foulweather

2012: The Slash And Grind As Prayer.

2012-01-29T11:49:00.000-08:00

Photo by CR Stecyk

My acupuncturist has told me several times that perhaps, I don't necessarily need to do yoga or meditate because I surf and skate.

Skateboarding came out of surfing in the beginning. The fact that it evolved out of a Stone Age pursuit makes skateboarding a more interesting activity than baseball. If you look at something that goes back thousands of years in Polynesia, which surfing obviously does, that was before they had sports, it was a time when they only had activities that were spiritually and significantly important to the culture. Whatever the current manifestation of it is or how much its merchandised or marketed or being bartered about or bastardized, that doesn’t get in the way of something that has that deep a history. Why wouldn’t it return to the spiritual underpinnings? I’m not sure that it won’t or that it hasn’t already.
-CR Stecyk Juice Magazine #69

2012 Part 1

2012-01-20T08:11:00.000-08:00

Dinosauria, We by Charles Bukowski

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

I've got major plans for 2012

2012-01-15T09:45:00.000-08:00

(cell phone pic by Rich)

but then, I look at my skateboard and the dry streets and that's the end of them. Move the body. Still the mind.

SE Brooklyn and 16th

2011-12-28T20:42:00.000-08:00

In August of 2010 after a couple months hiatus from skateboarding after cracking my head open on an over vert hang up to flat bottom, I decided it was time to jump back on the four-wheeled sled of joy again. With the sun going down and not wanting to hop in my car, I decided to hit the streets and see what the city would provide me. Pushing through inner southeast Portland, I began to hit my old stand by spots that I've been skating since I moved here in 1999. These are mostly some janky banks, walls slappy curbs, barriers, curb cuts and so on, nothing to write home about but more than enough to re-find my skate legs.

Heading towards the train tracks and warehouses, I remembered my friend Jeff Fryar had mentioned a Jersey barrier had recently been 'modified' with some concrete and was supposedly incredibly easy to skate. The location was SE Brooklyn and 16th, backed up against the tracks; just around the corner from where Elliot Smith sang about scoring heroin in 'Needle in the Hay.' I found the barrier in question but at first notice didn't think it skateable. The run-up was bone-rattling, there was no sign of any concrete work and a grizzled looking vagrant stared me down. As I got closer I finally noticed the transition on the other side of the barrier, "See what these guys have done?' The homeless guy growled. 'Yeah, mind if I ride?' I asked, remembering some graffiti from Burnside a few years back that stated, 'I don't skate in your bedroom, so please don't sleep in my skatepark.' ‘No man, go ahead.' He enthusiastically replied. However, he soon lost interest watching me trying to wrestle a frontside rock and roll into submission in the near dark. After a successful roll away, I could see this little spot wasn't your typical patched up jersey barrier, it was actually skateable for a mere mortal such as myself.

By now the story of Burnside is well know and many of Burnside's pioneers now design and build some of the best ‘sanctioned’ skate parks in the world. Up until the last couple of years Portland seriously reaped the benefit of such local expertise, became an international skate destination and a 'Nineteen Park Plan’ was even passed by the City. From the almighty Pier Park with its 20' full pipe to the quirky Holly Farm with brink banks and over vert clamshell that I cracked my head on, Portland skateboarders were seemingly getting spoilt. But after four skateparks and one skate plaza, the momentum slowed down and the reality of the economic recession sunk in. As time went by, skaters talked less and less of the Nineteen Park Plan and just got on with skateboarding. Every sunny day, most of these parks are still jammed full with skaters, more so than any nearby tennis court or baseball field. The need for terrain is obviously still there and no matter how good Portland skateboarders have it, its not going to be enough any time soon. The Portland skate scene is determined to set a standard for everyone. So inevitably, when city funded efforts ran dry, skateboarders once again took matters into their own hands.

The DIY ethic runs deep in this town. From coffee roasting, to self-publishing, to recording music and of course skate park building. The knowledge and inspiration has now filtered out to the wider world. Burnside sparked it off, followed by projects such as FDR and Washington Street and San Pedro and Pontus Alv's urban sculpting of Malmo, Sweden. It seems as though modifying spots and creating spots is now part of the package of being a modern skateboarder, especially as 'natural' spots become increasingly outlawed and hard to find. With this jersey barrier on SE Brooklyn and 16^th,the DIY approach to skatepark building had come full circle in Portland.

Colin Sharp, who runs Unheard Skate Supply, tells it like this. One day after finishing a little half pipe for his kids in his backyard, he looked at the left over bags of concrete and thought of the nearby jersey barriers. Jesse ‘The trowel’ Mc Dowell who had been involved with a couple of Southern Oregon coast parks had been helping Colin and so the two of them threw up the make-shift transition on the evening of July 15^th 2010. Thereafter, plenty of other skateboarders got involved. It wasn’t uncommon for people to walk-by a build-session at the spot to just jump on in to contribute manual labor, cash donations or words of encouragement.

Brooklyn St Skate Spot’s Facebook page was set up early on and was a useful source for funding. Cal Skate, Rip City Skates and Shrunken Head Skate shop set up donation jars on their counters and several long bands threw fundraiser nights. Notably, Skaters For Portland Skateparks threw down a generous chunk of change. On more than one occasion neighborhood residents and non-skateboarding passers-by would kick down some cash just because they were stoked to see people doing something constructive and creative with this sketchy piece of wasteland. The Facebook Page was also a useful forum for design discussion and requests for labor assistance. Ultimately, the park was designed as it went along, and aided by whoever was free on build days, with Jesse serving as foreman and visionary.

It wasn’t long before this random jersey barrier spot became a full-on DIY skatepark project. There were a few early sabotage efforts by a less than pleased local business owner but tensions were eventually ironed out. Consequently, Coiln and Jesse decided to seek legitimacy, first getting the local police officer on board, then Union Pacific (whose land some of the park sits on) the neighborhood organizations, local skatepark advocates, and eventually the city planning office. In part, thanks to Portland’s skateboarding Head of Transport, Tom Miller, they were taken seriously.

Currently, the spot’s first phase is complete but there is much talk of forging onwards and utilizing as much of the easement as possible. Jesse has since become quite the concrete craftsman and has gone on the help build parks with Grindline. Meanwhile, Colin is currently in discussions about advocating for other DIY/ skater-built but city sanctioned skatespots throughout Portland. Other skaters who got involved with Brooklyn St, have gained a serious appetite for concrete work and the skills to go on to build their own spots elsewhere.

To skate, Brooklyn St is no Burnside but it has its own unique appeal. Most of the walls are four foot and under but it still requires you put in your time finding the lines, reading the trannies, corners and hips, to tap into the speed pockets and link it all together as fluidly as possible. Brooklyn St can only really accommodate one skater at a time and on any given dry day, you'll find a dozen or so people there by noon.

