Foulweather... On 'The Road'

The above illustration is by Viktor Koen and accompanied the New York Times' review of 'The Road'.

William Burroughs once wrote, 'Life is an entanglement of lies to hide its basic mechanisms.' I refer to this quote frequently as it seems to me, worthwhile art should either be a celebration of these 'basic mechanisms' or an expose of the 'entanglement of lies.'

Cormac McCarthy's 'Blood Meridian' is one of my favourite novels. A re-writing of the American West and the war with Mexico. It is brutal and bloody and dense in vivid imagery. 'Blood Meridian' is McCarthy exposing the entanglement of lies that the American West was fought and conquered with.

When I opened 'The Road,' I was expecting the same but in a post-apocalyptic setting. However, within the first few pages it is immediately apparent that McCarthy's latest novel is a completely different beast. The language is economical and the descriptions sparse, like the landscape. Minimal and cold but all encompassing.

Someone once told me that the life of a street kid can be described as extended periods of time interrupted by moments of shear terror. Life on the edge is like this and 'The Road' is like this. The earth is burnt to an ashen core, no life remains, save for the occasional commune of survivors and roving bands of cannibals. We never know what brought this about and we don't need to. A boy and his father make their way to the ocean in the hopes of finding 'the good guys' but really because their is nothing else for them to do but keep moving, that or allow themselves to die. And that is where the reader finds the core, the basic mechanisms that keeps them alive.

In the end, the boy who only knows the dead world he lives in, has more hope and compassion than his father who is a product of the world that was destroyed.

It is an absolutely stunning read. As honey bees drop from the sky, confused and disorientated by the signals from our cells phones, as mentally ill young people open fire on their fellow students and as the glaciers melt, I can't help but think 'The Road' should be mandatory reading. I don't think I've ever been so disturbed yet simultaneously moved by the final pages of a novel.

'Big Up' to Stiv for hooking me up a copy.

Out Of Stock

Unfortunately Microcosm Publishing recently left Portland and relocated to Bloomington. I have sold more zines through them than any other outlet, so it is a bit of a downer. Foulweather #1 is currently out of stock but I just mailed them another twenty copies so they should be available within a couple of weeks. (Gone are the days I could cycle over to the Liberty Hall and drop off a batch of zines to them directly.) If anyone reading this wants a copy you can always drop me an email. Once issue #1 is gone, it is gone. Hopefully, #2 will be out before that happens. Thanks to everyone for purchasing and thanks for reading. Remember, you can also check out issue #1 from Multnomah County Library if you live here in the Portland area.

Reclaimation

photo from Life After The Oil Crash

Five hundred million years ago Southern California was submerged under the ocean. Los Angeles’ best neighborhoods were reefs. Palos Verdes, Malibu, Bunker Hill, Beverly Hills were only soggy and sunken. L.A.’s city hall is built on seashells, the library rests on sand, and the art museum floats upon pits of La Brea mastodon tar. I’ve been studying the geological and storm records, and they indicate that the Pacific coast has been in a 200-year-long lull for storms. The reefs and the points are all set up to hold much bigger waves. It is only a matter of time until the sea gods come and reclaim their domain. All of the development will be washed away by the incoming tide of nature’s revenge.

-Miki Dora

Over The City

Photo from the Crammed Records website.

The story goes, that deep in the Congo and Angola, traditional Bazombo trance musicians had to rig up crude amplification systems to make their music heard above the cacophonous urban din when they moved into city. Using used car parts and other assorted junk they plugged in their Likembes ('thumb pianos'). Other instruments are made up from similar discards of the modern city. The result is a frenzied, distorted noise not unlike elements of dance/ techno or industrial music. Essentially, it is more 'techno' and 'industrial' than a lot of the crap we might associate with those 'genres.'

What really stuns me about this music is how poetic Western music journalists have been when attempting to describe it. 'Pre-historic acid house,'sophisticated brutality (that) leaves permanent traces in the conscience of the listener,'the frenzy and locomotion of prime '70s Miles or a Krautrock jam,' 'squelching waves of fuzz,' and 'the raw sound vibrates like a passing train engine, with percussion led by twanging thumb pianos, simple drum patterns, and singers chanting and blowing whistles.'

Truly, Beauty From The Filth.

