I soured on her pretty quick.

Stephanie, on the other hand, did not get high and was almost too straight. She and I would visit each other in our respective work areas often throughout the day and the flirting between us was ridiculous. Eventually we hooked up at a party thrown by her and spent a very nice night together.

All of this fraternizing eventually led to my boss calling me into her office with a stern warning about the very thing. She was concerned about a noticeable drop in the department’s productivity and blamed it on all the socializing going on. She made no bones about me being the catalyst for this problem and advised that it would be a smart idea for me to cool it. I knew, though, that in truth both the boss and the older ladies in Composition got a kick out of having a young man working in the group. I brought an entirely different element to the normal work scenario and enjoyed making them all laugh. They liked having me around. Plus, they thought it was so funny how the younger girls in the building would visit at my table or get together in the break-room to gossip about me. In those days, (before my hair began falling out), I was still considered ‘cute’ by girls and my immaturity allowed for a certain amount of boyish charm. It was like High School all over again with the added benefit of not having any other guys around to compete with for the girls. I was having way too much fun for any of this to be considered a ‘job’.

It was, however, a job, and a fairly easy one. In those days, before the advent of the computer and desktop publishing, newspaper and magazine layout was done completely by hand. The tools of the trade consisted of an exacto knife, ruler and hot wax machine. Our job in composition was to paste-up ads and layout the paper. The material for the ads was provided by the Sales Department, delivered in manila folders. We would paste down the individual elements on layout sheets using the wax and following the guidelines of the printed specs, which were included in the folder. These assembled ads were then placed on the appropriate pages of the actual newspaper layout. We would follow the same process with articles, stories, classifieds and all parts of the paper. The finished pages would then be delivered to the camera room where Stephanie would photograph them using a large stat camera. The negatives would then be transformed into plates ready for printing.

A separate newspaper called ‘The Antiques Observer’ was also printed in the building. This smaller paper was aimed at the burgeoning Collectible Antiques market and was owned by the same publishers. ‘The Antiques Observer’ relied on quiet a bit of illustration to enhance articles and advertisements and so I was able to put my drawing skill to work both for them and the Globe. After a few months of doing both illustrations and the Editorial Cartoons, the paper began to receive some fan mail directed at my work. The Editors published a few of these and my local celebrity spread out more from coworkers and family to friends. All of my close High School friends were away at College when all of this began, but their parents would show them copies of my cartoons and the fan letters. When my friends returned home during College breaks we would all get together and they would tell my how ‘cool’ it was that I was doing so well while they were busting their butts in school in hope of getting good jobs after. While I was basking in the compliments and enjoying their attention, I also knew that being an Artist at a small, local paper was not that big of a deal. This job was but a small stepping-stone in the long process of building an actual career as a professional Artist. I knew that I would need some schooling along the way to really get ahead. In the meantime, I was digging the perks.

I received a pay raise after transferring to Production and that, combined with the extra money for the Editorial Cartoons, significantly improved my standard of living. The fact that I still lived with my parents and didn’t have any real expenses like rent or groceries or utility bills also helped. One of the first things I did with my new money, (and something that helped fortify the image of me being the ‘successful’ Artist in my friends eye’s), was trade in my Old Ford Fairlane for a new, silver Chevy Trans-Am. The Fairlane was my first car and had been the catalyst for many adventures over the years and so was hard to let go of, but the beauty and sheer ‘coolness’ of the new Trans made the trade easier.

I was into music at the time, (still am), and spent a lot of money on cassettes. I would pop Led Zeppelin or the Stones or George Thorogood into the 8-track player and hit the road rockin’. That car, and the job, made me feel like Hot Shit.

I also had more money to spend for nights out barhopping in Georgetown and my wardrobe stepped up from old jeans and izod shirts to flared slacks and button down shirts. I even wore a tie to work on occasion. I also began eating my lunches out every day at local diners and fast food joints instead of brown bagging it like I’d done before.

The newspaper had always allowed visits by teachers and students from area schools and suddenly my desk became the focal point during these field trips. All of the kids wanted to meet the ‘Artist’ and I would find myself besieged by students asking questions about my drawing techniques and some even wanting my autograph! I began to Xerox my cartoons and would keep a stack on hand so that when the field trips would come through I could sign and hand them out to any interested students.

On several occasions Alan would send me out to the Fairfax County Courthouse to render sketches of trial participants that would be used in related Cartoons. No matter how discreet I tried to be while doing my job, the Court House trips would almost always attract unwelcome attention. Curious onlookers would often crowd beside and behind me on the benches to get a peek at what I was drawing. Trouble came on one visit when a group of cub scouts, fascinated with my work and watching me draw, starting to ask questions loudly. The Judge stopped the courtroom proceedings to shush them and they were quiet for a few moments, but, being kids, their excitement overtook them and the noise began again. I guess the Judge saw more value in having cub scouts experience the Courtroom process rather than having some Artist drawing pictures and so I was asked to leave. Embarrassed by being singled out in a packed courtroom, my revenge was to make the slim Judge look fat in the finished cartoon.

As much as I loved my life and job at that time, all good things usually come to an end, and so they did for me. Only one and a half years after starting my position as Editorial Cartoonist and Paste-up Artist, the Globe was bought out by a larger weekly paper, The Journal, and shut down. Everyone knew that the paper had been in a constant struggle to stay afloat for years, and towards the end all of us workers heard rumblings that something was going on but no one suspected anything so dire as what came to be. Some of the Editorial Staff was retained by the Journal but the rest of us were let go without so much as a thank you. My days as the Celebrity Cartoonist were over. Years later, living in Charlotte, my art would again bring me celebrity and notoriety on a local level, but they would not come with the same carefree, youthful swagger as my days at the Northern Virginia Globe and Advertiser Newspapers.

A month after the Globe’s closing I managed to land a job across town at the nations oldest weekly newspaper at the time, the Alexandria Gazette. My new position was ‘Stat Camera Operator’; not as glamorous as Editorial Cartoonist, but at least I could make the payments on my Trans Am. While working in Production at the Globe I had frequently assisted Stephanie in the Camera Room and knew well how to work the Stat Camera and develop negatives. This experience got me the job at the Gazette.

There were distinct differences between my old job at the Globe and the new one. At the Globe I ambled casually into work by 9AM and took my comfy seat at a fabulous drawing table in a well-lit room filled with women. At the Gazette I was required to be there by 6AM and I worked alone in a small, dark room filled with containers of smelly chemicals deep in the bowels of an old, brick building. At the Globe everyone knew my name and I had many friends. At the Gazette no one knew who I was and I was lucky if I saw 4 or 5 people total during my workday. Given this turn of events, again my thoughts turned to College. This time, however, I put those thoughts to action and sent out applications. Six months after beginning my new job at the Gazette I was accepted into the Art program at Shepherd College in the beautiful mountains of West Virginia. I quit the Gazette, sold my Trans Am to my brother and set off again to draw pictures and chase pretty women. The difference this time was that no one was paying me to do it, (in fact I had to take out a loan for the privilege), and there would be no celebrity perks as I became just one among hundreds of both talented and not-so-talented Artists.

FROM BEHIND THE WALL (A poem)

2010-09-22T13:02:00.000-07:00

In the wake of your
   departure
I sleep with fleas. Gifts
left by the cats to keep me from
being lonely.

And when I wake I
rise and walk on bended knees
dragging feet behind in avoidance
of mirrors and so that I may know well
my place in life. Out

in the real world I
face co-workers and strangers
from behind the wall that I have
been erecting since I can remember. Not
of bricks and cement but fear

and anger and self-consciousness
and shyness and doubt. Harder to penetrate
this wall for both myself and others.

Alone behind the wall, my prison.
Alone among my peers and along the
crowded street. Alone and drifting
   drifting
waiting (knowing)
someone will reach out to me as I float by and
pull me in.

This then is my life
today although perhaps not so
tomorrow. At night when I return to
bed my sleep is easy for I have come to believe
that I am sharing my bed with friends.

With every bite and
itch and scratch I'm reminded
of
   you.

© 1996 Jerry Lee Kirk

'Unafraid' • acrylic on masonite • 24" x 48" • 1999

THE (GALLERY) CRAWL - a poem

2010-09-06T21:11:00.000-07:00

THE CRAWL
(A Lamentation For The Loss of My Elegant Muse)

I don’t want to start over
with someone else but its not about
what I want. 35 years old and I’m still
crawling from the wreckage,
disillusioned, seeking redemption,
hiding behind a mask.