Maybe you'll see legendary photog Bryce Kanights shooting a high profile pro. Maybe you'll see neighborhood kids getting their first grinds on pool coping. Maybe you'll see Colin Sharp, Johnny Turgesen and Brian Rensberry on a 'coffee' break from work at the nearby Unheard Skate Supply HQ. Or caretakers Kenny and Chris removing bad graffiti and saucing the coping before shredding it a new one. Maybe Jesse McDowell will be there in between building ‘legit’ parks. Maybe you'll see Choppy Omega or other Burnside legends bringing their skills to a smaller tighter arena. What you definitely will see is skateboarder's reaping the benefit of other skaters’ initiative, hard work and creativity along with the endorsement and generosity of the community as a whole. Brooklyn St isn't exactly a 'destination' park like some of the other nearby parks, but it is an example of neighborhood enhancement, community involvement and a little inspiration as to what you might be able to achieve in our own 'hood. Skateboarders build the best skate spots, now go build your own.

2011-12-27T12:36:00.000-08:00

To the washing machine that took my poems,

Take my left arm or a fiver but never my poems.

I used to look forward to the Apocalypse

2011-12-08T09:29:00.000-08:00

but now that it is just around the corner...

Illustration from Dark Wave a new zine by Jay Howell, coming soon from Unpiano Books

...The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them. She was the universe.

-Darkness by Lord Byron

Una Mary Bernadette

2011-12-01T23:16:00.000-08:00

Mervyn and Una

Last night my little girl tells her mother and I that we have to write about her heritage for a school project. I said, that's easy 'You're half Welsh and half American.' Then, after trying to explain why as Welsh people we do not speak Welsh, I realized we should probably go a bit deeper with the heritage thing. Next thing I know, I feel like the old man re-hashing tragic and fantastical tales of family members of yore. I soon realized the one member of the family my little one really had to know more about, from, my perspective, was my grandmother. I don’t have much communication with the dead but Una is one of them.

Now, I know in America people love to claim various heritages. 1/16th this, an 1/8th that, half this, always part- Irish if you're white... Personally, I don't claim anything but Welsh. I have a British passport but I'm Welsh. End of story. But in the interest of being fair to the heritage of my little girl, I am going to tell her about my chain-smoking Irish Catholic grandmother who had had a Welsh of an accent as they come, Una Mary Bernadette York.

Una was born in Wexford, Ireland in 1926 and must have moved to South Wales shortly thereafter. I don’t have much information on her parents. ‘Gypos’ I’ve been told. Possibly. From photos I’ve seen they certainly didn’t look very conventional. My great grandmother wore a trilby and smoked a pipe, apparently.

After living through the Nazi’s attempt to flatten Swansea, Una married Mervyn in the fifties and had two kids, Mike and Kathleen, my mum. Mervyn died at age thirty-seven, when my mum was six and I don’t think Una ever recovered. Even though she was only in her thirties, she became an instant old woman at that point.

I’ll never know the truth but let’s just say I was not exactly planned by nineteen year old Kath but nevertheless I entered the picture in 1975. From the beginning Una filled the gaps where my mum and dad where unable to. She was a third parent, as I’ve always said. Una became Gran or Granny to everyone from that point on. A new identity that I believe she thrived on in her own unstated way. She was still a tragic widow but with a new purpose in life.

When we began our world travels in the 80s, Una came with us. All six of us would be wedged into a rental car, driving across some far-flung highway. While Dad snarled and sweated behind the steering wheel, my little brother, sister, Una and I would be squished into the back, trying to keep calm.

I’d often share a room with Una, trying not to breathe in too much of her cigarette smoke as I attempted to sleep. Consequently, I have still yet to smoke a cigarette. Her bibles and crucifix’s scared the shit out of me and I partially credit them with an early and obsessive fear of death; a fear that took me years to confront in a healthy manner.

Despite the cigarettes and the morbid paintings of Christ, Una and I developed a connection. Providing less discipline than my parents, she was more of a passive guide. I now wonder how intentional it was. Well I suppose, if the boy is going to attempt to walk across this tight-rope, I’ll try and guide him across the chasm…

Probably aged twelve or so, for whatever reason I wrote a poem. It became a nasty little habit that I shared with nobody. Unable to articulate why or even what I was attempting to do, I kept my writing secret. There was no way in hell I would tell my mum or dad, let alone share anything I had written with them. It was the same with friends and teachers.

Una and I would often be the last ones up at night, often watching Peter Falk as Columbo on the telly before going to bed. I might be hacking out some story about surfing in outer space, vampires or being a social retard, and she’d be smoking away reading women’s magazines, drinking endless cups of tea. On one such night I decided to share some of my writing with her. I’m sure it was painful to read but the result was probably one of the most crucial boosts of self-confidence I ever had. I want to think she was just glad I was even pursuing literature and also that she had been the first one to be let in on it. My next story about surfing in outer space ended up in a school literary magazine.

She never gave me shit when she caught me stealing my dad’s beer, or sneaking in the house at three in the morning, or when she caught me taking the car out for a spin, or found used condoms wrappers under my bed. She kept calm when I called her from jail, never once judging my fuck-ups, there was never even a sigh of disappointment.

By my late teens Una was in her early seventies, and she was breaking bones, on what seemed like a monthly basis. The smoking and poor diet had already contributed to what was a nasty does of osteoporosis. Combine that with the mentality of someone who had assumed the role of old widow for the last forty years and the deterioration was quick. Each time I’d come home from university, she appeared more withered, hunched and pale. It was hard to see her resembling a child, barely able to walk, feed herself or talk but still able to smoke. Her delicate hands shaking as she tried to light a cigarette that looked eerily long as it shook between her quivering lips. She stopped dying her hair but still applied lip-stick, a comi-tragic effort to… I don’t know what… she was trying to do…

She eventually quit smoking when she ended up in a nursing home. I went to see her every week or so but sometimes I would go a few weeks without visiting. I remember telling myself, I was going to step up my visits. Of course, I was caught up in my own shit in my early twenties and barely keeping it together myself, let alone in a space to help someone’s last months on earth be a meaningful transition.

I was one of the few relatives that lived closed to her. My mother, who struggled with the nursing home decision, lived half way across the globe at that point. It never occurred to me that Una would die so quick. She kept telling me, she’d get better and would be living with my mum again soon and I believed her. Perhaps, soon I’ll start visiting her twice I week, I’d say to myself…. at least until she’s back living with Mum again.

She soon died in that nursing home, asleep, and alone. I felt terrible, of course. I felt like our family had just given up on her and had just sat it out waiting for her to die. That was an unfair assumption but back then I believed that we were no better than any other modern western family, unable to cope with this inevitability.

At the same time, her death opened a window for me. A gust of Autumn air rushed into my stagnant bedroom that night. Cold reality rushed up through my nostrils and deep into my lungs and it was good. That night, I slept hard and had the most vivid dream I have had to date. It was as if Una was at the foot of my bed. An overwhelming sense of peace overcame me as she told me, ‘Everything is OK, now.’ That’s all she said. She seemed calm and happy. I woke up and started a new stage of my life the next day and took my first confident steps towards death.

