Loomings

Photo by Pete. "West"

Guess the origin of this quote and I'll send you a copy of Foulweather #1 and some other goodies. If you already have FW#1, you'll get #2 instead (out later this summer).

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.

The Intangible Line

Photo of Sean Young bombing Jones Street in San Francisco by Gabe Morford, from Slap Magazine .

But do you remember that photo of Sean Young bombing down Jones Street in San Francisco in the rain? The beginner or the casual skater probably wouldn’t, it’s just a photo of some guy standing on his board, after all. So why is that photo up on the wall more than almost anything else in serious skate houses? Why are Sean Young stories the stuff of lore? Because it’s only the people who have been skating their whole lives who know how ridiculous it is to bomb a steep, traffic-filled, cracked cement hill in the rain. It doesn’t translate to video or photos the same way the 20 stair does. - Ocean Howell on the above photo.

New Wend Magazine is out. I have a short piece on the resurgence of downhill skateboarding in it. Lots of other good stuff in it also, including a great piece on alleycat bike racing. Now go out and attack the streets.

Play Time

Man only plays when he is in the fullest sense of the word a human being, and he is only fully a human being when he plays.
-Friedrich Schiller, On the Aesthetic Education Of Man (1793)

I have been in both British and American schools. In Britain, we call 'Recess,' 'Playtime.' Some people think school is nothing more than a training ground for future automatons. I tend to agree and I certainly don't think the British education system is much better at producing free thinking individuals but the difference in terminology, perhaps exposes schools as institutions that serve to hinder, quell and conform the natural wildness of children, in order to produce productive citizens and workers. Anyway, most of us never forget that longing for play and it doesn't die with age, or it shouldn't.

Summer is upon us. I've been catching some waves here and there but the above machine (recently stripped down to its bare minimum) has been providing me with the most distraction. Due to a wrecked back, it has largely replaced my skateboard of recent. I have not been this excited about a toy since I got my first skateboard at age nine or perhaps when I got my first surfboard at eighteen.

Bombing around the city during recent evenings has reminded me of mid-summer evenings as a child in Wales when my mum would send me to bed when it was still light. All the older neighbourhood kids would still be out causing havoc in the streets and I could never fall asleep knowing they were out there having all sorts of adventures. Now, I get to be the big kid. The streets my playground. Going nowhere for the sake of it.

Whereas winter is so conducive to writing, it is hard to stay inside on warm sunny evenings hacking away on a keyboard. Nevertheless, Foulweather #2 is coming along nicely. I recently, received some great art from Patch and I have a surprise artist working on something special for the cover. Plus a great story from Ras. More to follow...

An Abandoned Drawer Of Poetry

Photograph by Mary Ellen Mark from her book 'Streetwise.'


In 2001, I was briefly involved in a project called Camp Dignity. Camp Dignity was an organized community by homeless people and a dozen or so volunteers, created to draw attention to the lack of shelter in Portland Oregon and the problems with the existing shelter. Camp Dignity originally illegally squatted on private and public land before it became the semi-sanctioned, semi-permanent, Dignity Village. I did not stay involved that long for a number of reasons, one being, the project was always in danger of becoming an elite camp for only sixty of Portland's thousands homeless people. While, Dignity Village did advocate for and force the general populous to consider the wider issues of homelessness to varying degrees of success, thousands of other people were still camping out unnoticed by everyone save the police and the landowners they were pissing off be being there. A friend of mine, expressing frustration at Dignity's limited scope decided we should go and investigate one of the camps.

The camp we went to was and as far as I know is still referred to as The Caves. They are along side the east side of the Willamette River under a road overpass. They are high up above the river on a a clay embankment. People have camped down there for decades perhaps as long as Portland has been settled. Over the yeas, elaborate living spaces have been carved out of the cave. I went down with a notebook and just recently found the notes I wrote...

McCloughlin Boulevard Caves. Ross Island. August 2001.

We descended the narrow entry beneath the road through the bushes to discover what looks like a lost village, a deserted community. Sleeping spaces, benches, fire places and living rooms. Homes that have been dug out of the clay. Paintings and writing decorate the walls. Someone has carved many skulls out of the clay that surrounds one unit, room, space, home. A mattress remains in a carved-out area that is bedroom. Most areas have claimed territory.