Southern summers weigh me down.
Heavy air clings like a second skin. Along
North Davidson Street the smell of sausages frying
wafts in the blue smoke from the vendors cart.

The kinetic beat of a hundred
drums collide with the jagged
rhythm of rock/reggae/jazz bands. I come
here to forget, to indulge mydenial

but I have become the walking
dead among jubilant life. Fading into
shadows, squinting at faces blurring
into lights. A kaleidoscope of eyes and smiles
and colors. Unfocused and jumpy, like watching
a movie through a bad projector.

I enter Pats Bar. A zombie seeking
solace and beer. Within the realized
haze a crowd congests; a virus of noisy poseurs
soaking in the atmosphere recalling bohemian youth
that never was. Regulars sit quiet and resigned in

the corner. I leave not as Zombie but
as car moving quickly through heavy fog,
no lights on hoping for acrash. In the gallery watching people

ignoring art. More pretenders
so concerned with how they look,
who they're with, and what they say.
I long for the paintings to reach out and

suck

these people into the pictures,
forcing their attention consuming
them with the better idea giving their lives
validity. But I am only raging at other things
like my own lack of purpose and, of course, her.

Its bad enough that she left me,
worse were the excuses. Simpler to have
admitted the need was gone, stating the obvious.
A cool breeze knifes through
the heavy air subtle in its approach
delicate in its touch. I momentarily remove my
mask

and breath deep the days
final gift, grateful for the night
and the darkness it brings. Gathering
myself together I then move on, the
walking dead among jubilant
life.

TRAIN (A POEM)

2010-09-01T20:27:00.000-07:00

Coiled lovers
drifting into one sleep
fearful of losing each other in
separate dreams.

These are inward days.
Who have I loved besides myself?
Thoughts of conquered flesh
faces forgotten.

Something about wallpaper bothers me.

My mind is a strange host.
These thoughts are of it.
My body is merely a housing unit
to be maintained.

Television in the early morning hours is surreal.

Think about framed pictures and
the worlds they contain. You realize
I laugh at all of this
but

sometimes it does seem important.

© 1991 Jerry Lee Kirk
Originally published in C magazine
(Cultural Crossroads of Art & Music)
Vol. 1, No. 1, 1995

I SAT THINKING WITH A NAIL IN MY MOUTH (a poem)

2010-08-30T19:10:00.000-07:00

I sat thinking with a nail in my mouth...

flipping, twirling, caressing its sharp
tip with my tongue wondering
what if I swallowed?

A premeditated accident. Would I
die? Would I suffer? Would it
puncture my intestines
or even my stomach?

(Or merely make for a painful bowel movement?)

I sat thinking with a nail in my mouth.
Unconsciously placed there, nervously
prolonged there. Tasting the
metal, courting the danger.

This for me is life on the edge.

© 1992 Jerry Lee Kirk
Originally published in
THE CHARLOTTE POETRY REVIEW
VOL. 1, NO. 4, APRIL 1992

WHY I LEFT CALIFORNIA (A POEM)

2010-08-13T11:09:00.001-07:00

WHY I LEFT CALIFORNIA

Down, down
the steep hill running
parallel to the ground. Flying

falling into a sand cushion.
Palm trees hovered, leaves flapping
like great flags over the cliff’s edge.
The salty spray licked my face just enough
to annoy. Looking towards the sea I watched

the night water. It seemed to
drift out into space, only to return
pouring out of darkness, an angry beast
gnawing at the beach. The sky was heavy and
black. Foam-tipped waves rose up and kissed

the vague horizon.
Loudly they crashed
against rocks, caressed the shore.

I stood transfixed for what seemed
infinity's yawn; feeling all to mortal. The
loneliness was devastating. Mike was laughing. He
didn’t care, too busy acting out some strange drama
in his head. The storm rolled in, buoyed on

by its herald, the angry beast.
Purple clouds wrestled for position. The
wind mocked. Salty licks were now stinging
bites. Silent I was the observer, determined that
I was in the middle of a vortex witnessing the conclusion

of everything. Still
Mike laughed, wading out to
the rocks, ignoring the beast,

welcoming the rain. No doubt thinking
himself a God of Thunder. Further down,
a dead sea-lion graced the shore. It was blue
and thick, choked by seaweed, a gift to the flies.
Laying back I opened my mouth to the storms offering.

I thought about houses on hills
and earthquakes. Endless days of damned
sunshine and seeing Jane Fonda at the grocery store.
If California had fallen into the ocean at that moment
I would have died in the company of a madman;

another victim of the beast.

CATCH UP WITH YOU

2010-08-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

The landscape of backyards,
hedgerows and house
after house. Run, run over
cement, lawn and

fence. Absolute boys swift
as time. Tree-house clubs,
bicycles and secrets. We were
baseball brats, middle-class Knights.

The neighborhood was our kingdom
and across the highway lie
forbidden lands. Every path
we knew. The forest was our

sanctuary. Everything could
be conquered with no
concept of tomorrow. The
mystery of girls and the haunting

of the night. Run, run
through dusk woods
screaming for the shadows,
leaping wide creeks,

afraid of everything but life
and life was perfect. Discovering
rock’n roll. Comic books and movies.
Seems like the older I got

the more television I watched.
The harder it gets to remember.

2010-08-07T13:30:00.000-07:00

HAND OVER BALLS

Yes
we do
drift ridiculous
within each other.

I know
myself to be
wwwwwwww wringing
pieces of me

from you.
My hands twist and
bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbend
until you are

limp
and ragged.
The soul
you stole lies

naked and
dirty upon the
ffffffffffffffffffffffffloor.
Drunks and happy

couples trip
over the pieces
ssssssssssssssscattering
me towards the

exit
to be
revealed on
the street in

the light.

Originally published in THE CHARLOTTE POETRY REVIEW
VOL. 1, NO. 6, JUNE 1992

2010-08-06T13:37:00.000-07:00

COYOTES

Coyotes bark on the lawn outside my  daughter's bedroom window.

She sleeps.
My wife sleeps.
I lie awake and
listen.

In the grocery store at
the bank on the sidewalk
coyotes nip
when they draw blood.

No one notices.

When I was young
I would chase the coyotes
wrestle
them to the ground and 
laugh into their dead-eyed

stares. They learned to
keep their distance. Now
and with each passing year
it seems they grow bigger even

as I become smaller.

Elly My daughter
with the  beautiful
naiveté of a 2 year
old calls all things frightening
"scary wows".

She of course
has no idea how  scary
the world really is.
Coyotes wait patient to
begin her education.

My wife and I will
teach her the proper weapons
needed to keep them at bay;
open-mindedness, honesty

and a small dose of cynicism.
She will learn to especially beware
the coyotes in dark suits who
present themselves with

handshakes and a smile.
Perhaps eventually she
to will wrestle them to the
ground and laugh into their
dead-eyed stares.

In the pale glow
of the big moon hug
outside our yellow house our
safe-house built with love even

desperation, coyotes
prowl skinny with menace
scavenging for souls hungry for
fresh meat.

Behind closed doors I
remain ever vigilant guarding
our house with resolve and foresight
strengthened
by the knowledge of how

coyotes corrupt how
the world corrupts despairing
at the realization that
to save the innocent from evil they must first be
made aware that it exists. OH

that I could keep  my Elly 2 forever.

2010-08-04T16:12:00.000-07:00

A DREAM INTERRUPTED

NoDa: Past, Present and Future

‘I Awoke and Yet Continued to Dream’ – Max Beckmann

`NoDa’ is a place. Just 2 miles outside of the uptown area, it is located on the north side of Charlotte along the North Davidson Street corridor. Its exact location used to be easier to pinpoint- North Davidson Street between 34^th and 36^th, to be precise. Those borders have now been expanded out to include almost all of North Charlotte, beginning at N. Davidson and 12^th and stretching all the way to N.Tryon as new developments label themselves NoDa, with the blocks between 34^th and 36^th remaining the hub. It is a residential neighborhood that includes condos, apartments, town homes, new and older single and multiple family homes. It is also known as an Art District because of the few galleries that exist and the monthly ‘Gallery Crawl’ event that takes place on its streets. It is an area that has been designated by the city as ‘historic’.

‘NoDa’ is also a dream; a dream that all cities have, albeit with different names or no name at all. It is the dream of artists and those who appreciate art to have a place of their own, a community that supports and fosters their talents and desires; a place where the artists can both live and work. In some cities, mostly older and larger, it is a dream realized. For New York it became Soho, Chelsea and other areas. In Boston it’s ‘SOWA’. In Chicago and Philadelphia there is no fancy moniker, they simply refer to it as ‘The Art District’. The dream of ‘NoDa’ is a work in progress, not yet fully realized, but one that many residents and local groups are working hard to bring to fruition.