Entanglements of unnecessary complications

2011-11-30T20:24:00.000-08:00

The life of savages is so simple, and our societies are such complicated machines! The Tahitian is so close to the origin of the world, while the European is close to its old age. The contrast between them and us is grater than the difference between a newborn baby and a doddering old man. They understand absolutely nothing about our manners or our laws, and they are bound to see in them nothing but shackles disguised in a hundred different ways. Those shackles could only provoke the indignation and scorn of creatures in whom the most profound feeling is love of liberty.

-Denis Diederot (1774)

Taken from the indispensable anthology Against Civilization

2011-11-28T09:04:00.000-08:00

Art by Travis Millard

Remember when you were fifteen and you'd place your skateboard in sight, so you could get one last look at it before you went to sleep? Remember that one punk song you played over and over, because it described your life to a tee? Remember feeling weird about writing poetry but you'd do it anyway? Of course you do.

Episodic Conflict: Nadeem

2011-11-25T08:23:00.000-08:00

Last night, I came across a photo of my childhood friend, Nadeem Chawhan. When I was about eleven, I could inhale on my doorstep and get to his front door without exhaling. Nadeem, was one of my few good friends at a very crucial age. There were a group of us pre-teen boys, of mixed-nationalities, living in the same neighborhood compound. All curious about masturbation, girls, shaving, exploring the world, doing dangerous pre-teen boy things and eventually skateboarding. We’d certainly muck about with other kids but those were my ‘Stand By Me’ boys.

I was mostly quiet, bottling up all my woes, while Nadeem was way more socially outgoing, if not physically. He was a performer, an eloquent comedic young man. He was happy with himself. A self-confessed human sloth, even at that age. He often made me do something on his skateboard for him, as he wasn’t as prepared to launch off our dangerous launch ramp into a brick wall in quiet the same way I was. I wanted the pain. Nadeem wanted to make fun of me for such undertakings. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. He had the social bollocks and I had the physical.

Now, I’m in real pain. Grown man pain. Palm bruises that won’t heal. Elbows that are swollen with bits of something or other floating around in them. Still trying launch myself into brick walls, more out of force of habit more than anything. Fountain of youth, I tell myself. A slightly clearer mind, perhaps, but still scab-ridden.

During those delicate early teenage days when a young man desperately tries to assert himself. the cultural differences became more apparent. Nadeem would spend more time in traditional Pakistani garb and go to the mosque, while I was trying to get the neighborhood girls to show me their underwear by saying as little as possible. “You’re so quiet in school and out of school you’re fucking weird but you can kiss me if you like.” They’d tell me.

One day, Nadeem riled me up pretty hard. I can’t even remember the details. We pretending to be soap salesman or something ridiculous. Going door to door selling soap, just generally being cheeky little bastards. Nadeem, probably sensing, I would suck at this game, told out first ‘customer’ I was a mute. So I was unable to unleash the hilarious sales spiel I had planned in my little mind. As we walked a way, everyone in hysterics at our exploits, I was furious. Nadeem wouldn’t let up. He created an alter-ego for me. The more he went into detail, the more my blood boiled. I wonder, if he wanted to see how far he could push me because he soon found out.

As we rounded a corner, we came across one of the girl’s whose underwear I was pretty keen on seeing, with her friends, her older brother and his friends. They were all British like myself and thinking back now, I must have believed they would be impressed with a fight.

So I pushed Nadeem and told him I was sick of his routine. He laughed. I said I was serious and knocked him to the ground. “What are you doing?” He asked, confused.

I got on top of him and began punching him. “Stop. Stop!” He said. I don’t think he’d even been in a fight before. I said, “I’ll stop when you call yourself a Paki-Shit.”

“What?”

Say,”I’m a Paki-Shit” and I’ll stop punching you I snarled. The crowd of Brits cheering me on,

“Get that fat Paki, Pete!”

I’m not sure how many punches it took, but Nadeem eventually said it,

Paki-Shit.

I immediately let him go and he walked home.

And things were never the same again.

I wanted to cry but I walked up to the Brits and let them shower me with praise, instead.

Nadeem is a motivational speaker now, apparently. I flicked through his profile photos. He looks sincerely content. Lots of photos of him surrounded by adoring young ‘leaders.’ Then I clicked on one, of him and he looked the spit of his father and I nearly cried.

Why am I crying? Because I miss my childhood friend? Because I miss my childhood? Because I never worked through the confusion that caused me to brutally humiliate him that day?

He moved on. But obviously I hadn’t and neither do I deserve to just yet.

Seeing Nadeem’s photo made me desperately want to re-connect with him.. Instead, I thought about how it might play out. I wasn’t convinced it would benefit either of us. Apparently, he has nothing but good things to say about me. Probably, that incident is far heavier baggage for me than him.

Michael, Nadeem and my, mutual American friend from that era, found me a couple of years back. We aren’t Facebook friends, don’t email about the old days or anything like that but about once a year, I get a call when he passes through town with his band. Let’s skate. Fuck yes, let’s skate. It amazes me how, we can pick twenty years later and still be on a similar wavelength. That connectivity can’t pass along fiber-optic cables.

Pakistan is a long way from the Pacific Northwest. I doubt Nadeem and I will ever cross paths again but man, if we do, if we do, I’m not going to beg for forgiveness but I know how I’d like it to go.

-Winter 2010

2011-11-23T16:48:00.001-08:00

until the light takes us

2011-11-10T08:46:00.001-08:00

we are

aware

we are aware

we are

aware

of our own eventual demise

and

we are

we are comfortable with our own eventual demise

are

we are

OK with

2011-11-05T17:56:00.000-07:00

There was a party atmosphere at the credit union today.

Gutted Wells Fargo after the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake.
Photo from SF Gate

John Zerzan on Steve Jobs

2011-11-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

One of the things I noticed in the obits and letters to the editor about Jobs was the recurrent notion that he enhanced our connectivity. This is something that strikes me as such an irony. We're all connected now, we're all wired, we have this complete ease of contact with everybody - but it's also obvious that the more society becomes entrenched in these so-called connecting technologies, the more isolated we are as individuals. It's clear the machines are connected, but to what extent are humans connected? Everybody's on their cell phone all the time, to me it's like zombies, you walk along the street and people bump into you because they're so enthralled by these devices.

Read the full interview here.

A pre Nos Galan Gaeaf ritual to say goodbye to summer

2011-10-30T08:34:00.000-07:00

Dark thrones and tight trannies

Fitz feeble grinds in the shadow of the horns

Pat with a frontside air into the northern sky

Jeff tailslides into an eternal pagan winter

Pete sweeping away the last remnants of light, embracing the Transilvanian Hunger on the grill

More photos of the ritual over at The FRR

2011-10-29T19:14:00.001-07:00

What Does Free Jazz Have in Common With Black Metal?

