Coming, Autumn 2007

The Beach is the ultimate borderland or no-man’s land. It is the boundary between land and sea, solid and liquid, man and nature, civilization and the wild, reality and fantasy, inhibition and liberation. Moral, cultural, political and personal battles are fought on this front-line.

Welcome To The Beach

Welcome To Foulweather #2


Foulweather is going on hiatus for a little while. Well not really, I'm going deep undercover and don't anticipate much computer access for the next month or so, at least I hope not. When I get back it will be full speed ahead with foulweather zine issue #2. Until then, if you are looking for some cultural stimulation here is a dumb and incomplete list of some of the things that have inspired foulweather, as a whole, in one way or another...


Fiction

The Road
Crime And Punishment
The Grapes Of Wrath
The Famished Road
From Empty Harbour To White Ocean
Grits
The English Patient
Blood Meridian
Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sleep
How Late it was, How Late
The Trial
The Wasp Factory
The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born
The God Of Small Things
Slaughterhouse Five


Non Fiction

Down And Out In London And Paris
Homage To Catalonia
My Revolting Life
The Revolution Of Everyday Life
Jumping The Line
Against Civilization
Running On Emptiness
Gone To Croatan
The Society of the Spectacle
The Authorized Biography Of Miki Dora
No Logo
Out Of The Night
You can't Win
Maus
Palestine
Persopolis
The Authorized Biography of Miki Dora

Poetry/plays

Keats
Blake
Thomas, Dylan
Linton Kwesi Johnson
Neruda
Snyder
Baraka
Miller


Music

Fugazi
Fela Kuti
Massive Attack
Godspeedyoublackemperor/ A Silver Mt Zion
Joy Division/ New Order
The Ex
Iggy
Dirty Three
Reem Kalani
Linton Kwesi Johnson
Crass
The Clash
Gang Of Four
Black Eyes/Flag/Sabbath
Sigur Ros
Dub and reggae comps

Film

American Beauty
Baraka
Brazil
Breaking The Waves
L'Haine
Wings Of Desire
Dead Man
Days Of Heaven
Down By Law
Empire Of The Sun
Stroszek
Pichote
Streetwise
The Seventh Seal
The Big Blue
The Thin Red Line
The New World

Geography

The Persian Gulf
The Atlantic
The Pacific
Unfamiliar cities, everywhere.
The streets

#5417

Not as impressive as many of the contributions to this gallery, but nevertheless, a Wednesday fix. #5417

Grasp

Worm's Head, Rhosilli, Wales By Pete

an extract...

We stood up and began our descent to the beach, slipping and sliding down the hill. The beach was cold and deserted, just what I had wanted. This was what Wales meant to me; a desolate beach in autumn, Atlantic weather blowing into your face, into your bones. Just you and a mate, wading out into the waters, silently agreeing that no one else will ever understand the joy you are both feeling, as you hop on your boards and paddle towards the impact zone of the heaving (or not so heaving) waves.

It was one of those surfs that I cannot really remember much about. I can remember that the sets were very few and far between. I can remember the weather. How the sky looked, how the sea looked. I can remember the seal that made a brief appearance but each and every wave blurred into one. Sometimes, I try hard to remember waves gone by. Waves that I have ridden that I know were some of my best. I try to remember the way I caught a wave, did I ease into it early? Or was it a sketchy last second late take off? I try and remember the first drop, how steep the wave was and how fast it peeled away. I try and remember each and every turn. But it all eludes me. Memories of the best waves are always elusive and that is how they should be, as it keeps you going back for more. Sometimes surfing is simply an ongoing quest to re-achieve that indescribable feeling, to reconnect with a few of life’s simpler and purer moments.

After surfing, we changed on the beach back into our rain-sodden clothes and began the long walk home. We decided to head to the road and perhaps catch a bus. We walked a couple of miles, our shoes squelching and our inner thighs growing raw as they rubbed against each other in the damp cold until we made it to Llanrhystud. We decided to go into a pub before trying to catch a bus into Aberystwyth.

We scraped around for enough change for two pints and sat down in the corner across from the open fire. There were several grizzled old drinkers sitting around the dusty wooden bar, smoking endless cigarettes and drinking bottomless pints, as much a part of the pub as the woodwork. No one paid us much attention, no doubt they grumbled about “bloody stuu-dents” invading their pub, their space, their little piece of this miserable planet.

“So is it serious between you and that girl then?” Gareth inquired.

“Early days still innit?” I said trying to shrug off his inquiry.