The acronym ‘NoDa’ can stand for both ‘North Davidson Street Artists’ and, more simply, ‘North Davidson Street’. It was coined by a group of furniture designers with offices in the neighborhood back in the very early 90’s and then picked up by the Artists Group, ‘Friends of Van Gogh’, (of which I was a proud member), who began promoting it as the official name for the district. However, it really wasn’t until the Real Estate Developers swooped in and began buying up property in 2000 and used the name to hype and sell their condos and retail spaces that ‘NoDa’ really became the officially recognized title for North Charlotte.

PAST

Way back in the early 1900’s, long before it was called ‘NoDa’, North Charlotte was a self-contained industrial district that was the center of Charlotte’s burgeoning textile industry. Large state-of-the-art Mills hummed with activity, (the first being the ‘Highland Manufacturing Company’), developing textiles and employing hundreds. To house all of these workers, a village was created around the mills that included homes and several small businesses to accommodate the residents. By 1929, the 2-block commercial district, (and future hub of NoDa), included Hand’s Pharmacy, (now Cabo Fish Taco), a barbershop, drug store, and several small grocery stores. Over the years, as the textile industry grew, more businesses popped up along 36^th Street, including the Astor Theater, (now called ‘The Neighborhood Theater’), and, on North Davidson Street between 35^th and 36^th, the Fire Department opened Engine #7, which still functions today and is an historical landmark. In 1951 a large, brick community center was built, which would eventually become the North Charlotte Branch YMCA. The village was alive with prosperity and a vital link to Charlotte proper.

Unfortunately, all good things usually come to an end, and problems started for North Charlotte when the city began quitting Textiles on its way to becoming a capitol of banking. In 1975 Johnson Mill, the last local mill in operation, closed its doors, signaling the end of North Charlotte’s growth. Shortly after that the area fell into abject poverty as the buildings began to crumble and crime took over. All but forgotten by the rest of Charlotte, North Charlotte would remain in a state of limbo until 1986. That was the year Ruth Ava Lyons and Paul Sires moved into the neighborhood.

Recent transplants to Charlotte, the married couple were working artists in need of Studio space.

Looking to buy, not rent, but having little money to spend, they settled on the relatively inexpensive North Davidson Street, purchasing the Lowder Building with its 4 storefronts nestled between 35^th and 36^th Streets and next to the Firehouse. They would eventually become serious real estate investors, buying more property throughout the area including several houses, one of which they lived in on East 35^th street. After much renovation, the back area of the Lowder Building became their working studios and the front was opened to the public in 1989 as ‘Center of the Earth Gallery and Studios’, the flagship art gallery of NoDa. Along with their own gallery, Ruth and Paul rented out the space next door to a trio of talented Appalachian State Art students who opened it as Rococo Fish, a short-lived but fondly remembered gallery of avant-garde flavorings and creative openings.

It was slow going for the 2 galleries at first, trying to attract patrons and other artists, and the initial gallery crawls consisted of only a few dozen curious visitors and hardcore art lovers. That part of North Charlotte was still viewed as dangerous and not a particularly good place to be at night. It was clear that the area would have to be cleaned up and the crime problem dealt with before it would become attractive to other businesses and be a place that people wanted to visit or even live. This was paramount for Ruth and Paul to realize their dream of an art community and to have their own real estate investments pay off. The duo forced it upon themselves to become community activists, lobbying the city for help and working hard to restore the neighborhood. Although slow, progress was made, and help did arrive in the summer of 1991 in the unlikely form of that motley group of dysfunctional artists who called themselves ‘The Friends of Van Gogh’. Led by a used car salesman named Terry Carano, the group rented out the 2 vacant storefronts on both sides of ‘Pat’s Time for One More’ Bar directly across from Center of the Earth and opened the galleries, ‘Absinthe’ and ‘Acanthus’. These would later change ownership after Terry’s departure and be renamed, ’23 Studio’ and ‘Wrightnow Gallery’. History shows that Ruth and Paul were the first pioneers and the visionaries who got the ball rolling, but it was ‘The Friends’ who snatched it up and ran. With Pat’s Bar as their anchor, (the owner, Pat Nevitte, owned the entire building that housed both galleries and was very supportive of the artists), The Friends of Van Gogh galleries offered an eclectic collection of art of various skill levels and a funky, bohemian vibe that permeated the street. They built a makeshift stage behind Acanthus and invited bands and musicians of all types to play. Beer sold in Pat’s was allowed in the galleries and out back in the stage area. Terry invited a local hot dog vendor to set up his stand in front of the galleries during crawls and the wafting, delectable smell of grilled bratwurst and dogs soon became a familiar and welcome sensation on the street. Seating areas in the galleries allowed for people to hang out, drink beer and talk about art or whatever. It was casual, comfortable and inviting; nothing like the more upscale and uptight galleries in town. While Center of the Earth and Rococo Fish exhibited some of the best art in the area and earned respect and appreciation from the media and serious art patrons, The Friends of Van Gogh put on a spectacle that was hard to ignore. By late fall of 1991, using a guerilla marketing campaign and one of the artists vans as a shuttle offering free rides to the Art District from the city, ‘The Friends’ had stolen the gallery crawl from uptown and the first Fridays went from a few dozen patrons to hundreds. Center of the Earth was a necessary stop when doing the crawl to peruse tasteful and contemporary artwork, but their doors were closed by 9:30 and after that Absinthe, Acanthus and Rococo became the places to hang out and party.

With the crawls in full swing and the crime being slowly beaten back, more businesses began to open and artists to slowly move in. Art Educator Betsy Bilger opened ‘Ruby’s Java Joint’ between 34th and 35th, arguably the best coffee house ever in Charlotte. ‘Barberia’s’ switched from a private bar to public offering an alternative watering hole to Pat’s. ‘New Waves of Joy’, a cool little shop that sold used retro items opened beside Absinthe. Street musicians began to appear and by the summer of ’92 the famous drum circle had taken up residence at the corner of 35^th, inviting anyone to participate and drawing large crowds. Poetry readings and ‘happenings’, such as the anything-goes ‘Psychokinetic Event’, were being held inside the galleries and Pat’s. Soon the Charlotte Observer and Creative Loafing took full notice and began writing about NoDa on a regular basis. Even the local news channels were doing reports about the reemergence of North Charlotte as an Art District. Within a year a second crawl was added, this one being on the third Friday of each month. Although never as popular as First Friday, the second crawl still generated enough visitors to warrant its addition. Things hit full stride for NoDa when ‘Fat City’ opened around 1995. Occupying a large, abandoned building that stood alone on the corner of N. Davidson and 35^th, the combination deli and music venue made an immediate impact. The menu consisted of casual fare that was both inexpensive and good. The Atmosphere was extremely low-key, more boho NYC than Charlotte, and the bands that performed ranged from straight-on Punk to folk. With more places to perform, musicians began flocking to NoDa in addition to visual artists, bringing with them an entirely new crop of hipsters, hippies and college students. In terms of having everything that a small cultural center needs to thrive, NoDa felt complete.

The crawls grew even larger; taking on a true festival atmosphere that on occasion seemed like a circus without a ringleader. By 1996 the crowds in the 2-block area during a typical First Friday crawl could easily be counted over a 1000 at any given time. The crime rate in the surrounding area was lowered even further when the Friends of Van Gogh, then under the direction of artist Steve Holt, who replaced Carano as the de-facto leader, began patrolling the streets with flashlights and security caps, reporting any and all suspicious behavior to the Police. Artist owned galleries came and went on a regular basis, as did various types of businesses. Kelly’s Café replaced Ruby’s Java Joint. Rococo Fish became ‘Ursa Major Gallery’ when one of the Rococo’s volunteers, Kim Stimpson, took over. She would later pass the business on to Mary Lou Sussman who changed the name to ‘The Blue Pony Gallery and Press’. Each of these contributed significantly to the growth of NoDa. Even more alternate music venues came into being when the old Astor Theater was reopened as the ‘Neighborhood Theater’ and ‘The Evening Muse’ opened on the corner of N. Davidson and 36^thin another building owned by Ruth and Paul. Art was selling and some local artists even making a living at it. The upward trajectory that NoDa was on seemed unstoppable. In fact, things were going so well that the inevitable happened; Real Estate Developers and investors began sniffing around. NoDa had stood up in the crowd and gotten noticed and now the moneymen, wanting a piece of the action, were on their way.