2011-10-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

...unlike Jack Johnson they both potentially offer catharsis or a transcendental experience, as all good art should do. They are methods of re-connecting with our primal instincts and reminding us that as human beings we are interconnected with everything else. Authentic art breaks through the artificial construct of time and enhances the inhibited perceptions of civilized man. While art is symbolic and not direct experience itself, it can still offer glimpses of what we once knew and perhaps point us towards an existence where it will no longer be neccesary. Because for most of our existence, it was not.

Occupy Brooklyn St

2011-10-22T09:51:00.000-07:00

Julien did... Unreal shot of an impossible frontside air. Go hit that pool pocket and tell me otherwise.

Seize some public space, re-interpret it, voice your opinion, start the revolution, instigate wild abandon, then ask permission, create humanity.

Brooklyn St set to expand some time soon. For now Lulu and I have been enjoying some pre-school sessions.

Be Reasonable, Demand The Impossible

2011-10-19T13:23:00.000-07:00

Arab Spring to the US Autumn? Highly unlikely but the Occupy Movement is prompting plenty of discussion. While I have been down to the Occupy Portland camp on several occasions, I have to admit the cynical old bastard in me has been more interested in 'occupying' my place at the dinner table or 'occupying' my bed. That is not to say, I'm not thankful or excited about what's happening in hundreds of American cities. I just don't know what it can lead to. Too radical to appeal to most of the '99%'? Not radical enough to be genuinely 'revolutionary.' Where does that leave it?

Since I was eighteen, I have thought a lot about street protests and direct actions and how effective they are. I've spent some time masked up, 'occupying' shell petrol stations, taking over bridges the night the US invaded Iraq, marched against police brutality, taken a face full of pepper spray, dodged bean bag rounds on May Day, fled pursuing federal agents, inhaled tear gas, even occupied my employer's office during a labour dispute. Each action, seemed to make sense at the time, but by 2004, the little dance with the police got tiring and seemed increasingly like token gestures with very little tangible impact at best and at worst, alienating a potentially sympathetic public. Everyone, police, protesters, just seemed to be playing the role they were assigned to little avail but the illusion of dissent. Or as Chris Hedges would put it, being allowed to 'let off a bit of steam to keep the system intact' and prevent a genuine explosion (see below). The endless meetings and organizing got even more tiresome. Then the Obama campaign, the great appeasement, really took the hot air out of radical dissent and made the liberal class more impotent than ever.

Now people are back out in the streets and have seemingly been able to 'achieve' far more than most of the street demos in the 1990s and 2000s were ever able to achieve. If, indeed, occupying public space and barricading a street is really achieving anything.

The truth remains, most of the American populace are allowed just the right amount of material wealth to keep them passive enough to prevent an Arab Spring style uprising . They are further pacified by the still widely-held beief that knuckling down and working hard can improve their station in life. And pacified even more, by the endless distractions that tempt us every waking hour, consumer culture, celebrity culture, technology, social media and so on. No hippie with a confused anti-capitalist message is going to dissuade those the Steve Jobs worshippers who lined up for the new I Phone.

But let me turn you over to a far more qualified commentator and optimistic opinion.

Chris Hedges is perhaps one of the more impressive American commentators of our times. His recent article, A Movement Too Big To Fail, is perhaps the best analysis I have read on the Occupy Movement. Hedges analysis of the pacification of America's liberal class is crucial. In a land where political discussion is so binary yet within such a limited and rigid context, Hedges has a way of making radical ideas seem very palatable, logical, appealing and most importantly attainable.

... the liberal class, by having refused to question the utopian promises of unfettered capitalism and globalization and by condemning those who did, severed itself from the roots of creative and bold thought, the only forces that could have prevented the liberal class from merging completely with the power elite. The liberal class, which at once was betrayed and betrayed itself, has no role left to play in the battle between us and corporate dominance. All hope lies now with those in the street. - Chris Hedges

If all this is too much to read on your morning coffee break, then check out The Illusion's take on Revolutionary Counter Culture. This guy is the best thing on the internet these days, offering lots of cosmic wisdom on surfing, skateboarding and enlightenment. Spicoli as Buddha.

Hello

2011-10-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

I love surfing. Surfers... not so much. I have to admitt this sign did make me chuckle though. And it worked! Didn't see a soul.

2011-10-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

Before I moved to this country I was occasionally criticized for having an unhealthy obsession with America. I always made it clear that it wasn't Disneyland, Levi's, MacDonald's, Ronald Regan or Elvis that fascinated me. I think, in some ways, if there is every going to be any meaningful challenge to an increasingly centralized global economy and rigid social hierarchy, it has to come from this land of inherent contradiction. Take another look at the history books and re-consider how the likes of Emma Goldman are just as much a part of American history as the shit we love to hate. In the current social climate it is certainly worth looking at the lessons learned, examples set and ideas put forward by the 'other America.'

The average mind is slow in grasping a truth, but when the most thoroughly organized, centralized institution, maintained at an excessive national expense, has proven a complete social failure, the dullest must begin to question its right to exist. The time is past when we can be content with our social fabric merely because it is "ordained by divine right," or by the majesty of the law. - Emma Goldman

"He who would understand this water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many other things, many secrets, all secrets."

2011-10-03T19:58:00.000-07:00

Buy here.

Handala

2011-09-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

I used to wear a Handala T-shirt years ago when I lived in Bahrain after I randomly found it in my bedroom one day. Perhaps an Arab friend had left it at my house... who knows... Intially, I just liked the little cartoon lad with no idea what or who he symbolized, then someone commended me on my support of the people of Palestine. I didn't know much about Palestine at that point and that was the impetus for educating myself. And now, here we are decades later waiting with bated breath for the UN to recognize a Palestinian state, no thanks to Obama...

A little bit of background on Handala.

22

2011-09-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

I sat around all morning drinking coffee and eating marmite sandwiches waiting for ‘something literary or symphonic to happen.’ It didn’t. My brother was in a deep alcoholic slumber in his room. The temptation to turn on the television and zone out watching Colombo was threatening what little motivation I had left to seize life by the bollocks.

In desperation, I cycled over to John’s house to see if he had any work for me. Of course he did. He always did. Especially since Jean died. Jean, had been John’s second chance at life. Jean had introduced us. Jean was smashed to death in a car, less than a year before these events. John needed help stripping the wall-paper from the walls of his decaying four story Victorian in that was tucked away along a Swansea back street. It was better than sitting on my arse watching the swell charts on every BBC weather updates in between episodes of Colombo and I could earn a few quid.

John and I took many tea breaks and talked about dead relatives, girlfriends and why I didn’t have a real job. He asked me if I was interested in stolen car stereos. I wasn’t sure but it might help me fill the petrol tank more often, I thought.

