The real story

A Welsh Expatriate in Qatar

playing golf

observes 

Iranian missiles being intercepted by Israeli missiles

Reading this headline 'news,' I ask myself, what is the difference between and expatriate and an immigrant?

The short answer is,

Racism

Then I wonder why do we care what a golf-playing Welsh expat thinks about a carefully orchestrated permission war that plays out above the greens?

I too was once a Welsh Expat, only skateboarding not playing golf

as another farce of a permission war played out in the skies above my head.

And now I am a naturalized 'citizen' scratching his head from an even safer distance.

Meanwhile,

Israeli arms, funded by US tax dollars and guided by UK 'intelligence'

continue to slaughter Palestinians waiting for food

That is the real the story

 Here’s the thing. I’ve nuked my social media countless times since I got sucked into it and I will likely continue to do so forevermore. 

On it goes. 

Know that I like seeing your life, even from a distance and filtered through a virtual medium. I love mountains you climb and  the trees you fall out of, the waves you surf, the things you can do with your skateboard, the music that is shaking you, poetry that is moving you. I love seeing the silly things your cat, dogs and kids do.

 I especially love videos of your toddlers using bad words. 

And the new taqueria you just found. 

But I just can’t scroll through all that shit and then see limbless children or people shot dead in the breadline.

I’m never going to ignore wars that my tax dollars fund and the juxtaposition of the scroll is just too fucking much. 

I’m positive it’s incredibly damaging to scroll from wrestling kittens to starving children.  

Who knows what it’s doing to our neural pathways?

I don’t like it and I can’t handle it.

!50!

I first thought I was too old for the four-wheeled-plank of joy at age 15, and then at every life milestone since. As I patiently await my membership for the Mumbles Lawn-bowling association, I realize it might be too late to really give up. Anyway, you are supposed to do "50 tricks at age 50." Since I only have 2, I did them to death during my 49th year... It is what it is... See you at the red curbs... or the bowling green.

Decolonize your mind and Iechyd Da!

 On St Patrick's Day every White American wanker is Irish. On St David's Day, you'd be lucky to find an American who even knows what or where Wales is, even among Americans who might have some Welsh heritage. One theory I read was that during the various waves of immigration (and yes there were far less Welsh) there were two check boxes for the Welsh on the various immigration forms, 'English' or 'Scots-Irish,' most Welsh chose 'English' by default, after all between 1707 and the late 1960s Wales was legally England). Thus Welsh heritage was watered down and harder to trace back unless you lived somewhere like Pennsylvania. Now with accessibility to gene-tracking tech that is slowly changing and I'm meeting more people claiming Welsh. White America is so desperate for culture and identity and not without reason. 

Today is St David's, yesterday Black History month ended. Interestingly, there is a disproportionate number of Welsh names among Black Americans. Think of the name Lewis or the poet Gwendolyn Brooks. It is understood that Welsh Quakers, who fled persecution in Britain, played a key role in the abolition movement. However, we have to accept that just as Wales played a role in and benefited from English Colonialism (after being the country where England learned how to colonize) the Welsh were also slave-owners. 

All this to say I'm not a fan of patriotism and certainly deplore chest-thumping, flag waving, unquestioning nationalism. Whether you are Palestinian, Ukrainian, Basque, Irish or Welsh there will always be a fine line between liberation and unhealthy nationalism. 

At this  dangerous juncture in history it is certainly important to resist homogeneity and a creeping global mono-culuture. Regional idyoscraties and local peculiarities should be celebrated. Power should be decentralized, devolved and hopefully one day dissolved. Regional autonomy will be crucial to resist the likes of the US and Russia carving up the rest of the world. But you can shove your flags. Instead of patriotism and nationalism, if you really care about identity, learn about the land, native plants and species, the people and the culture,  learn a language indigenous to your homeland. In Welsh there is the term "Hiraeth." It loosely means homesick or a longing tinged with grief, not just for people who have left Wales but for a Wales that once was. It is a pretty powerful word that celebrates the best of what it means to be Welsh, a yearning for the people, culture and land where most of your ancestors are buried. It transcends patriotism and nationalism.  Here's a fucking Daffodil in our American garden. I won't fight a war over it and I'm not celebrating any Christian saints. 

Decolonize your mind. Iechyd Da.