By 2003 the entire landscape of NoDa had changed, and not for the better. The ‘Suits’ had come in, opened their checkbooks, and offered money in amounts not to be ignored. Several of the long-time properties were sold, including Fat City, which would eventually be torn down and replaced by condos. ‘New Waves of Joy’ was closed. Pat Nevitte made a deal that allowed for her building to be replaced by one called ‘The Nevitte Building’ and gone for good was 23 Studio, Wrightnow Gallery and Pat’s Time for One More. The heart of NoDa, for a long while, beat no more.

The real estate market was booming everywhere in the early 2000’s and the investors, developers, agents, et al, were poised to cash in on NoDa. Houses in the neighborhood, most single family and old, some dilapidated, were being bought up, renovated and put back on the market at rates 2 to 3 times higher than what was paid. Some were torn down completely and replaced by pricey condos and town homes. North Davidson Street between 35^th and 36^th was basically one big construction site as old, historic buildings were demolished and new high-rises went up. For many months portions of the sidewalk were impassable due to the construction and this not only deterred daily visitors and foot traffic but also severely hindered the gallery crawls, reducing the amount of participants significantly. Gone were the eager throngs of hundreds that had shown up for years on First and third Fridays. All of the momentum built up during the 90’s was seemingly lost overnight by businessmen who sought to capitalize on the sweat and passion of others. The name ‘NoDa’, once rejected and deemed negative by a few local business owners because of the ‘No’ part of the acronym, was now being used as a marketing tool by Real Estate companies and was suddenly ubiquitous in media ads and on street signs. The new condos and retail spaces were being pre-sold with the idea that potential clients would be buying into a ‘hip’ Art District that offered urban living in a suburban setting. One Real Estate group even used the not-so-witty catch phrase ‘YesDa!’ in their marketing package. Meanwhile the hub of NoDa seemed like a ghost town as the construction dragged on. In their attempt to profit from a burgeoning, organically developing and vibrant community created by Artists, the moneymen had inadvertently returned North Charlotte to a state of limbo. It would take the community several years to recuperate.

PRESENT

Despite the nationwide crash in the real estate market that followed the boom and an ongoing recession, NoDa was able to survive the construction woes of the early 2000’s and continues to evolve. Although far too many of the retail spaces in the new buildings remain vacant because of inexplicable and exorbitant rental rates, new businesses have opened in the past few years and, due to Charlotte’s continued growth as a city, many new residents have been welcomed into the area. Although this statement should not by any means be construed as negative, NoDa in 2010 is not the NoDa of the 1990’s. Because of development, new populace, retail spaces and restaurants, NoDa is simply a different place than it was, with a new look, atmosphere and vibe. While these changes have turned off many of the 90’s crowd, a new generation is embracing NoDa as their own.

Most amazingly, with eateries and bars that include Cabo Fish Taco, The Crepe Cellar, Boudreaux’s, Solstice Tavern, Salvador Deli, Sanctuary Bar, Smelly Cat Coffee and Revolution Pizza, all situated between 34^th and 36^th, NoDa now offers more places to eat and drink than to it does to view art. A variety of eclectic and unique businesses, include the recent addition of a Tattoo Parlor, provide different reasons for patrons to visit the area. Longtime clothing and accessories shop ‘Sunshine Daydreams’, having remained in business since the 90’s, was joined in 2006 by ‘The Boulevard’, a fashion, gift, craft and art marketplace occupying a large, purple building on the corner of 36^th and North Davidson. Perhaps the most interesting of the newer businesses is ‘The Dog Bar’, located on N. Davidson behind the Boulevard. In this tiny building, which over the years has housed different but more conventional types of saloons, ‘The Dog Bar’ allows dogs to join their owners inside at the bar or outside in the fenced ‘yard’ area. Here dog lovers can meet for drinks and conversation while having the objects of their affections at their feet or making new canine friends. In just a few short years ‘The Dog Bar’ has become one of NoDa’s more popular hangouts.

Of course, there are still art galleries in NoDa, including Green Rice Gallery & Studios, BEET Contemporary Crafts & Functional Art, Hart Witzen Gallery and the Arthouse, but given how few and their ongoing struggle for survival, the observation can be made that the visual Arts, the very thing that revitalized the long dormant neighborhood, are no longer the focal point. Perhaps the most ominous sign that NoDa may be in danger of losing its distinction as an Art District is the sudden closing of Center of the Earth. The news that NoDa’s first gallery, a Charlotte icon no less, would be gone and the space it occupied available for rent, caught many by surprise. The reasons, however, are seemingly simple; Ruth and Paul, after 21 years, have decided to stop focusing on the managing of an Art Gallery and to start making their own individual art the priority – to be full-time artists instead of business owners. What this decision means for the future of NoDa is uncertain, but the answer will be made clearer once it’s determined what type of business will eventually move in. For NoDa the ‘Art District’ the hope is that it turns out to be another Art Gallery or something related. With Center of the Earth gone and another high profile gallery, ‘Lark and Key’, relocating their shop to Southend, NoDa finds itself facing another period of transition without having fully recovered from the last.

While the future identity of NoDa is uncertain, there is little doubt that it will keep its status as a neighborhood unique to any other in Charlotte and a cultural center. A few nonprofit groups have formed in the past couple of years to help safeguard this. Foremost among these is ‘NoDaRioty’, a division of the NoDa Neighborhood Association brought together with the goals of ‘keeping the arts vibrant in NoDa’ and, (not quite as lofty but probably just as important), keeping NoDa ‘freaky’. As daunting as this mission may seem, the group has made big strides by raising money, (via the fun and successful ‘Pimp my Gnome’ auction of 2 years ago), awareness with a facebook page and website, www.nodarioty.org, and, most important, organizing the popular ‘All Arts Market’. This is an event held 4 times a year inside the Neighborhood Theatre that allows over 90 local Artists to rent space and sell their work while live music is performed on the theatre’s stage. Now in it’s second year, not only does the Market bring attention to the vast pool of talent in Charlotte’s visual arts community, giving the artists a chance to sell their work and get their names out, but it also provides another reason for people from outside of the neighborhood to visit NoDa.

Another group, grassroots organized and simply known as ‘NoDa Public Gallery’, was created with the aim of taking the art out-of-doors and to the people by finding public places where art can be installed and viewed free, 24 hours a day. This, the group believes, will help keep the visual arts alive in NoDa. Their progress can be viewed via the facebook page of the same name.

Several other facebook pages devoted to the preservation of NoDa have sprung up on the popular social-networking site including ‘I Love NoDa’ which celebrates current people, places and events within the neighborhood and ‘NoDa in the 90s’, a tribute page to the original people and places from which NoDa evolved. (Full disclosure here – I am the administrator of this particular page).

Not only are organized groups striving to the keep the spirit of NoDa alive, but many of the residents of the community are involved as well. Despite certain setbacks and slow growth caused by the economy, there truly does seem to be a genuine spirit of hope within the neighborhood. When talking with people who live in NoDa most say that there is no other place in Charlotte that they’d rather live and that there exists among the neighbors an honest feeling of community; friendly, supportive and sharing. Of course, not all is perfect or the streets completely free of crime, but what place in Charlotte is?

A recent questionnaire that I emailed out to several individuals, groups and businesses about life in NoDa, how it is now and where it’s headed, provided valuable insight into how current and past residents and participants view things. Not surprisingly, the more negative comments about the current NoDa came from those who remember and participated in NoDa in the 90’s while the more positive came from newer residents. For example, on the question of ‘How do you view the current NoDa’, typical answers from what I’ll call ‘NoDa Old Schoolers’ include “A different, more bourgeois, more mapped-out, less interesting phase. It’s not terrible; it’s just not what it was”. Or, “if someone were new to charlotte and went to a gallery crawl now, in 2010, they would think it was neat, but to me, I can still go up there and have fun, but its just not the same. I compare it to having a favorite local band and going to see them regularly in a bar with about 100 other people, then they get discoverd and signed to a major label, and are soon playing to 20,000, I may still like the band but its just not the same…”

That same questioned answered by a ‘NoDa New Schooler’; “A great community full of people who are honestly idealist - Charlotte as a whole feels so wrapped up in image and finances and status. Despite the fact that many Charlotteans would claim to be "friendly" - it's not much more than a passing greeting on the street. But I honestly feel like NoDa is different in that regard. Maybe it's because of what NoDa is known for: being a little askew from the norm. I feel more comfortable here because I have nothing in common with the suburban lifestyle. And I think everyone who comes to NoDa to live or play feels the same …”

A business owner that has been there for a only a few years with offices almost in the heart of NoDa responded with this succinct and almost dire observation; “While the current NoDa is not dying it does not appear to be growing”.