At mid-day we took a sandwich break with instant black coffee. We sat out on the back patio overlooking the future garden. John and Jean had bought this house together but it was still uninhabitable. I’m not sure John really wanted it finished it at this point. As we ate, we watched several men taking the back entrance to the massage parlor. That was always fun. Sometimes, I’d try and catch their eyes as they made their way back to their cars so I could give them a knowing nod or wink. They usually kept their heads down but some walked away with their heads held high, smiling. They were getting more than John and I.

After lunch I started stripping the walls in the stuffy attic room, where I could just about get a glimpse of Mumbles Head from across Swansea Bay. I could see a little white water breaking on the lighthouse island and knew the swell was coming up.

John asked me if I wanted to put in another couple hours of work. I said, John I need the money but I think the swell is up. He said, that was why I didn’t have a real job or a girlfriend. I took my sixteen quid and told him I might see him tomorrow.

About those car stereos? Could be a nice little earner for you, boy.

I’ll think about it, John. See you, after.

Take it easy now, Peter Bach.

Getting out of the city center on a bike was a pain in the arse but I made it to the Mumbles road in one piece. I could see little swell lines pushing into Swansea Bay. A shore sign, swell was making onto the nearby Gower peninsula. Mid to high tide and light NE wind. I knew I was going to make the twenty minute drive to Llangennith. My hands started sweating at the prospect.

I got back to the house. My brother had left for work at the pub but had thankfully left me with the car and the note. His boss, the landlord was on holiday. “Lock in at the pub. Pick me up.”

I made it to the top of Gower with about two hours left of sun light to go. Endless lines of swell were pumping into Rhosilli Bay. I could see the feathering lips from three miles away. It was four to five feet easily. I parked in the dunes, got into my wettie and jogged up towards Three Peaks and claimed my peak. I never grew tired of surfing. I could surf forever but something usually interrupted the pursuit of waves. Nighttime, signing on, crappy job, some shit or another that just got in the way of surfing. What else was there? Where else was there to go but racing along a Gower wall of water as the sun went down? I felt a primeval connection to this coastline. I was so comfortable; I could die at any moment. As long as there were waves. Orange juice, Marmite and peanut butter sandwiches, some sleep, perhaps a good book. And waves. I was just fine.

I surfed well into the dark. I can’t tell you how the session went. It was great, of course. I do remember there were many people on the beach that night, drinking around little bonfires. I briefly envied them as I left the water. I caught glimpses of the flames dancing on their faces as they huddled close to each other passing around cheap bottles of cider. I jogged back to car dripping wet wondering how many of those people on the beach would end up getting off with each other that night. Fuckers.

I drove straight to my brother’s pub and got there as he was kicking everyone out, save a few friends. He handed me a clean empty pint glass

‘Here you go big brother,’

and I helped myself to an endless supply of Caffrey’s cream ale. I swished the foam around at the end of every pint and wondered if the swell would still be around the next day. I didn’t feel much like big brother. A few people tried to converse with me but I was mostly incapable of communication. I only ever really talked to John. Even if they understood surfing or surfed themselves they didn’t know the sea like me. That was largely indisputable, so why get into it? Nevertheless, we all drank ourselves into oblivion and my brother and I stumbled home. I woke up the next day just in time for an episode of Colombo.

The ocean was flat and so I gave John a call to see if he could help me work off that almighty hangover with some mindless drudgery or another.

The reason why: Carwyn

2011-09-12T09:34:00.000-07:00

Hossegor 1989. Photo by Alex Williams.

Carwyn Williams was busting his fins free a long time ago. No doubt, he remains, one of 'the reasons why' for many Welsh surfers.

I just watched God Went Surfing With The Devil, more on that later but for now, let's just say, I'm not complaining about living 1.5 hours from the beach, only getting to surf once a week or getting skunked for a long time.

2011-09-06T21:17:00.000-07:00

The last time I saw my uncle Steve, I was crying uncontrollably into a pint of Guinness. Until then, I probably had not cried in over a decade.

We had just buried my older brother Billy. I had on an ill-fitting suit and shoes that were far too small. I wasn’t ready for a funeral. I remember awkwardly stepping onto Steve’s shoes as we carried the coffin. How heavy that thing was. I seriously panicked that we would drop it, due to my clumsiness, ill-fitting attire and Billy’s massive bulk.

Apparently, Billy had joked that he always wanted Queen’s ‘Who Wants To Live Forever?’ at his funeral. Not that I would have known. I had walked down the street on several occasions and crossed his path and he stared right at me, into me, even. I’m not sure if he recognized me all the time or not. Maybe, he did. Maybe, he couldn’t get his head around what we were. On a couple of occasions, he obviously did recognize me and we briefly conversed and that felt good. But I always left it up to him, whether we were going to recognize each other or not.

When Queen played in the church, I knew it was going to be a heavy day but not for me. I mean, what did it mean to me anyway? We shared a few childhood memories. There are a couple of photos of us as young lads somewhere but we lived in different universes that we both had a hard time visiting. I was going to be OK. That song will never get to me, I told myself.

In the pub, after the fourth or fifth pint of Guinness, my cousin Gareth, Steve’s son, had asked me if I was OK. I thought I was but as soon as he said that, I lost my shit all together.

‘I don’t think so.’ I replied.

I eventually left the pub and walked through the village to Oystermouth Castle and demanded an explanation from Billy. Other dead people had given me explanations but Billy never has and why the fuck should he?

Now whenever I think of Steve, who I hear is now living on a boat in the Mediterranean, I think about myself sobbing into a pint of Guinness and I wonder what sort of man, he must think I am.

2011-09-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

I’ve been arrested twice in the last week

Oh yeah?

Yeah, once for hooking and once ‘coz I got caught up in some crazy shit with a stolen car.

Now, what do you want to do?

I’m tired. I want to go home.

OK. Let’s make that happen.

Can we hug?

No, but we can High Five.

Ok then. Let’s High Five.

High Five!

Tell me you got on that bus today…

2011-08-31T09:12:00.000-07:00

every work day morning at 830am and afternoon at 6pm, i tell myself, 'you can take it easy. there is simply no need to rush. no need to exert yourself unnecessarily.'

i am usually a little bit tired and not looking forward to the chaos of the commute.
it is just not fun anymore.

but then i get out there and some fuck with shaved legs and lycra insists on overtaking me and i just can't have that.

and it becomes a flat-out race.

blinded by sweat
with a wild beast trying to escape my rib cage

you will never beat me because i can go on like this forever.

and then i hop off the ride,
catch my breath
and start to feel bad about things.

"And now our minds are as naked as the paradise we stripped..."

2011-08-26T17:49:00.000-07:00

Aliens listen to Crass and so should you...