“What are you talking about early days? Jus ‘ow many girlfriends ‘ave ‘ou had anyway mush?” Gareth always exaggerated his accent when he mocked me.

“Orite, fuck off. I don’t know do I? I know fuck all about it, there you happy now?”

“Word of advice, don’t make too much off it. You know what I mean? Don’t fall too hard.”

“Of course I won’t” I was lying of course. It was already too late.

“See, you’ll never own her and she should never own you. This isn’t a sexist thing, it’s just, well people are like places you visit. You go there but there’s no point in trying to hang onto it.”

“A very romantic view on life, you have Gareth.” I joked.

He raised his eyebrows as if chastising me, “Seriously though, I think it is. I’m not just talking about people you might fuck but all people, family and friends included.”

“What are you on about now? What about you and Delaura?”

“That was just a bit of fun, for both us. For one I don’t think two people should commit to one another for life.”

“So you are saying you want to be free to fuck as many people, whenever you like?”

“No it goes beyond that. Way beyond that. I just don’t think we should put so much pressure on ourselves to force relationships to work. Whether it is someone you are sleeping with or your best mate.” His tone was serious now.

“Are you trying to tell me something here?”

“Of course I fucking am but not about us. What I mean is friends are where you are, not where you’ve been.”

“So what have you been reading then?”

“Yeah, guilty as charged there I’m afraid. I did get that from a book. A sci-fi novel of all genres. Anyway, I know you are an emotional ice cube...”

I frowned disapprovingly at the bastard not because he was wrong but because he knew more about me than I was comfortable with. He continued,

“...but right now, you are my best mate. But tomorrow, if I leave for Timbuk-bloody-tu or somewhere, that’s that. No point holding on. You see?”

“Sounds bleak.” I grumbled

“No it’s beautiful mun. And it should be the same for you and that girl. For everyone. It’s liberating don’t you see?”

We drank up and walked home in silence, forgetting about taking the bus. As we walked, I daydreamed of a sunset I saw a few months prior. It was a few days before or after the summer solstice and I was sitting on top of the cooling westward facing sand dunes at Llangennith. The swell was only a few feet high but it was rolling in perfectly uniform lines each equally spaced out. As each swell peaked it was briefly lit by the dying sun before it gently crumbled into white water. It was high tide and the white water was brighter than seemed natural. It was frothy and glowing, spreading itself over and finally sinking into the sand, leaving a magical trace of its existence before finally sinking back into the orange sea. The sky was mainly blue to the west but blackening to my rear in the east. Wisps of pink, white and reds were sprayed throughout the blue. A light offshore breeze was blowing through the dune grass, making a faint hissing sound.

I sat there and I tried to take it all in. The wind, the waves, the warmth, the sand, the sea, the sky, the clouds, the light, the dark. I wanted to hold onto it so desperately. I remember wondering to myself, just how I may hold onto a moment like that. I also remember a feeling of intense frustration that I could not be a part of it, be more within it than I already was. Gareth was right, I think. I thought back to a book I was reading while I worked in Evans’ garden. To grasp something is to lose it, it had told me.

Release

My wife has been encouraging me too see an acupuncturist for years and I have always been a skeptic. Not just of alternative healing methods but of conventional western medicine also. I have tended to let my body and mind heal themselves usually by denying the problem or just pushing ahead and through it until it has gone.

Anyway, severe back pain finally got me on an acupuncturist's table a few times over the last month and I can't really described the relief. I'm not sure how or why it works but it did. Maybe because I wanted it to.

Each time, I try and absorb a bit more of what the acupuncturist is telling me about the five elements and how they influence one's physical, emotional and mental well being. It is slowly starting to make more sense and at the risk of sounding a bit new age, I have never felt the connection between mind and body so clearly before.

She has also prescribed me lots of surfing. Can't question that...

It is all down hill....

Old guy (Patrick) riding down a hill under the shadow of my hate. Photo by Pete.

So here is the 'controversial' story, my irresponsible journalism etc. Please feel free to let me know where I 'hate' on skateboarding and kids who would otherwise be carrying AK 47s...