On the question of what NoDa is missing that same businessman responded, “…The main thing that is missing right now is a concentrated focus on a 1-5 year development plan”.

A member of one of the organizations working to keep NoDa vital opined that what NoDa needs is these, “A Cultural Arts Center with art equipment and materials that can be used by anyone with a membership. A nonprofit mentorship program that fosters partnerships between established and emerging artists. At least 1000 units of affordable artist housing. More positive press”.

An ‘Old Schooler’ feels that NoDa needs “A solid and substantial retail anchor: let's say Harris Teeter and Rite Aid within a block of the main area. That would really solidify the community with the missing piece of infrastructure”.

I was somewhat surprised that the participants in the questionnaire were so honest, forthright and impassioned in their answers. Among both old and new schoolers, businesses and groups, there is strong emotions when it comes to the subject of NoDa; a place where they live, play, work and/or simply have fond memories. Not surprising, after all of these years, that it is still the gallery crawls that brings out the most feelings of anyone associated with NoDa, past and present. It remains the one event that continues to bring the neighborhood together with the rest of the city on a regular basis. It is the jewel of NoDa, the flower that burst from a seed planted in North Davidson Street by the original founders so long ago. The gallery crawl remains the anchor the holds NoDa to its distinction of being a destination for the different, a place unlike any other in Charlotte. Yes, the crawls now are less the freak show carnival that they were in the 90’s yet still they remain fun, festive and alive. On a recent crawl, pleasantly warm with clear, bright skies, I found several artists selling their wares from makeshift booths set up along the sidewalk in an almost flea-market type atmosphere. This has become a regular part of the crawl over the past year, with a few of the Artists telling me that they do ‘very well’. On a stage next to Salvador Deli in front of local artist Will Puckett’s ongoing mural a group of musicians sponsored by local organization Crossroads Charlotte were performing as a large, enthusiastic crowd watched. Dozens of people filed in and out of the restaurants, bars and, yes, art galleries. Art should and hopefully will remain the catalyst for the gallery crawls and the galleries do see many visitors during the event, but just how important is it to the crawlers? When the question is posed, opinions vary. A longtime local artist says “I talk to hundreds of people every Friday night. And not even crawl nights. Thousands of people every month come to noda to find art and to look at the gallerys”.

A resident and member of one of the groups trying to save the arts in NoDa is of the feeling that “There aren't enough traditional galleries to crawl anymore. So you still get people coming out on Friday night to "crawl" but now they are forced to crawl from bar to bar… At this point - most everyone understands that you go to Gallery Crawl in NoDa not for art, but for the experience of being with people that you feel connected with.”

Perhaps most telling, is the reality of the gallery owner who reveals, “… I am not sure 'gallery crawl' has ever even been the right term. The sense has always been more that most people are out for dinner, going to the bars, listening to music, etc . . . and walking around the galleries/retail spaces is about killing time. We learned quickly not to even deal with refreshments because a good number of people also go around looking for free food and drinks, coming in only for that and having no interest in the work. We've had people walk in, ask where the wine is then leave immediately when they find out there isn't any.”

Whatever the real reason that most people attend the crawl, a good balance needs to be found… a way for all businesses to benefit, not just the restaurants and bars. That will be the ongoing concern and struggle for all involved. The street artists have found a way for now, mostly by keeping prices lower than the galleries and working the crowds. Likewise, it will be up to each individual business to find their own ways to survive and take advantage of an event that still draws hundreds despite a brutal economic environment.

FUTURE

What does the future hold for NoDa? Where does the continuing evolution lead? Will the stalled growth resume any time soon and those far too many empty storefronts be filled? For now, the answer to these questions is simple; it depends. First and foremost it depends on how quickly the economy recovers from the current recession. With the recovery should come more patrons with disposable income buying art, paying to hear live music and supporting small businesses. A slower recovery means less chance of survival for many, especially the art galleries. It depends on how long these current, struggling businesses can hold out. It depends on whether or not the Lynx Light Rail station, currently proposed for 36^th street, near Cullman Avenue, will truly bring the expected influx of new visitors and residents. There are different schools of thought on what the future of NoDa holds. Here are 2 examples as answered in the questionnaire, both, interestingly enough, from current residents:

1.“Nostalgia has its place, but we believe that it is important to embrace NoDa's evolution and progression into the future, while still protecting what is at its core identity. NoDa's history has shown a constant, organic adaptability to times and circumstances, continuously driven by the unique and energetic individuals who have called it home”.

2. “… It is easy to be critical, but without a renewed focus I have my doubts that it will survive”.

Will the moneymen win and NoDa simply become another gentrified, generic corner of Charlotte with all traces of individuality erased and the Arts relegated to the background, more marketing ploy than reality? Or will the artists and individuals win, expanding on NoDa’s roots as an Art District, finding a way to keep it ‘real’, embracing the future while holding true to the past? It may be the idealist in me, but I personally believe that NoDa will not only survive but will continue to be a unique destination and a vitally important neighborhood. There are simply too many residents and groups invested in it’s future and working hard to fulfill the oft interrupted dream. There are no other unique, forgotten areas of Charlotte for artist to discover, renovate and make their own. There is only NoDa and if it were to die, so to, most likely, would the dream. That can happen, but it won’t. With it’s heady stew of restaurants and bars, music venues, galleries, street artists, musicians, festivals and crawls, perhaps the evolution of NoDa is leading it towards becoming more of an all-around cultural district instead of simply a place that emphasizes the ‘visual’ arts. Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe the time has come to dispel all labels and simply refer to the neighborhood for what it is… ‘NoDa’, and NoDa alone.

1990's photographs of NoDa by Jerry Kirk
2010 photographs by Dennis Graham

2010-08-04T16:01:00.000-07:00

Rolling Like A Stone Down Highway 61

My personal journey to ‘All Things Dylan’

“Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you” – Bob Dylan

On May 24^th of this year Bob Dylan turned 69. It’s hard to believe that another leader of the ‘classic’ rock pantheon is staring down 70. But, unlike most of the others, Dylan still produces work that is both artistically brilliant and relevant. ‘Together Through Life’, his 2009 CD, continues a late career resurgence that began in 1997 with the release of ‘Time Out of Mind’, (winner of several Grammy awards, including Album of the Year), followed by his first Academy award in 2000 for best song, ‘Things Have Changed’ from the movie ‘Wonder Boys’, and even more great CDs. In addition to songwriting, producing and recording, Dylan remains a true road warrior, performing electrifying live sets on grueling tour schedules that would leave musicians more than half his age exhausted.

Now, I consider myself a serious fan of rock 'n roll, and of most music in general. I may even be a bit obsessive. Having said that, it’s almost embarrassing for me to admit that I came to join the large and widespread cult of Dylan enthusiasts very, very late. As a serious rock fan I've always admired the music of Dylan, particularly his songwriting skills. 'Blood on the Tracks' remains one of my favorite albums since first hearing it back in the late 70's. However, except for few a of his singles, such as 'Like A Rolling Stone' and 'Hurricane', and exceptional covers by others, including Jimi Hendrix’s ‘All Along the Watchtower’, I have always kind of danced around the rest of Dylan's oeuvre. Many years ago, as I was making the transition from boy to restless teenager and music was starting to become important to me, I began paying closer attention to lyrics. First it was Jackson Browne who got my attention with his classic album 'Late for the Sky' and it’s songs of melancholy and romance. Joni Mitchell followed, introducing me to real poetry in music and then, ultimately, Bruce Springsteen, who virtually created the soundtrack to my life and who's music continues to inspire and amaze. Suffice to say, I’ve always been drawn to singer-songwriters, individuals with the talent to express their own desires, feelings and opinions.

Through all of this and more, Bob Dylan's music was always there, in the background. I was aware of his influence on all of the artists I admired, particularly Springsteen, and of his overall importance to music in general. It was always my intent to further explore his catalogue and to learn more about what he had to say. Looking back, however, I think that “what he had to say” may have been the problem. No matter how closely I listened, I could never really get a grasp on the exact meaning behind the music. Though fascinating and definitely enigmatic, his words never really spoke to me on a personal level. Unlike Springsteen's voice of the common man or Jackson Browne's romantic odes to the human condition, Dylan's lyrics were more cryptic and evasive. It just wasn’t what I was looking for or needed at that time in my life.