2011-08-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

Earthquakes, tsunamis, riots, uprisings, collapsing economies, collapsing eco-systems are in abundance but most of us continue to keep our heads in the sand, bowing down to consumer pressures and everything we are forced to do to maintain or improve our lots, plodding on towards the dangling carrot, carrying our heavy loads because we're powerless as individuals to make meaningful change happen anyway, so why bother... and so it goes...

Meanwhile, some people believe aliens or intelligent life forms from different dimensions or the dead or 'someone' out there in the ether has been trying to warn us of the bankruptcy of our way of life, for decades through Crop Circle formations. While I say this tongue firmly in cheek there is some compelling evidence that many of these formations could not have been created by mere mortals with planks of wood, sticks and ropes and allegedly, authentic circles form within seconds. Check out the fascinating documentary Crop Circles: Quest For Truth.

Obviously there have been many hoaxed circles and this circle that appeared near Stonehenge on the Summer Solstice 2011, is likely to be a classic hoax, but either way, it is fascinating. The Crass symbol is an amaglamation of several symbols of authority (Christian Cross, Swastika, Union Jack) combined with two snakes swallowing each other to convey the belief that power will ultimately consume itself. It has never been clearer that top down power structures, whether represented by a Middle East dictatorship or Western Capitlaist economy, can only handle so much power before they become top-heavy, defeat themselves and topple. As the world becomes more interconnected and 'globalized' we have become one big economy and one big culture, ruled by a shrinking elite. Whatsmore, like in eco-systems, the lack of diversity in a mono-culture equates to lack of resilience.

Maybe the aliens are just pissed off that Crass finally sold out by re-mastering their albums. But I don't think so. Hoax or not, there is a unified message amongst all this. New Age spirituality and anti-authoritarian politics have always been potential bed-fellows.

Now, I'm off the purchase the re-mastered version of 'Christ The Album.'

For more on Crass, peace punks and Stonehenge, Penny Rimbaud's essay The Last Of The Hippies is a must read.

"It is our world, it is ours and it has been stolen from us. We set out to demand it back, only this time round they didn't call us 'hippies', they called us 'punks'."

Lessons From London Town Part 1

2011-08-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

Guardian Photos

It is all too easy to dismiss the UK riots as mindless thuggery. You've got to ask why these youth are so compelled burn and loot. Shrugging their actions off as apolitical opportunism without considering the origin of these destructive impulses will do nothing to get to the root of the issue. It is indeed a damn shame the targets could not have been more intentional. Cop cars and corporately run chain stores are one thing but locally-owned businesses and residences... not cool. Still the message is loud and clear... the pressures of a techno-centric consumer culture and capitalist economy have fucked-over and alienated our youth and everyone else. We can only hope to re-direct the rage in the right direction and re-shape the desire for a new pair of sneaks into the desire for a more meaningful, less materialistic form of liberation.

The Bluff

2011-08-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

A Few beers in the sun. A few tail taps on some top secret jaggedy concrete sculpture that overlooks one of the best views of Portland. Sun worshippers on the bluff, slowly congregating and settling down, to watch the river and train tracks disappear into the shadows. The sunburn and dehydration tell a better story than any frozen image captured by a mobile miscommunication, cellular radiating device, ever could.

Thanks Mike and thanks Neighbourhood Enhancement Crew, whoever you are.

"Fill the days...

2011-08-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

...with habitual ways of being.

Fill the day with significant waste
Fill the day with meaningful refuse
Fill the day with interesting things to say
Fill the day with a gradual decay

-Daniel Higgs, Lungfish, Fill The Days

Coming back from the woods is difficult.

La Plage Dystopique Cont....

2011-07-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

We followed the salmon through the ancient forests to this rivermouth and now we are out of petrol. It is like a scene from Mad Max down here. La Warrior De La Plage. Sand blasted and abandoned outhouses, cars and trailers. ‘Fuck-off’ notes written to the authorities, decades ago in defiance of their regulations and evictions, blowing in the howling northerly winds like anarchic pray flags.

The ice in the cooler has melted. The Half and Half is sour, as it should be- a bourgeoisie luxury we must learn to live without.

We’ve got two round pin 6’6” surfboards and a couple of clammy 5mm wetsuits each and we are going to be dedicating ourselves to this ever-shifting sandbar. Waiting for that perfect A-frame to pop up again. Tube of your life or a neck-snapping dive into the shallows? - a fine line we are training ourselves to walk with a calm and dignified acceptance of both outcomes.

We know the bears and sharks are keeping a close eye on our activities and it excites us.

We’ve got a tent with a broken pole but, no worries, because, we’re squatting the abandoned and crumbling church. We’ve made good friends with the grizzled 80 year old in the airstream trailer down the way, as he waits to die.

We have supplies and fine wine that we never paid for from Mendocino- we ran rapidly south from town with the cold wind on our backs.

I’m tying this note to one of the many vultures that circle over our heads on a daily basis. I hope it finds one of you. If you are the recipient of this note, tell everyone we are OK but we are going to wait things out right here.

“It’s too bad they won’t live! But then again, who does?”

Grown man battles a curb

2011-07-13T21:59:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah another Mark Gonzales post. I could start a Mark Gonzales blog but there are already a few of those. (Fuck Yeah Mark Gonzales and Gonz Cards Stranger from whence came the above photos). I keep seeing the same photos of Gonz on various blogs (my how the internet is shrinking as we all tune into them same shit...). Lots of people are seemingly living life vicariously through him but who better? I don't think anybody embraces the 'city as playground' quiet like Mark Gonzales does.

Old man making a clown of himself in the streets or genius re-humanizing public space?

Cities took over the wilderness to give us highly controlled zones for commerce and consumption, meaningless work and linear transport. We have to undermine all this and re-introduce wilderness and chaos to the city, like the little chimps that we are. Gonz shows us one way. The occupants of Tahrir Square showed us another, but there are countless methods to combat the dehumanization of modern life in the urban realm.

I went 'street skating' last Saturday with my friend Jeff but he couldn't skate due to injury, so we biked from spot to spot while he watched me hurt myself repeatedly. However, we both agreed that the actual skateboarding didn't count as much as just being in the streets and interacting with everything it threw at us. Heckling people and being heckled. Hanging tough with 12 year old Bmxers and tweaking hippies. Having ludicrous conversations with people who have long since surrendered their sanity. Keeping your eye on cops and security guards who are hired to make sure fun is not taking place. Stopping for red lights isn't fun. Driving a car between white lines in straight lines to get to a set destination isn't fun. Shopping bags aren't fun. Cops aren't fun. And all these unfun things are killing us. Keep moving, go nowhere for the sake of it, fall down, take the long way, carry your bike up a secret twenty stair-case to somewhere, ignore those signs that are set in the concrete and follow the other 'signs' (you know the ones). Occupy your town square and expose the illusions of authority and hierarchy, until illegitimate leaders retreat into irrelevance. Live two thousand years in four hours and go home at some point, broken, sweating and free.

