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Creedence Clearwater Revival

Take your top 20 artists. For each of these artists, collect the top 5 similar artists. The resulting number of unique artists is your eclectic score. If the score is small (extreme = 5) your musical preferences are very limited, and if it is large (larger than 80, extreme = 100), then you have an eclectic musical preference. You can compute your own score at http://anthony.liekens.net/pub/scripts/last.fm/eclectic.php

My eclectic score is currently

93/100

The 93 related artists for my profile are Alice in Chains, B.B. King, Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Black Sabbath, Bob Dylan and…

beyond the flavours, beyond the prep work and the working rhythms of the kitchen - clanking dishes, chopping block, chef banter.

beyond the gleaming stainless, the hot steam venting from stock pots, sizzling from the grill - spices intermingle with pilot light perfume

walk-in freezer gives brief respite, grab your ingredients and go, open door blindly, across the kitchen doing a dance of 100 men

always shifting and reinventing a new way to carry, to reach ,to scurry into the open arms of your menus…

Tags:
chef,kitchen,job,work,culinary

My thoughts are a cloudy mess
gluten like epiphanies,
that meld into a thick opaqueness.

A forever state of
complex biochemical changes
slowly dampen my sweetness.

A rough life
my emotions inflate
leaching into alcoholic fumes.

I am stretched
into delicate webbing,
threatening to break.

A formula of years
tears moist yet salty
friction makes for uniformity.

Lay me down
let the realizations
multiply and engulf me.

Stowed internally
eventually I peak,
overflowing.

Constant reshaping
proofing the layers
which precede me.

I am thick skinned
yet vulnerable to
each harsh action.

Watch my color
fade,

the sheen —
the splendor—…

Soft muted colors
make impromptu kaleidoscope
in my pint glass.

Slip past the warm blooded,
flush faced regulars,
the fretting malcontent hands,
fingering empty pitchers.

Salivating mouths,
shout their ill satisfaction.

I catch your stray glances-
a haphazard tapestry of fate,
spilled out through hazy cigarette smoke.

What intentions?
Foamy realizations leave their mark.

As I sip to the tunes,
watching sharks get sharked -
in pool hall glory.

We , full of promise and alcoholic malice.

Closing time paints a weary picture.

Will phone numbers call themselves?

Amber © 2002.All rights Reserved.

this was written for my first love. age 16.

You are
like the haunting note of a
Dylan song.

It reminds me
of moonlit walks;
The simple sweetness of unspoken
silence.

The grounded reality of
your mind —
littered with violence in the past
still etched deep.

And the new found hope gleaming
like polished chrome.

I can see —
in your denim colored eyes.

Oct. 1996 © Amber.All rights reserved.

Our song.

Love is still echoed in chaotic moments…
hold on to those memories.

We have had plenty of disorder in this lifespan.

The incessant clamoring to make peace.

We wear the scars of our emotional battles like a heavy shackle…

each new word reviving that heavy heart.

© Amber . All rights reserved.

He is old-
Like the creaking porch swing of life.

So many years -
Like the rusty links of a chain
needing to be oiled,

From so much wear as time jolts,
taking it's tole.

His bones lay -
weathered , splintering
like old boards.

His skin, missing the radiant glow

Of it's youthful shellac,
Now wrinkled, grayed
And aging.

If not left in a corner somewhere
under a layer of dust;

If well oiled with respect -
He will glide,
Carrying you on many adventures.

Memories will flow
like a welcomed breeze on a humid,
Summer night.

And He…

I fret, when the world is burning around me.
the embers fall ,
settle on flesh.

their imprint —
the empathetic woe
furrowing my brow…

tears molten on my lips.

I cough —
silty plumes of repression,
leak out…

leave me gasping.

My composure —
once a steadfast soldier,
beacon to the masses…

shoved asunder.

Now —
a gritty
fervent mess…

Amber © March 23, 2005.All rights Reserved.

This was written on the day of my grandfather's death. I had a seat in my uncles vineyard looking out across the grapevines and the towering blues beyond…this inspired me.

Where are you?

Among the dust and vines scattered below my feet,
keeping what little warmth to nuture the roots?

Are you amongst the wings of the prairie chickens, whimpering in content like a silent flute?

Are you the breeze who shelters us from the unwanted heat, shivering under the soft spoken branches —these who nod their lonely solitude,or are you growing amongst the vines, helping to guide your grieving…