Then, in 1997, with the release of 'Time Out Of Mind', his late-life masterpiece, things began to change between Bob and I. 'Time...’ with its dark, bluesy, almost foreboding sound and carefully constructed song cycle about life, growing old, death, and the acceptance of these things, gave me a fresh appreciation for his music. Maybe it was because I'd hit middle age and could relate more to what these songs were about and who Dylan was at that point in his life. Maybe it’s also because the lyrics are more straightforward and literal than in his earlier work. That CD was followed by the almost equally great 'Love and Theft'. Here, Dylan not only explores themes of life and death, but political and social concerns as well and all in a mode a bit less personal than that conveyed on 'Time Out Of Mind'. On 'Love and Theft', Dylan is the traveling minstrel, shuffling across America, meeting common folk and evaluating the state of the nation through songs both humorous and ominous. Musical styles are more varied on this CD as Dylan and his crack band of Texas session gurus delve into everything from rockabilly to New Orleans Jazz to Folk.

Next for me on my journey to all things Dylan came the reading of his exquisitely written 2004 autobiography, 'Chronicles Volume I'. I began finding myself more and more intrigued by not only the music, but by the man himself. The thing that really sent me reeling and out in search of more music with which to submerge myself was the brilliant documentary, 'No Direction Home', directed by Martin Scorcese and released in 2005. After viewing this compelling and more than enlightening biography that followed Dylan's life from his very humble, less-than-extraordinary beginnings as Robert Zimmerman in Hibbing Minnesota to his controversial performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, where he began his move away from acoustic folk music to electric rock 'n roll, I felt like I was finally starting to really get it. Like great paintings by Picasso, Pollack and other modern masters, a little background information is needed to understand and fully appreciate what the art is all about. I have no doubt now that most of Dylan's music is great art and that the man himself is a true visionary. Newfound knowledge, (for me), about what Dylan was conveying in such classic tunes as 'Ballad of a Thin Man', (his personal diatribe against the media), and 'Maggie's Farm', (his abandoning of the folk movement), give them much more resonance when I listen again... and again and again. At this point I was totally hooked and wanting more music, more information, more everything in regards to my new hero. I read Greil Marcus' 2005 book, 'Like A Rolling Stone: Dylan at the Crossroads' and gained a new respect for Dylan's creative process. I bought 'Highway 61 Revisited' and played it so much that my wife threatened to hurl the CD out the window if I spun it one more time. My then 5-year old daughter was even running around the house singing the chorus to 'Like A Rolling Stone'. I have decided upon expanded listening to almost all of Dylan’s work that 'Bringing It All Back Home' may be my favorite CD after 'Blood on the Tracks' and that 'It's Alright Ma, (I'm only Bleeding)' is one of my favorite songs ever.

I’ve recently poured through ‘Bob Dylan: The Essential Interviews’, a 2006 compilation book of his very early interviews from various publications edited by Jonathan Cott, and discovered that, outside of his music, Dylan is an articulate, intelligent, opinionated and somewhat arrogant man; all of the traits that I believe to be inherent in a true artist. Also, it got me to thinking; what men or women now in their early 20's think and talk as Dylan did at that age? Where are the idealists, the poets and the troubadours of today’s generation? Just as the youth of 1960’s America needed a Bob Dylan to give voice to there concerns over war, economic issues and civil unrest, so to should the current generation have it’s own artistic leaders as our society faces similar problems. Hopefully the youth of today aren’t the generation of shallow slackers that some in the media have labeled; unconcerned video game junkies, tweeters and mall rats. Hopefully a new Dylan is out there somewhere, perhaps writing songs even now in some cheap hotel room and playing obscure hole-in-the wall dives and coffee houses while struggling to get his or her voice heard above the fray, just as Dylan did in the beginning.

For a long while, after absorbing so much information about the man and his music, I couldn’t listen to anything else. No other music sounded as real to me or truly intimate. Because of what Springsteen's music meant to me as a teen, Dylan will never overshadow him as my absolute musical hero, but Bob Dylan's music seems right for the times and right for me, right now. Dylan detractors say they can't get past his voice. I say they aren’t listening close enough. It's the voice that’s the thing- the most original, distinct voice in all of American music. Yes, he’s the greatest songwriter of all time, and many others have covered his songs with varying degrees of success, but only Dylan's voice can truly deliver them with the honesty and passion they require. He is a dramatist delivering stories of importance to those willing to listen.

I understand now that Bob Dylan heard the call of destiny and answered. He traveled far from Minnesota to meet and learn from his idol, Woodie Guthrie, who at the time was wasting away in a New Jersey Hospital. It was not long after that the pupil overcame the teacher. Dylan was soon reinventing folk music and went on to create folk rock, launching the careers of artists like the Byrds and Graham Parsons. Like Picasso he evolved, exploring and creating new art forms within his chosen medium of music and he continues to do so today. Listen to 'Time Out of Mind' and honestly tell me if you've ever heard anything like it; the sound of folk morphing into rock being stirred into a cauldron of Blues then funneled out though the gravelly, pained and aged voice that is Bob Dylan now. It is a sound that no other artist will ever be able to recreate.

Embarrassed as I am that it took me so long to discover Dylan’s brilliance, I’m actually grateful that it happened when it did. As much as I’m a fan of rock n’ roll, I was at a point in my life when music was starting to mean less… family, career, and other adult responsibilities were forcing music to the side. Sure, I continued to listen to my CD’s, ipod and even Sirius Radio, but not with the same enthusiasm that I’d previously. Dylan brought the music back to me… reminded me of how much it has influenced my life and of the joy it’s provided. Since then I’ve even delved deeper into the catalogue of other artists whose music I liked but only flirted with in the past, like my current obsession and Dylan protégé, Patti Smith. The path to Dylan also led me to the discovery of newer artists that I am enjoying like Arcade Fire, Beth Orton, Blind Pilot and Sufjan Stevens.

Lastly, Bob Dylan’s music is a much-needed alternative to today’s vapid musical landscape where ‘American Idol’ dominates, with its interchangeable and vanilla roster of ‘winners’, and almost everything else heard on commercial radio is just so much noise.

Dylan’s songs, both the old and new, remain not only relevant and important, but can still teach and inspire. For me, this proves him to be an artist who has always been both before and of his time. So, Happy belated Birthday, Bob… it sure is nice finally getting to know you.

Running for my Life

2008-10-10T07:39:00.000-07:00

I started running seriously at the age of twenty-five while living the bohemian life in Richmond, Virginia. I’d been on the track team in High School but had gotten away from running and working out all together in the years that followed. In Richmond, after years of abusing my body with some seriously hard partying, I felt the need to get back in shape. Running was the easiest way for me to accomplish that goal and one other; Since I had no car and almost everything that I needed could be found within a two mile radius of where I lived in the ‘Fan District’, running allowed me to get to my destinations faster than walking. I would strap on a backpack and take off from my apartment running to the grocery, book or record store or often, when I couldn’t get a ride, even to the restaurant where I worked as a waiter. There are bars practically on every corner in the Fan District and, somewhat ironically, I would often run over to meet friends for drinks. Instead of running home from these particular trips I would more often than not stagger.

Running got me back in shape then and keeps me in shape to this day. It’s a great workout and the one that I truly enjoy. Even now, in my late 40’s, as my knees begin to cause me problems from all the pounding they’ve taken over the years, I continue to run – though the distance tends to be much shorter and the runs less frequent.
Running has also been a muse for my art. Nothing sparks my creativity more than a good run. When I jog ideas flow from my mind as if from a faucet turned on full. I needn’t be focused on any one specific thought to get my imagination going, images for paintings simply appear as do titles and themes and even poetry. Often I would arrive back home from a run and immediately seek out notebook and pen to write down the ideas before I'd forget.

I got Lisa into running before we were married and in the years before Elly was born we would often run together. Even when running with her and conversing while doing so my mind would still produce images and ideas. Many times I would excitedly discuss these creative thoughts with her while we ran. She and I have experienced great adventures running together; on back roads through the mountains of western North Carolina, along the beaches of the Outer Banks, on Military Bases from Mississippi to New York. After we’d lived in Charlotte for a few years we began to enter local races just for the fun. We still, when not out of town spending the Holiday with relatives, enjoy running South Charlotte’s Annual Thanksgiving Turkey Trot.
I took pride at being able, in my thirties to mid-forties, to take off for a quick 2 to 3 mile run at any given time, evening runs being my favorite. I have run religiously, almost every other day, for over 20 years now. I also began lifting weights while in the Air Force and have kept that up now into these middle age years. On the days I don’t run I usually lift, using the makeshift gym that I have now set up in my garage but managed to always find a place for no matter where we lived. Working out has helped to keep my mind alert and provided my body with the energy, (helped along by the half a pot of coffee I drink daily), to pursue a career as a painter even while holding down full-time jobs and maintaining the obligations and responsibilities of a married man living in the suburbs.