Please pick up the new Wend for the properly edited version along with some killer photography from the Eastside Longboarders:

Downhill somewhere past 45, the line fluctuates. It’s a different place and time for each rider, but after 45, it becomes increasingly apparent. An all-encompassing awareness of an impending bad situation… Downhill, one inch to either side or one inch past this intangible line and it suddenly becomes a physical presence. By the time you see this line, it’s all over anyway; the only thing left to do is reassess your mistakes, get down, and try to find it again.- CR Stecyk III, 1975

In this day and age, skateboarders, by and large, specialize in one of the two main forms of skateboarding, performing highly technical maneuvers in the street or manipulating the bowls and transitions of a skatepark. It wasn’t always this way. If you skated throughout the 1960s, 70s or 80s, chances are you indulged in various forms of skateboarding and there were many to choose from, including freestyle, slalom, pool, high-jump, half-pipe and of course, downhill.

Skateboarders have always ridden downhill. If you have ever spent any time on a skateboard you might well remember the first time you let gravity decide your fate. You might remember that exact moment when you accelerated to a speed beyond your comfort level and having to make the split second decision to either jump off or ride it out. It is one of the simplest thrills of the sport. Wait, skateboarding is a ‘sport?’ Maybe not, but perhaps it comes closest to being a sport with downhill. While most of skateboarding’s disciplines can only be subjectively judged, downhill can be measured quantitatively. Whether it is against other competitors, the clock, traffic or against your own fear; downhill skateboarding is always a race.

During the early 1990s, skateboarding went way underground. The only people really keeping it going were teenagers and twenty-somethings in ridiculously oversized clothing, performing very technical maneuvers on skinny boards and tiny wheels in the streets. San Francisco was the then epicenter of skateboarding and inevitably some of these ‘street-skaters’ were tackling the forty-nine hills of The City but downhill as form, was not really an integral part of the scene.

Meanwhile, across the bay in the hills of Berkley, deeper underground than the street skaters, the likes of Cliff Coleman were sliding down hills, as they had been doing since the 1960s. Coleman, now in his late fifties and still ‘bombing hills,’ perfected a technique of sliding that helps the skateboarder control their speed while negotiating seemingly impossible bends. Leather gloves with plastic plates on the palm are used to skid across the asphalt on their hands while they slide their boards around in a pendulum motion. It not only looks exceptionally graceful and skillfully controlled, it means downhillers can speed into turns without fear of ‘sliding-out’ and flying into on-coming traffic or off the road.

By the early 2000s, skateboarding began to re-emerge from the gutter. All the old geezers, largely inspired by the Z-Boys documentary, began re-exploring the styles and disciplines they had practiced in their heyday and downhill began to make a comeback. For downhill is one of the few disciplines of skateboarding where experience and an expanding waistline are advantages over the agility and recklessness of youth.

While there is something to be said for bombing a hill on small hard wheels, low to ground, on a conventional skateboard, the geared-out skaters on specialist equipment are the ones really pushing the limits. From carbon-fiber decks to high performance soft and grippy urethane wheels with top-secret chemical formulas and geometrically complicated trucks to full-faced motorbike helmets and streamlined leather racing suits, these guys take it seriously.

This summer, downhill is set to continue its come-back. In an effort to boost tourism, the city of Capitola, near Santa Cruz, CA is hoping to reintroduce the Capitola Classic, a legendary race that was once one of the focal points of the downhill scene. It will be one of only a handful of races around the country where skateboarders will see how close they can get to the current world record of 62.55 MPH, held by Gary Hardwick. Gary has allegedly but unofficially hit 72 MPH.

72 MPH, mere inches above the asphalt, standing on an unstable wooden plank.

I'm clueless...

So it appears my piece on the resurgence of downhill skateboarding in the latest Wend Magazine really offended someone over at Epodic. Not sure who they are as they did not feel the need to leave their name. Anyway, apparently my article was the equivalent of crapping in Wend Magazine and illustrated just how clueless I am about skateboard culture. (See comments on the previous post for details)

Oh my...

Sometimes I wish I hadn't wasted so much time skateboarding but here I am 22 years deep and the obsession remains. It is a culture I would never crap on and in case you are interested in my thoughts about the exploitation of skate culture you can read about them in foulweather #1 or online here. There won't be a foulweather Nike Dunk up for review at Epodic anytime soon, that is for sure.

Oh yeah, check out the new Wend:

Convergence II

Well fortune was on my side again yesterday....

In the four hours I was out surfing, the Columbia River bouy reading went from 5.6' @ 8 seconds to 8.2' @ 9 secs... Pure evening glass. Six people out. And that is all I have to say about that.

Exclusive

These images are from plans to reclaim vast amounts of land from the Persian Gulf to create exclusive private communities in Bahrain. Places like this already exist in Dubai.