“Moses”

“Missouri Kid”

Belongings have been abandoned in haste. Most people have already vacated, probably due to the upcoming police sweep. Tents are still set-up. It is very sandy, dusty. A very fine dust, everything smells of dust. Certain areas smell of the inevitable toilet but there is fresh air coming off the river. Looking out at the river it looks like a television view due to the frame of the roof and pillars holding up the road. There is a view of the OHSU (Oregon Health and Science University) campus up on the west hills. You can see Ross Island, the Ross Island Bridge and the Willamette River with people cruising by on boats and camping on the island. People who choose to camp. No doubt some of those who resided down here would say they choose to camp as well. You can also see the affluent houses of the west hills tucked in, amongst the trees.
Again the smell of belongings. And dust. More art work. An attempt at permanence? Home- People trying to make a home. On a pillar:

“To whom it may concern, living here can be hell.”

Trying to make a home out of hell. Steps have been carved, more fireplaces, toilets, all carved out of the clay - it looks like an archaeological dig. More graffiti claiming territory. The further you go along, the smaller the nooks and crannies that people have attempted to fit into. Some are tiny spaces where a person can only lie down.
It must be hard to get around at night. I wonder what it looked like in the dark, with the candles lit and torchlight dancing up and down, leading the way home. There are blankets in the bramble bushes. Magazines, ripped and torn. A drawer full of poetry. Is it right to read it? Maybe on the way back out. There is a constant roar of traffic overhead. The occasional truck escalates the roar and seems to vibrate the roof. Up ahead it looks like some cats, kittens and dogs.

On a wall above a bramble bush: “This lifestyle was cool at one time but as the years wear on so does the Do Do! They let you run for a spell then they bust your ass and sentence you to fucking hell thats astem of you with... you... come with nothing but dreams but make what it seems.”

Further on: “Legalize Freedom”

There are ropes to secure belongings and to get up and down the steep hill that leads to the train tracks and the river. Personalities are evident. Personalities discarded. Discarded individuals and now their discarded belongings. Where do they expect them to go?

We find the owners of the kittens and other animals, a group of young kids, the only people left down here. They say they are a fragment of a group of fifty that travel around together. Their kittens look worn and old, not innocent and fun like most. The kittens are skeptical of my effort to pet them. They are afraid but hard. Tough like the street kids. Untrusting - you can’t just “rescue” them.

There are flies and rats around the kid’s living area. They seem hesitant to talk to us but eventually vent their experiences. They don’t want to listen, they want to talk. Talk about jail, police, being moved on. “We just want to be left alone. We take care of each other. We don’t want to get split up.” The oldest is in her early twenties, she is the mother figure. Others look about fifteen, perhaps younger. One girl is putting on make-up. Torn and dusty clothes and make-up. We speak to them. Listen to their stories. Maybe they expect us to do something. They begin to seem happy we are here as long as we don’t want to take their picture, record their voice, use their names. They tell me the puppy is named “Bear” and the one kitten over there is named “Shadow”. “He is named after me.” says Shadow the person proudly. I listen and wonder why they choose to be here. There is only one answer. Because whatever they left behind has to be worse. No one chooses to live amongst the rats and dust, shit and piss. What do you have to go through for such a living condition to be “preferable” to whatever you left behind? They don’t want to go to the shelters because they will be split up from each other, from their pets and for other reasons. They are a family of fifty or so. They tell us of an older resident who has lived down here for fifteen or so years. He won’t leave when the police come.
We decide to head back and we which them good luck, they seem disappointed. I have the urge to just get the hell out, to process everything I have seen in the open air.
There is an open tent in one living space, another mattress, a grill, ornaments, a candle holder, melted wax, an old bicycle (how did they get a bicycle down here?), piles of clothes, spare cycle tires. All around, there is very little evidence of drugs and booze, why is that important? Dust and dust. It cannot be good for your lungs.
A tourist train runs by. I look at the passengers sitting on the open air compartment. Some of them allow their eyes to drift upwards towards the caves but quickly look away. I can see the conflict between curiosity and a reluctance to really look. I wonder how these caves look from the train or the river. I wonder how they look from the camp fire on the beach of the island. To the kayaking family on a wild camping trip for the weekend.
It is claustrophobic in the middle of the caves. Where I am now is probably a ten minute walk to escape from either entrance. It is that or a sketchy scale through the bushes down the steep and crumbling hillside. The roof is highest here, but the feeling of being boxed in remains.
Back to the drawer full of poetry. Who brings a draw full of poetry down here? Some typed. Some hand written. I feel like a trespasser as I bend down to look through the poetry. There are Poems about being alone, being sad. Poems about a mother. Poems about anger. Poems about boredom and non-existence.