Running has been my outlet, my escape, and my shield against the encroachment of old age. Running has kept me feeling more than alive both mentally and physically. After all these years it has taken on an almost spiritual aspect. Aside from Art, the closest I feel to God is when I run. Each foot fall, every mile down is a celebration of my life and body.

Running is almost as much a part of me as painting. It saddens me to think, as my knees begin to go, that it won’t be long before I won’t be able to run at all. As I segue into the Elliptical machine and biking as replacements, I know that it won’t be the same. There won't be that same rush- that same feeling of exhilaration. I always envisioned myself running with Elly as she got older but the sad realization is that that probably won’t happen. What I’m experiencing now is the undeniable limitations of age and the reinforcement of a lesson that I’ve learned over all these years – time is brutal.

Excerpt from a memoir-in-progress

Danny Federici

2008-05-07T20:34:00.000-07:00

What a tragic loss. Danny Federici, 'Danny Phantom', arguably the heart and soul of Bruce Springteen's E-Street Band, has passed. The first member of the greatest rock 'n roll band is also the first to go. And at the young age of 58.
I never knew or even met Danny, of course, but from watching him live on stage and following the band in print and on record over the years, I assumed him to be a quiet and gentle fellow. His organ and accordian filled up the few empty spaces in Bruce's music, adding depth, melancholy, soul or whatever else was needed to an already rich sound. I listened to '4th of July, Asbury Park, (Sandy)' and 'Missing' on the afternoon I learned of Danny's death. These are 2 of Bruce's songs that absolutely benefit from Danny's beautiful organ fills and solos. It's hard to think that '4th of July' could be the classic that it is without Danny's contribution. Thank God we have these and more performances by Danny on record, because without him, I can't imagine any of the songs will ever sound the same again live .

God Bless you Danny and thanks for the music.

I believe (part I)

2008-02-02T23:53:00.000-08:00

in the separation of Church and State.
today and since it's inception organized religion has done more harm than good.
in God.
in prayer.
in the spiritual.
anytime man comes together as a group in an organized fashion for whatever reason, trouble will enevitably follow.
in love.
in sex as a spiritual awakening.
the closest mankind gets to God is Art.
parents who allow their children to become obese should be punished by law.
the constitution should be rewritten to reflect the America of today.
there is something mentally wrong with anyone who chooses to hunt animals for sport.
red meat kills.
coffee is good for you. The more the better.

My All-Time Favorite TV Shows

2008-01-13T23:25:00.000-08:00

I like 'best of' lists and year end lists- always have. With 2007 now over I've been in the list making mood and so I think I'll start with a list that has nothing to do with the previous year - a top 10 list of my all time favorite TV shows. More lists that actually do have something to do with 2007 will follow, but for now...

I have a real problem with people who say they don't watch or 'like' TV. Personally, I think they are full of it... pseudo-intellectual malarky. Everyone watches TV. While I'm not obsessed with it, and if forced to choose my favorite forms of entertainment, it would easily fall behind books, music and movies, I do like television. As with everything, there is good and bad. With that - here are my all-time top 10 favorite TV shows in order of preference:

1. David Letterman - I started watching him in 1980 when he debuted on NBC and have never stopped. By turns brilliant, cynical, smart and hilarious, Dave is the true heir to Johnny Carson's late night thrown. There are two kinds of people in this world - those who like Leno and those who like Dave. I treat Leno lovers as I do Republicans- I don't associate with them unless I have to. Leno has made a career out of ripping off Dave yet remains a pale and obnoxious imitation.

2. NFL Football - I watched the Washington Redskins while growing up in Northern VA, but lost interest in Football after discovering music and getting into more artistic pursuits. I came back to the NFL when Charlotte acquired The Panthers in 1995 and have been watching ever since. Nothing beats edge-of-your seat excitement like a good Football game. It's the modern equivalent of Gladiators in the arena. It does help to have a home team to root for and a 52" HD TV to watch the games on... GO PANTHERS!

3. 'The Odd Couple' - I loved it as a kid and still do. It made me want to move to New York City. Jack Klugman and Tony Randall were the funniest TV duo ever in my favorite sitcom of all time. Interestingly, I don't care for the original movie that the show was based on with Jack Lemmon and Walter Mathau as Felix and Oscar.

4. 'The Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour' - Warner Brothers made the best cartoons - sophisticated and witty with the adult viewers in mind as well as the kids. Bugs is my all-time favorite cartoon character. As a Kid, I couldn't wait to get up on Saturday mornings and watch.

5. 'The Andy Griffith Show' - the black and white episodes with Don Knotts as Barney only, of course. Funny, touching and sentimental all at the same time. They still hold up well and even my 5 year old enjoys them. Andy is the perfect father.

6. 'Twin Peaks' - the first season only. What a great, surrealistic, spell-binding story David Lynch crafted envolving the death of Laura Palmer in the fictional town of Twin Peaks. The strangest and most mezmerizing TV show ever and one of the best mystery 'who-done-it's'. "Cherry Pie and Black Coffee" indeed!

7. 'Seinfeld' - Arguably the most original sitcom ever and one of the funniest. It's interesting that none of these actors are really that interesting or funny outside of this show, including Jerry. It was the perfect show for it's time - cynical and unsentimental.

8. 'The Simpsons' - The longest running half-hour comedy on TV is also the most consistently funny and inventive, animated or otherwise. From Religion to politics to sex, everything gets skewered and nothing is spared. That lovable loser Homer is the best cartoon creation since Bugs Bunny.

9. 'Lost' - Mind-bending, exasperating and thrilling all at once, 'Lost' is the most unique hour-long drama to hit Television in perhaps ever! It's good to know that the creators have the story completely mapped out with an actually date for it all to end because with that fans know that each segment has a purpose in the grand scheme of things -there is no filler, no making-it-up-as-they-go-along, which has been the bane of so many other serial dramas.

10. 'Spongebob Squarepants' - This is on my list for 2 reasons: #1. My 5 year old daughter has loved it since she was 3 years old and we have spent some great times together eating popcorn and laughing our butts off over the surreal adventures of Spongebob, Patrick and the whole gang from 'Bikini Bottom'. Nothing beats the laughter of a child when it is genuine.
#2. It truly is an original cartoon - hilarious and clever with wonderful character development and absurd, witty writing. I thinks that it's the best animated series since 'The Simpsons'.

Runners-up;

'30 Rock' - in just 2 short seasons Tina Fey's 'Mary Tyler Moore Show' for the 21st Century has become the funniest show on TV.
'Sports Night' - Adam Sorkin's talky, kinetic 'dramady' is easily the best show ever about TV Sports broadcasting.
'Twilight Zone' - truly a classic.
'Cheers' - Never missed an episode.
'The Bob Newhart Show' - like comfort food for the soul.
'24' - This show has had it's hit and miss seasons, but when it 'on', it is easily Televisions most exciting hour.

'The Outer Limits' - Edgier and creepier than the 'Twilight Zone'. Great opening credits.

'Everybody Loves Raymond' - Just a funny show with unlikable characters.