Konono No1 are the best known bands to come out of this 'scene.' Led by virtuoso Likembe player, Mawangu Mingiedi (pictured above), Konono No1 were eventually 'discovered' by western musicians. Not surprisingly, they hooked up with The Ex early on during their international fame and have subsequently recorded two albums. Minigiedi says, "I didn't know there was such a thing as electronic music. I don't borrow from anyone."

They are playing Portland next week and I really should be going to see them but I have this thing called a 'new job' ... so I might just have to miss out on this meaningful, post-modern, transcendental, mind-expanding, life-changing, musical experience just so I can earn some $....

Random Update

These two photographs were taken by Gazelle from Leaping Beauty. Check out his blog for an abundance of impressive photography. They are a little sample of what you can expect from foulweather #2. Patch and Rick from Sissyfish have promised to provide graphic accompaniment and Ras from Ku Yah and Justin of Life and Limb fame will both be contributing stories. Stay tuned.

Unstuck In Time

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. 1922 - 2007

When the last living thing

has died on account of us,

how poetical it would be

if Earth could say,

in a voice floating up

perhaps

from the floor

of the Grand Canyon,

“It is done.”

People did not like it here.

When The Child Was a Child...

The Photography of Mary Ellen Mark




Early morning on Rainbow Bridge, Rat leaps eighty feet into the water.

Rat (Voice over): I love to fly. It's just you're alone, there's peace and quiet, nothing around you but clear blue sky. No one to hassle you. No one to tell you where to go or what to do. The only bad part about flying is having to come back down to the fuckin' world.

I got the new Adbusters in the mail the other day and was immediately taken aback by the cover which is based around the top photograph. The younger looking boy looked very familiar. I wondered whether it was someone I had worked with but then it came to me. A few years ago I saw a documentary about Seattle's street kids called Streetwise. The film was made in 1981 and was inspired by the photography of Mary Ellen Mark.

Franz Kafka once said, "A book must be an ice axe to break the sea frozen inside us." I'd say, that should apply to all art forms. As a social service worker, it is all too easy to become numb to the daily tribulations of society's less fortunate. Some days a 'client' might mean nothing more to you than an hour's worth of paper work. Devouring Mark's images, certainly thawed my spirit, frozen by an inefficient, underfunded 'system' and a seemingly endless supply of 'clients,' temporarily at least. Mark's photography, to an extent, also renewed my faith in the role of the artist in this mess of a culture. But more than that, it helped me admitt that I'd rather be an artist than a social worker.
Beauty from the filth, prettiness in the shittiness.

(When the child was a child is the first line of Song Of Childhood by Peter Handke which serves as the opening monologue to one of the greatest films of all time.)

When The Lines Go Down

When the shit hits the fan, you will be able to find me here. There is no cell service or internet out here though....

When The Lines Go Down By Q and Not U

Trees sent communiques to bed.
Fingerprints found tampering, fiber optic brambling.
Instant messages sent to your bed.
Pillowcase up in the trees.
Press your face up in the trees.
Press your face up in the pines.
Text your message through the vines.
Press your face up in the pines.
Born without any anytime minutes to lose.
This wood is deep and I'm not dead.
Deep in the thicket, I'm not dead.
Service continues, I'm not dead.
Continues,

I'm not dead.

We can stay in touch today.
We can stay in touch this way so we can stay and touch.

Maui, Hawai'i Part II

"...And what about Hawaii, the inspiration for much of what today is considered surfing? Caught in the middle of the Pacific between the Manifest Destiny forces of Rassenkampfreinheitsgebot and the economic impetus of the co-prosperity sphere, the iwi na kupuna had no way out. This sophisticated society was expunged in its native state of grace before it had a chance to explain itself. So what we see today is... surfing as profiled by the popular history of the sport. Surfing as Miss America posing proudly with her Swastika surfboard. Surfing as mega-million dollar industry. Surfing, the global marketing phenomenon. Surfing, the professional sport. Surfboards, the artifacts printed on Donald Duck's aloha shirt when he greets you in Disney's California Adventure."

-Craig Stecyk in the Introduction to Surf Culture: The Art History Of Surfing.

Fibreglass Flower

What's the story behind this picture? Check the Wend Blog to find out.

In other news, Foulweather #2 is coming along nicely and I'm excited that I have two people contributing stories and two others contributing photos/ art. The loose theme is The Beach and you can expect several stories, essays and humour on the cultural, political and symbolical role of The Beach in this complicated civilization of ours. More details to follow but I'm working towards having it out by August for the Portland Zine Symposium.