I used to go to a Whites Only beach in Bahrain. The Sheikh's Beach it was called. Actually, it wasn't Whites Only it was No Natives, particularly no Muslims, but that pretty much extended to Whites Only with a few Japanese and Filipino people allowed in. It was a stunning beach with a palace (one of the Emir's many) and beautiful lawns before the sand. Date palms and a swimming pool. There was free soda also. The Emir would entertain, scantily clad Scandinavian women while we frolicked in the salty Persian Gulf. It was free but guarded by 'Public Security' bearing rifles. The only rule was you couldn't bring in a camera. I hitchhiked to the Sheikh's Beach once and was trying to hitchhike a ride home, when the Emir, Sheikh Isa Bin Sulman AlKhalifa (who has since died) saw me and asked me what I was doing and if I liked his country.

'Of course.' I replied.

He asked if I was waiting for a taxi.

'No I don't have any money on me.'

Then he summoned one of the gardeners to give me a few friends a ride home. I think that was one of the last times I went there. A year or so later I returned to Bahrain and the streets were in riotous uproar due to a variety socio/political/religious factors. The beach had been shut down in consequence. As disgusted as I am that I used to go, it was the done thing amongst expats and I think it contributed significantly to my political awakening.

More about this in foulweather #2

Narrow Perspective I: The Strongest of the Strange

Pontus Alv, nollie out of a wallride by Eric Antoin

When I started this blog it was largely to promote my writing. I did not want it to become a surf or skate themed blog but inevitably, I was going to feature those two activities because I spend so much time dwelling on them. In actuality one of the reasons I write at all is because of surfing and skateboarding. As an early teen I would obsess over surf and skate magazines and read every word cover to cover. I didn't read anything else and due to some undiagnosed ADD, it took a tremendous amount of effort for me to read anything. Then one day I read a short story in a surf magazine. It was about intergalactic surf exploration. I immediately ripped it off and wrote my own version. I didn't show anyone except my grandmother Una, who was super supportive of my effort. It took several years of writing crappy poetry and short stories before I admitted to anyone else that I was pretending to be a writer. I made a few efforts at being a 'serious writer' to varying degrees of success but it eventually dawned on me that we all choose (or are forced) to view the world from an often very narrow perspective and I should not ignore mine. This is not necessarily a bad thing. As I believe in some sense, it is possible to learn more about the world if you stare at it intensively from one angle instead of trying to take the whole thing in.

Since age nine, I've stared at the world intensively from the deck of a skateboard. Skateboarding led me to places (physical and mental) I probably would never have visited before. It led me to hidden corners of the city, forcing me to interact with people I'd never would have known existed. It led me out my house at 2am in the morning, to hitchhike into the city center to attack painted curbs and marble banks. It forced me to challenge authority. It taught me patience, concentration and pain management. It taught me about physics, geography, architecture and urban theory. It helped me interact with the streets and really understand my environment. It put me in a police cell and hospital. It also provided me with some of the most meaningful relationships of my life.

Sounds tacky I know. The only reason I write about it in this way is because there is lots of talk these days of skateboarding becoming a legitimate sport. Schools now have after school skateboard clubs that help kids, 'train' and 'get sponsored' and could well be in the 2008 Olympics. More and more skateparks are being constructed and while I am a fan of skateparks, I fear that more designated sanctioned areas to ride, will make it easier for the authorities to shut us out of where skateboarding really belongs; the streets. I fear the rules, recommendations and regulations and the standardization that might come along with it all and stunt skateboard culture.

I don't really understand modern skateboarding but every once in awhile I'm provided with a glimpse of the skateboarding I once knew and still hold sacred. This time last year my friend Vegan Shawn hooked my up with a Swedish film entitled The Strongest of the Strange (Yes after the Bukowski poem) made by a skateboarder from my generation, named Pontus Alv. From San Francisco to Stockholm via Barcelona and Mongolia. With a stunning soundtrack of New Order, Joy Division, Sonic Youth, Leonard Cohen, Killing Joke, Neil Young and many more, The Strongest of The Strange is a awe-inspiring depiction of the culture. I could write a whole review of this film but you can watch it by clicking the link below. I will say that this film, is not about skateboarding as a sport. It is not about who does what trick. It is about a way of looking at the world from this beautifully narrow perspective.

Watch it here (but not at work unless your boss is cool with a bit of nudity)

Convergence

Not getting tubed, Photo by Stiv.

I had one of my best surfs in a long time yesterday. Conditions were far from epic but there were lots of waves coming through. I was about done with my day and so caught a mediocre right-hander in. After a couple of turns it mushed out and I had to pump hard to keep speed. As I was doing so, a left came reeling from the other direction, converged with the wave I was riding and created a steep wedge. The wave then started reeling, fast. Meanwhile, I was taking note of another surfer paddling out on my inside.