They are signed.

I recognize the name.

I recognized the name because I worked in a crisis shelter for homeless youth at the time. This person had stayed in the shelter. I remembered a conversation we had about poetry and I remembered him reciting Robert Frost.

I feel like I have stepped into a world that I should not know about. I gather a batch of the poetry and stuff it into my back-pack. I am not convinced this was the right thing to do.

On the way out now. More writing on the walls.

“I am a cop killer. Spook. Die Pig”

“Moses”

“White Wolf”

“Hook”

“Moses will return”
Moses again, I feel like I am beginning to know Moses.

“Have a shit day”

We retrace our foot prints in the dust. The narrow dusty path is ridden in a confused mess of footsteps. Footsteps of people, boots, sneakers. Paw prints, cats and dogs, kittens and puppies. In a bush where some kittens are hiding is an elaborate caterpillar web. It looks like a transparent gray blanket. A black kitten motions towards us. We carry on but it follows. I stop to try and pet it but it keeps a very deliberate distance. I have now decided to rescue it but it will not come close enough for me to reach it. I decide to leave it be with the dozens of other kittens.

Blankets, tents, bicycles, shopping carts, candles, clothes, skulls carved out of the clay, messages on the wall, bedrooms carved out of the clay, a drawer half full of poetry...

Please note there are organizations dedicated to providing comprehensive outreach to Portland's homeless population, most notably Yellow Brick Road and Join.

If you have to...

I'm not a big fan of national 'This, That and the Other' Day but today, is 'Bike To Work Day.' Maybe all this means, is that thousands of extra people will decide to hop on their bikes for one day and then go back to spilling their lattes, as they try and answer their cell phones the next day. (Yes, I'm guilty of combining all these bourgeoisie indulgences myself.) But maybe these types of 'events' are worthwhile and maybe more people will consider alternative commuting practices as a result...

So, if you are a sucker like me and have to have your soul sucked out of your feeble body by a thing called a 'job,' you may as well have a bit of fun getting there.

I stole the above image from the Mash SF blog (can't wait for this film btw). I'm guessing it is turn of the century Britain and the young lad is riding a cutting edge track bike. I hope he did not have to go to work after this photo was taken. I hope he got to pound the cobblestones of Manchester (or wherever it was) all day.

I hope he rode as fast as he could and tried not to use his brake.

Disconnected Screaming

photo from the Ruffian Records Website

It goes without saying that lot of good art comes out of politically turbulent times. But when are times not turbulent? When one considers impending environmental doom, endless war and ever increasing social chaos, one has to wonder where all the great art is, that should be blossoming from amongst it.

Protest art can often come across as trite, self-serving and crude. The artist has to strike the right balance between serving art and serving the cause. Punk pulled this off because it was outrageous, artistic, dangerous and politically relevant in the dark days of Thatcher’s Britain. But before long, four middle class white blokes, screaming over thrashing guitars became pretty hackneyed. Some bands took a more artistic approach, like Gang Of Four, others became more political like Crass and others got louder and thrashier, like Minor Threat, all of whom were cutting edge and relevant for their time but it was not long before most of what constituted punk became watered down pap.

Between 1999 (post WTO) and 2003 (US invasion of Iraq) Jello’s lyrics were extremely relevant again but we did not need more Dead Kennedys. I hate to limit a band’s legacy by saying they provided a soundtrack to a certain time but for me Black Eyes, were just the band I needed in 2003.

Hailing from Washington DC, home town to my all time favourite band, Fugazi, Black Eyes consisted of two drummers, two bassists, two vocalists, a guitar and an assortment of other instruments from time to time. The music was urgent yet transcendental, chaotic but hypnotic, frenzied but just about controlled. I believe they were only together for about three years but as Fugazi’s Ian Mackaye said about their demise, ‘The fire that burns the brightest only burns half as long.’ While that may be true, I think it might be more accurate to say, the Black Eyes would not have been able to burn so bright without exploding.

I had the chance to see them a couple of times in Portland. The first time was at a small café. It is quite rare, for me to be so involved in a performance that is becomes transcendental but it happened that night. The building vibrated and the windows steemed up as sweaty bodies grooved, swerved, bounced and jumped to the pounding polyrhytmic percussion, ballistic bass and caustic cries of the duelling vocals. I felt like I was involved in a tribal ritual, perhaps a cleansing of some form because when I left the building that night, moments before the cops were about to shut it down, I felt pure.