I spoke to Alan Ginsberg Last Night

 Alan was an overrated poet in my opinion but he had some moments, some lines here and there that resonate. Anyway, he let me know, 'they' omitted the last stanza from 'America,' that he wants you all to read now. 

America!

a juicier bigger carrot!

the Muskrats announce with a blow of their Trumpettes.

you 

cheer at the prospect

despite the same old s(ch)tick it dangles from

you

still the donkey, 

schlepping toward it

fruitless

carrying a combed-over sack of shit

one step at a time

toward oblivion

It all comes back to the slash and grind club

 

 

Meeting David Lynch in 1979 just North of Malibu

 I met David Lynch in 1979 just outside of Malibu California. I had just finished up surfing at Malibu with my friend Mickey Donta and we were famished. Mikey was stubbornly sticking to surfing old fashioned longboards and I was exploring the new dimensions offered by shortboards. And we were having a friendly debate about he future of surfing as a result. Mikey said, “There is no future in surfing. Just now.” I said, Mikey I’m really hungry. Let’s get some food. 

So we loaded up Mikey’s 1967 Karmann Ghia and headed to a Jewish Fish Taco place, up the Pacific Coast Highway a way. We tied down the boards on the roof of the Ghia and I briefly worried about the roof caving in but Mikey didn’t seem to care. I hopped in the car and as we sped North he said, “Maybe my friend David from Montana, will be there.”

Sure enough, David was there. He wasn’t eating tacos. He was drinking black coffee and smoking a cigarette. He was sweating a little bit, probably due to his attire. He was wearing well worn khakis, and a white Gant shirt that was buttoned up to the top and an unstructured black sports coat. 

Mikey and I ordered three tacos and a lemonade each and we sat down next to David. I’m often a little uncomfortable meeting new people but David was very nice and welcoming. We had a nice chat about the future or lack thereof , in surfing and then David said he was working on a script for a new film about surfing. Wild, I thought. Just wild. 

“What’s it called, David?” Mikey asked.

 David shouted very loudly back, “What?!” 

Everyone else in the restraint turned to look at us. 

Mikey didn’t seem surprised, “I said, what’s your new surf movie called?” 

David stared at Mikey for an endless minute and then replied, 

“Elephant Man!” 

We both nodded with approval at the title of David’s new film. 

Then David asked about our weekend plans. Mikey said, he was going to do what he does every day. Surf his 10’ long single fin surfboard in a straight line at Malibu. 

And what about you Pete, “What are doing with your weekend? David shouted. 

I said, I was going to watch the new Star Trek Movie at the Tower Theatre.

“That’s a nice cinema, Pete.” David said. 

And then another long silence. Mikey munched on his tacos and I was hoping David would continue the conversation but he was very comfortable being quiet. I wasn’t so comfortable and felt compelled to break it.

“And David, what about you?” I meekly asked. 

“What?! David again shouted at an even louder volume and people were visibly getting uncomfortable in their chairs, shifting around, except Mikey who must have been used to David’s speech patterns.

I nervously repeated myself, “What about you David, how are you going to spend your weekend?”

“Oh!” He shouted again. And then continued in a slightly more tolerable volume.

“I’m going to spend some time observing my mind.” He said matter-of-factly.

I frowned at his response and then, 

“Because the mind is the Final Frontier, Pete. The mind.” He said. “Oh and I might set out to find some good-fitting pants also.”

We finished our tacos in silence. David, his coffee and cigarette. 

Until Mikey said, “Well great to see you David. Hopefully catch you again real soon.”

“What?!” David shouted even louder than before, again unnerving the other patrons.

And Mikey repeated himself, “Hopefully catch you again real soon, David.”

All three of us nodded and Mikey and I were  on our way, leaving David by himself.

I never saw him again and Mikey and I went back to that Jewish Taco place many a time. 

not if 

but when 

the apocalypse comes

let it not be too far on the horizon

when the fires spark

the riots erupt

the volcanoes blow

and the round ups begin

let it be mercifully soon

so

there's enough of the earth left

to bounce back

and

i am still strong enough to go out

fighting

be reasonable

demand the impossible

utopia now

or

dystopia forever

is the only platform

on which to party

your tax dollars paid for the horrendous deaths of thousands and thousands of children

beg for a raise

so your $weat can go further toward

shredding babies to pieces

in far away lands

Cape Blanco