I'll keep yacking away like this until we've ground everything down into a fine sand and we're standing naked on the beach again.

For more Gonz, check out his new Book, Instead Of Eros Avenged, which from what I understand is a collection of spontaneous cell phone photos taken during his many street interactions... or as the publisher describes it "A celebration of an improvised life."

2011-07-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

Shitty cell phone photography of shitty waves

The best time for poetry is after midnight. The best time for surfing is the arse crack of dawn. Hence, I've got nothing to show, at present. The wave obsession is currently running hard. I'm trying to read Catch 22 but instead I'm waking up at 4am in the pursuit of waves, most of the surfing milieu, even those that pretend to get off on junk surf, would dismiss. Sometimes, during the good times, the right times, one finds a sense of synchronicity in all aspects of life. The art you consume resonates with current events in your life or your mindset. I read that great chapter in Catch 22 last night where Milo bombs the shit out of his own camp, because he has a contract with the Germans and free market opportunity reigns above all else, even the lives of your fellow countrymen. It is absurd but is obviously a comment on the realistic causation of wars, especially in this day and age over half a century later. I hide from Libya, Syria, Bahrain in the Doug Fir trees or I duck dive under silty murky cold water. The next day, the water is warm and clear again. It is so unpredictable at the moment.Last night, I was in bed before sunset and read more of Catch 22 because I can only justify reading before going to sleep but then I sunk into a deep sleep before I had read enough to really feel like I'd read anything.I'm laying a stone path around my house. It is an easy puzzle to busy the mind with and get a little sun-burn on the back, gently taxing the muscles, while listening to the buoy reports on the weather radio. I'm not sure where this path is going to lead to. I've cut a few fingers laying the stone, while arranging this improvised jigsaw to wherever it is going but there is a destination, I think.

The new issue of Kook...

2011-06-28T08:42:00.000-07:00

...apparently features a little bit of Foulweather. I look forward to checking it out. The first issue was great.

Kook.

still hiding from the poem

2011-06-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

photo by someone who never stops.

cruise control
boiled egg in the dark
leave the city before i can see it
sunrise over t-mook
walking through the trees
the air feels like autumn
it makes me think of good waves
the waves aren't good though
but there are some crystal green walls pitching tiny tubes
it is always bigger than it looks
and i'm wearing far too little neoprene
my first wave is an obvious close-out
but what the hell, i'm on auto-pilot
it pitches enough for me to tuck the top half of my stiff body under the lip
before the lip hits my back
i think to myself, this might be a pretty nice view
dawn rays on an empty beach
as the water makes contact with my neck
the temperature shock sucks all the air out of my lungs
and wakes me up
you can't hide forever

with the water this cold
for once
i'm slotted longer than i want to be

i walk over the rocks
and imagine how real swells are going to break
and smack me out of the slumber

Columbo Crossed Back Over

2011-06-24T17:31:00.000-07:00

Easily one of the top ten films of all time... and one of the best roles ever by Peter Falk playing Peter Falk

Riot Porn

2011-06-21T09:21:00.000-07:00

By now you have probably seen this photo of two people engaged in some P.D.A. admist the chaos of a riot. By now the mainstream media has already moved on to the next sensational image to fire across the planet amongst barrage of infotainment. Sure there was a back story that the media tracked down, but what the hell is really going on here?

It would be easy to dismiss the Vancouver Hockey riot as nothing more than mindless thuggery, in comparison to recent events in say, Greece, where people are literally fighting the police, for the future of their country. However, you have to ask why do events like this kick-off in the first place? Losing a sporting event or passing austerity measures, perhaps that's not the issue. I'm of the belief that a good old riot is symptomatic of a deeper social malaise. Lack of control over our own lives, being penned in by artifical pressures, at the expense of an authentic existence, drowing in a sea of too-much information, not having time or composure to savour and recognize the beauty of life's simple fleeting moments. I don't believe there is any such thing as a pointless riot. This is consumer culture in Late Capitalism simply letting off some steam and things will only continue to boil. There is a reason why breaking glass and wathcing police cars burn feels good, no matter the source of the intial spark and we should all take some time to consider why this is so.

This couple were merely turned-on by a chaotic expression or rage, a momentary challange to an oppresive social order, which can be very sexy indeed.

Happy Solstice.

The Grind

2011-06-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

Scott Oster by Dante Ross.

There are two schools of approach to a frontside grind. I've heard people say it is not a grind unless you are completely on top of the lip/coping, essentially standing up. The other approach is arse below the back truck, slashed the fuck out with your weight completely inside the transition. About 80% of my grinds are slashed, because I'm old and grew up studying photos of Scott Oster and his ilk. Also, because it feels almost the same as a frontside off-the-lip on wave.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in pursuit of that micro-second of slash. Fins through a feathering lip or trucks blasted across pool-block... doesn't matter...

Why does it feel so good to violently scrape a piece of aluminium across concrete or force fiberglass through a breaking wave? I don't have an answer but my aching shoulders and bruised palms, over grown lawn and unwritten poems are demanding one.

trash

2011-06-17T09:19:00.001-07:00

Breakfast At Brooklyn St

2011-06-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

2011-06-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

"You have a morbid aversion to dying. You probably resent the fact that you're at war and might get your head blown off any second."
"I more than resent it, sir. I'm absolutely incensed."
"You have deep-seated survival anxieties. And you don't like bigots, bullies, snobs or hypocrites. Subconsciously there are many people you hate."
"Consciously, sir, consciously," Yossarian corrected in an effort to help. "I hate them consciously."
"You're antagonistic to the idea of being robbed, exploited, degraded, humiliated or deceived. Violence depresses you. Slums depress you. Greed depresses you. Crime depresses you. Corruption depresses you. You know, it wouldn't surprise me if you're a manic-depressive!"
"Yes, sir. Perhaps I am."
"Don't try to deny it."
"I'm not denying it, sir," said Yossarian, pleased with the miraculous rapport that finally existed between them. "I agree with all you've said."
"Then you admit you're crazy, do you?"
"Crazy?" Yossarian was shocked. "What are you talking about? Why am I crazy? You're the one who's crazy!"

-Joseph Heller, 'Catch 22'

Can't hear cause your mouths full of shit

2011-06-01T20:55:00.000-07:00

Today, June 1st 2011, the State of Emergency, perhaps better described as Martial Law, was lifted in Bahrain. The Al Khalifa regime wants to return to a 'state of normalcy.' Of course they do. The island's economy and reputation has been shattered since the Feb 14th uprisings and they don't know how to repair it any other way. While, the Formula One race car circuit is foolishly considering re-scheduling its Bahrain event, the reality is, there is no return to normalcy and pro-government supporters are naive to think so. Despite a massive propaganda campaign to slander the anti-government/ pro-democracy/ human rights campaigners, thankfully I think the Bahraini authorities are failing miserably in their efforts to cover-up their atrocities. Even if Barack Obama thinks "its clear there are Iranian interests involved," there is no justification for the crack-down over the last few months.