Anyway, Black Eyes put out two albums both worthy of your attention. I'm not even going to begin to describe their music beyond, urgent and necessary.

'This city's burning burning
While we're screaming
Boring
The cars are closing in
Our lips are just opening'
- Letter To Raoul Peck

Oblivion

I don't know anything about this photograph. I stumbled upon it as I was killing time at work, while moaning about how numb I feel about my job and how wrecked my back feels from skateboarding. Occasionally I wonder when it became so easy for me not to give a shit. To be consumed by so many convenient distractions. Then I came across this photo. As a dad I can't emotionally distance myself from the dead child's feet. I don't know if this photograph has been used as a propaganda tool to demonstrate the compassion of the US military in Iraq or whether that soldier is having a serious emotional breakdown. That is not the issue to me. The issue is how we all, can just go through the motions, day in day out, while this shit is going on and not have our own emotional breakdowns. I really don't know what is stopping me from screaming and picking up this monitor that lies in front of me, and throwing it out of my office window. My hands are tingling and my head is pulsating, just waiting for me to snap out of this coma, and make my rage physical.

Velo

Over the last year I have been researching and writing a fair bit about the subversive use of the urban environment as a playground. From Situationism to Graffiti to Parkour to Skateboarding, there is an apparent primeval urge to break through the concrete in order to get a taste of uninhibited play. Perhaps, our ever-increasing isolation from nature denies us the chance to be 'wild.' A desire that we has human beings just might need to remain sane. Of course, sport and exercise has replaced some of our inbred instinct to hunt but oftentimes there are too many rules, restrictions and limitations for sport to really satisfy this urge to get wild.

Most recently I have been exploring the city by bike. Aside from a brief stint as a BMX kid and messing around on mountain bikes, I've only really used bikes for transport then I caught wind of the Track bike/ Fixed-gear sensation. At first I put it down to hipster posturing but as soon as I started to have a bash on friends' bikes, I knew I had to get one.

A lot has been written about the 'fixed-gear' trend and cyclists and non-cyclists alike are quite polarized over the matter. Many will argue that brakes, gears and free-wheels were invented for good reasons and there is nothing to gain from riding a bike with one gear, no brakes and no coasting capabilities except fashion points. Yet, for a Luddite like myself, such a simple machine is very attractive, not only in appearance and for ease of maintenance but for application. Riding fixed is obviously more challenging but you also have more control of a bike, like you have more control over a car with a manual stick shift as opposed to automatic transmission, because your legs are always engaged with the bicycle's drive-train. It is an addictive sensation, having to pedal, to not only speed up, but also slow down.

A fixed-gear also forces you to 'read' the city and plan a block or two ahead in terms of how you are going to manipulate your way through traffic. British writer Will Self wrote an interesting column for the Independent newspaper last year about just this. In the column, Self posits that more technology is a hindrance not an enhancement of the human experience and that technology can often make life too easy for us. Self concludes that manipulating your way through the city in a car with a GPS unit is the antithesis of riding a fixed gear bike in that the car driver is isolated from his/her environment on every level while the bike rider, is physically, mentally and spiritually fit and perfectly in tune with his/ her surroundings.

We are tug boats gone crazy, with no idea even if we are in a safe harbour, or churning up the soil! We are dragging the rusting hulks of the past into the shiny future! We are speedboats that have quit the water to describe loop-the-loops in a dark sky near to the end of history! The seagulls - those fixed-wheel cyclists of the sky - are ripped away from their thermals by our crazy jigging, and stare at us, at once terrified and contemptuous. -Will Self

Guy Debord once said,

We must replace travel as an adjunct to work with travel as a pleasure.


Monday's New York Times featured a fairly decent article on the history of track bikes, the fixed-gear craze and the bike scene in the NYC, written by skate-journo Jocko Weyland.

Also, this summer a new documentary, called Mash SF, about brakeless, fixed-gear riders in San Francisco is scheduled to be released. I'm hoping to get a review copy for Wend Magazine but until then check out a preview of these riders going nowhere, fast.

Pimp my ride on the Wend Blog.

Happy May Day!

Image By Eric Drooker

"There is no authority but yourself"

-Crass