And then the lip began to pitch.

Tuck in and risk getting pitched on the bloke paddling out or play it safe and kick out over the top?

I tucked in and hoped for glory. Hand in the face, I kept my eye on the paddling surfer. I could see a big grin on his face as the aquatic curtain closed over me. It didn't last long and I'm glad it doesn't happen often or I would pretty much have to permanently go on the lam, in search of more and more...

As instant as it was, my little tube, totally re-invigorated my love of surfing and justified all the time I waste seeking out these fractional moments.

I still suck.

Where are going? Where are you from?

Photo by G

The last post was a bit of a bummer. I hope you still read it but here is something to cheer you up for the weekend...

Imagine a boot, stomping on a human face - Forever

Graphic 'Primal Scream' by Eric Drooker


These events took place a good few months ago but I just re-discovered this account I wrote after one of the players told me about it. Not sure what the point of sharing it is. Just so we are a bit more aware of some people's reality, I suppose...

Sunday. A 40-year-old single dad of an eleven -year old girl returns home. In front of his apartment complex are a group of three thugs who were evicted months ago but still hang out. He normally ignores them and steps around them but tonight he politely asks them to move out of their way, ‘Ask nicely.’ One of them says. He obliges, he doesn’t want trouble he just wants to get home. ’Please can we get buy.’ ‘I didn’t like the way you asked.’ Next thing he knows it, he is waking up on the cold hard pavement. He was whacked over the back of his head. While unconscious, the thugs stamped on his head and back. His daughter tried to fight them off. A frail old lady across the street intervened and told the thugs she was calling the cops and paramedics. Eventually, they stopped stamping. He was out cold for ten minutes. After awhile he stumbles up and goes, inside his apartment. The paramedics arrive soon after. Out of his mind and confused he refuses their help and they leave. The old lady convinces the paramedics to go back and take a look at him. They agree but say he has to meet them outside. Afraid to go outside, he grabs his gun. Seeing all the flashing lights, he thinks it is the ambulance but it is the police. They quickly apprehend him, as he is pretty much blind and crippled at this point. He then takes a second beating off, this time from the police. They find out he is licensed to carry his weapon but are still keen to charge him. ‘Menacing’ seems fitting. He is cuffed and carted off to jail without medical attention. The old lady offers to look after his daughter. The cops refuse. The man asks the police to call his daughters godparents to pick her up, the cops again refuse. His daughter is placed in protective custody. Now, he has to prove he is a competent parent before getting her back. Apparently, they think he is a gang-banger. Really, he is an awkward goofy middle-aged man, with a lame sense of humor. His glasses are too thick. He wears his pants too high. He has a DUI on his record from years ago, nothing else. He is a single dad, trying to raise a young girl. Later on, he will make jokes about the police thinking he is a gang-banger. No one will laugh. In jail, the police soon realize they can’t really hold him and decide to release him. By now it is about midnight. He asks them, how he is supposed to get home, given that he can’t see. They eventually let him call his little girl’s godparents. There is no one else to call. They pick him up and take him to the ER. Next day the doctors want to hold him but he can’t stop worrying about his daughter. He has to get her back. The doctors say he has to sign some papers, as if he dies they don’t want to be responsible. He does. Back at his daughter’s godparents’ house, he can’t stop saying his daughter’s name. He wants to sleep. They worry he won’t wake up. They go to Juvenile Detention Hall to find out where is daughter is. She is in emergency foster care. They will go before a judge the next day and he will have to prove he is a competent parent because of the police’s decision. Meanwhile, child welfare caseworkers are already investigating and asking the little girl’s teachers what they know. The teachers talk of a caring involved parent. They say he punishes his daughter by making her write sentences. Multnomah County has no case against this man and the judge will realize that very quickly the following day, as the father sits there, his back bruised purple, eyes swollen shut, brain rattled, possibly permanently. He goes to the pharmacy to get his prescription filled. Uninsured he can’t afford both the antibiotics and the painkillers. He chooses the painkillers. The pharmacist says, ‘Both or none. We can’t give you just one.’ He replies, ‘You mean, you get to decide for me, what I get to take?’ Eventually, a doctor prescribes him a cheaper antibiotic. While, he scrambles around making his house look presentable to the Child Welfare Workers, the same thugs who kicked his ass, sit on the same steps they did when he had returned home the previous night.