NEXT UP: MY FAVORITE MUSIC OF 2007

'A Conversation About War'

2007-06-29T07:11:00.000-07:00

I turned 47 on April 3. While not a milestone in terms of Birthdays, every year since turning 40 has left me feeling my age physically more and more. As an avid jogger and weight lifter, this can be hard to accept. Birthday's always leave me feeling a bit introspective and thinking philosophically; about mortality, my family, events in the world and, of course, my art. All of this, combined with the fact that I had just finished reading the wonderful biography, 'deKooning' by Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan, left me with the desire to create something new and different. I never feel more alive than when I am painting and so I decided to spend my Birthday doing just that in front of a fresh canvas.
'A Conversation About War' began originally as a small, loose pencil sketch. After working on some realistic, heavily detailed paintings, I was interested in delving somewhat into the abstract. I also had the desire to make a statement about the misquided war our country is involved in, which occupies my thoughts quite a bit. With my favorite music continuously blasting from the stereo, I began the actual painting at about 8AM on my Birthday and it was completed by 5PM. I have not had so much fun and felt such exhiliration with any one piece in a long, long time and I am very excited about the final outcome. This is a very different style of painting for me. The canvas is large, measuring 48"x 60" and in addition to the acrylic paint I added some collage elements in the figures from newspaper articles about the war.
Along with my desire to work in a different style, I also wanted to make an overall powerful image that speaks about not only the Iraq War, but all wars. Without over analyzing the painting, the 'Converstation' is between the leaders of two warring countries. Their conversation appears to be without resolve as they babble on, oblivious to the death and carnage taking place around them. I have chosen to give the painting an almost 'pop' art look or video game feel, using symols recognizable in cartoons and comic books. This lends it a more modern feel while also alluding to the disassociation felt by most people not directly experiencing the actual horrors of war. To further enhance my statement I painted a line from a poem I've written about war across the bottom of the piece. The poem is called 'Chaos Troubadour' and the line reads; ' SHOUT at the indignities the transgressions the crimes against God and Earth...'
I feel like I was successful with my goals for this painting. I really don't think that the web image does it justice - it's much stronger in person, with the size and detail more apparent.
If anyone reading wishes to share any thoughts, feedback or criticims, please do so.

On The Road

2007-06-04T13:30:00.000-07:00

In celebration of the 50th Anniversary of the publication of Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road', I offer this explanation of why it's my favorite book:
In 1975 I was a sophomore in High School and working part-time in a bowling alley in Falls Church, Virginia. The janitor at the bowling alley was a Vietnam Vet who was well-read, intelligent and prone to philosophizing. He was also mentally and emotionally scarred from his experiences in the war. He knew of my interest in art and poetry and as encouragement presented to me the gift of his own worn and battered paperback copy of 'On The Road' by Jack Kerouac. As I'm sure was his intent, this book opened my mind to a whole new way of looking at literature and the world. I'd never read anything like it. Kerouac didn't live or write the same as anyone else. 'On The Road' helped me to realize that there were options in life other than the simple pursuit of a nine-to-five, suit and tie job; it was possible for a person to break out of the box and take a different path. Upon finishing the book I was crazy with desire to escape from the constraints of my middle-class, suburban existence and explore the world but I managed to stick around till my High School graduation. It wasn't long after, though, before I was on my own road seeking adventure and life experiences. For better or worse, no other book has had more of a profound impact on my life.

Fat America

2006-08-02T22:33:00.000-07:00

Fat America consuming food and gas and land in vast quantities.
Ridiculous quantities.
Fast Food Nation growing fatter in front of video games and big-screen TV's.
Fat is the new status symbol as men proudly show off their beer belly's in golf shirts stretched tight across pronounced girth.
Girls in short-waisted tops make no attempts to conceal the rolls of flesh that hang over their tight, low hung pants.
Our children have grown so fat it's now an epidemic. Who's idea was it to allow soda to be sold in schools?
Fastfood in the cafeteria?
This land is not my land. Where is the pride - in country and self?
Gluttoneous, arrogant, lazy empire heading for the fall brought down by video games and coca-cola.

Summer Reading

2006-07-13T04:41:00.000-07:00

I can't believe that I've actually found the time to read so many books this summer, but I have and, fortunately, they've all been worth my time. 'Manhunt: The 12 Day Hunt for Lincoln's Killer' by James L. Swanson is a riveting historical account of John Wilkes Booth's dastardly deed, his escape, and the efforts made by authorities to catch him. It reads like a thriller but is enlightening at the same time. It was interesting for me to discover how law enforcement worked in those days, the mindset of the American people following Lincoln's assassination and to get insight into Wilke's personality.

I read Grael Marcus' 'Like A Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads' in one week while on vacation. This is wonderful book for both fans of Bob Dylan and anyone interested in the painstaking process involved in creating a great work of art. As the title implies, the book details the making of one of rock's most revolutionary songs and perhaps Dylan's best- 'Like A Rolling Stone'. Marcus examines how the song helped to changed both the public and music industries perception of what a pop single could be, it's importance in the history of rock 'n roll and its influence on songwriters both past and present.

'This Land Was Made For You And Me: The Life And Songs Of Woody Guthrie' by Elizabeth Partridge is an excellent biography of America's greatest folk singer. From his childhood hardships growing up in the Oklahoma dustbowl to his final days suffering from Huntington’s Disease in New Jersey, 'This Land' is a thorough and detailed account of Woody Guthrie's both tragic and inspiring life. I really enjoyed this one.

After so many historical and factual books, (although none were 'heavy' reads), I opted for something different for my next book. I'd never read any of Dean Koontz's immensely popular novels, but my wife is a huge fan. After reading some decent reviews for his latest, 'The Husband', and knowing how much my wife enjoyed it, I decided to make it my one guilty pleasure for the summer. A real pleasure it is! Fast-paced and exciting, 'The Husband' is a movie waiting to be filmed. The premise is intriguing; a middle-class landscaper's wife is kidnapped and held for 2 million dollars ransom. Even though the husband is a man of limited finances and few resources, the kidnappers insist he come up with the money in 3 days or his wife will be killed. Taking off from that seemingly simple set-up the book veers into some very dark territories, with a few totally unexpected and even shocking plot twists. This is indeed a fun, quick read and actually a perfect book for the long days of summer when television is so bad that it's hardly worth turning on.

RECENT RAVES

2006-06-07T06:27:00.000-07:00

PLACE - The mountains of Western North Carolina; Blowing Rock, Grandfather Mountain, Banner Elk, Asheville - Heaven on Earth!
"If you're luck enough to live in the mountains, you're lucky enough".

MOVIE - 'MUNICH', directed by Steven Spielberg. A near-classic, riveting thriller that uses the theme of terrorism to explore issues of morality among individuals and the State.

CD - 'TIME (THE REVELATOR)' by Gillian Welch. I recently discovered this CD by the alt-country singer-songwriter. Spare, Beautiful and heartbreaking.

TELEVISION - '24', 'LOST', 'HOUSE'. In a wasteland of mean-spirited reality shows and derivative sitcoms, these 3 unique and original dramas, (along with the continued greatness of 'LATE SHOW WITH DAVID LETTERMEN'), make it worth turning on the television.

Statement of place and purpose

2006-05-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

In a very broad sense, the past 2 years have been about upheaval and turmoil. Specifically, the upheavals I've experienced in my life and the turmoil America has been going through as a whole.

During these busy years I have closed the Art gallery I owned in NoDa, moved with my family from Charlotte to Raleigh and back again, spent time in the Gulf Coast pre-Katrina and traveled to New York City to attend the gallery opening of of an exhibit of my paintings with fellow Eclipse Art Group members. I have also enjoyed the experience of watching my daughter grow from toddler to little girl.

From a less personal viewpoint, I have also watched the America I love become more unrecognizable as inept leadership continues to drive us down, further intangling us in a War without merit, sending our national debt spiraling out of control, tarnishing our image abroad and dividing us as a people along lines of religion, race, class and politics.

All of this has been fuel for my work. Even though the art I've created during this time has been more personal than political, it could have easily gone the other way. My choice, however, is to express my fears and concerns for the country, the world and my family in a more subtle, psychological way. Among the personal changes of the past 2 years, one of the most significant has been my approach to art and the creative process. In direct contrast to my past, I now prefer for my work to whisper instead of shout. I now choose to look within for my subject matter rather than without, allowing the bigger picture to be hinted at but staying grounded in my own psyche, in my own small life. With this approach I think my work is more interesting, more substantial.

It's amazing to look back on the past 2 years and to see how much has changed, both in my life and the world around me. I hope that for both these changes will ultimately prove to be postitive.

Edvard Munch

2006-04-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

Rave: While visiting New York City in April for the opening of a group show that I had work in, I got the chance to see the Edvard Munch retrospective at MOMA and it was absolutely awe-inspiring. So many dark yet hauntingly beautiful works of art. It is probably more than a little obvious to even the casual viewer the influence Munch has had on my work. I have stated it many times in my writings as well. My discovery of Munchs' art and his desire to visually explore human emotions and psychology gave focus to my own art and helped me to define my ongoing theme of 'the human condition'. Munchs' ability to reach down deep into his own troubled soul and lay it bare on canvas showed me that art could be about more than pretty landscapes and decorative still lifes. Along with Picasso, Munch proved that in order to create work that is honest and real, an artist has to look inside himself first and at the world around him second.