The real question is, how long can Barack Obama and David Cameron pretend to support democracy in one Arab country while actively aiding in its suppression in others? And how long are we supposed to put up with the stink of this double-standard before we puke?

In solidarity with Nabeel Rajab and with all genuine democratic/ human rights activists in Bahrain and beyond. Some of the world continues to watch.

-Assessing the opposition crackdown in Bahrain
-Bahrain counts costs of recent unrest
-UK training Saudi forces to crush Arab spring
-Nabeel Rajab (Human Rights activist) house and family attacked

I try not to have too many regrets...

2011-05-31T09:05:00.000-07:00

...but not getting my arse off the settee to see The Ex last time they were in town is now a major one...

This one is a classic with Ethiopian Saxophonist Getatchew Mekuria and my favourite dancer of all time, who comes on at around the 2 minute mark.

2011-05-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

It amazes me that you can still get beaten up for holding hands with someone of the same gender in a city like Portland Oregon. Not surprising in some parts of the world but Portland? And no one intervenes? Five against two?

First And Last Tattoo

2011-05-25T21:20:00.000-07:00

This video has very little to do with my words below, except to stay Scott Bourne has potentially the mother of all regrets inked along his arms. Anyway, try to ignore the fact that this video is an advertisement, as the company in question actually do a rather tasteful job of representing skateboarding, albeit when cashing in on it.

On the 23^rd of May 2013 I have scheduled my first tattoo. And then we are going to have one hell of a party. Oh boy, it is going to be a party. You see on the 23^rd of May, the year of our lord 2013, I will be turning 38. Maybe. You see 37, is a crucial age along a certain lineage of my family. On my mother’s side I will be the next male to reach 37. Maybe. You see, old man Mervyn had a fatal heart attack and then his oldest child, Mike had his heart attack also at 37. I’m next. Mike survived, perhaps I will also and so I will be having a party, after I get my tattoo of course.

Now, what I shall I get? Maybe I will get my dad tattooed on my back and then we can fall out, never speak again and I can cross his face out with a sharpie.... if I can reach around that far… Ah but wait a minute, I have to be honest here, I got that idea from Jason Jesse (look him up). He got some tattoos back when mostly sailors, bikers and criminals were inked up. Jason Jesse was a rather young man to be having tattoos at that time. He had a great one of his dad that he crossed out and then talked about regretting all his tattoos. I thought that that was a fantastic concept, a body stained with permanent mistakes. I like the idea of tattoos that one might grow to regret. They are the next best thing to faded, worn, wrinkle-ridden, sun bleached, shitty tattoos from thirty years ago.

And that is why I want a tattoo. The future regret is going to be so fun to wrestle with. And that is also why it doesn’t matter what I get. Whatever means something to me that day will do. Maybe I will find God that day and announce it to everyone who wants to see my bear, shaven chest. Maybe a certain political or religious persuasion will have me convinced and I will purchase a life-time subscription to its dogma. Maybe, someone I love will die and I will begin a collection of dead people along my arm. Dates of births and deaths and so on. Most likely, I will find symbolic gesture in a particular piece art and I will align myself with its implied philosophy forevermore because after I turn 38 I will ‘be’ forevermore.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not being sarcastic. Well I am being sarcastic but I do like tattoos. I like yours and I really like looking at them adorning your body.

But my body, it changes. I change. One day, I’m a militant vegan, the next I’m hunting elk. Every seven years, I’m a completely new person with a new code of ethics, a new political stance, new interests, I acquire new tastes and I’m made up of completely new cells. Or so the theory goes.

So who will be getting the tattoo when I turn 38?

An old bastard, who went from an angst ridden seventeen year old to a bitter seventy year old overnight, on the 23^rd of May 2013, that is who.

...IF...

2011-05-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

Card by Gemma Lewis

I'm really rather disappointed this event did not materialize as the family and I were in the perfect setting for it, surfing a south swell, frolicking with nature, very few people around, sleeping under the stars. It was about as good a moment as any to be stricken down by some fictional mystical character who disapproves of my lifestyle, and yours. Oh, well back to normalcy and all its pointless complications.

2011-05-15T12:30:00.000-07:00

All right, mate. Long time no see?

Aye, all right, it has been awhile…

Last time I saw you, was when you jumped on that train. Where were you going?

Borth, I think.

Did you make it?

I’m necking down endless cups of African coffee

Sitting down, I look at the heels of my shoes and I see they have worn awkwardly

pounded into the pavement for months on end,

apparently

I left my surfboard at the beach a few weeks ago

once I had realized

I’d been riding the same wave for months

I don’t even remember catching it

Or why I caught it

Not that I need reasons

I did not mind going nowhere

I had no objection to hopping on a random train

and watching the world drift by

Watching minutes become hours

hours become days

days to weeks

months

years

lifetimes

I did

Not

Mind

Why’d you run from me?

That wasn’t the plan.

Did it become ‘The plan?’

To be honest, no. I just didn’t know when or where to get off.

And now.

I missed you.

How do you know?

I don’t know. I saw something from the window, amongst the blurs of greens and greys. You know the weather was mostly horrible. Constantly raining. A terribly delayed Spring.

When we rode past the sea, I couldn’t tell were it ended and the sky began. Up in the hills away from the beach, in a field, the greys and greens still blended but something jolted me back to you.

What was it? A tree? A sound? A racing pulse? A memory?

The divine?

Don’t be silly.

Friendships are strange these days.

Yes.

I mean it is unnatural being in touch with all these people, day in day out, status updates and so forth.

I know.

Don’t you think friendships should just blossom and die without force? I mean nothing is forever. If you aren’t connected to someone anymore, so what? Maybe you should let it go? Maybe it is supposed to be that way? Don’t you agree?

Mostly, but not in this instance.

Well, don’t jump on any more fucking trains then!

Next time, you could always come with me.

But, there is nothing in Borth.

Some thoughts on Bin Laden's Death

2011-05-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

Photo from the Washington Times

"I despair that we as a country, as Nietzsche understood, have become the monster that we are attempting to fight." Chris Hedges.

We don't watch telly in my house, well with one exception, yes we watch The Simpsons, which was rudely interrupted on Sunday evening by the announcement of the death of Osama Bin Laden. I cringed as I watched Geraldo Rivera, giddy with excitement, announce how proud he was to be on air to cover this event. I watched a rapidly increasing group of Jockish ignoramuses gather outside the White House to celebrate as if they were celebrating a Super Bowl Victory. And I asked myself, what the fuck is there to celebrate? After all these years of bullshit. After thousands of deaths in New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia. All the deaths in Iraq, Afghanistan, Madrid, London, Bali and so on... The eradication of Civil Liberties, economic collapse and the subsequent cutbacks, while CEOs and bankers keep laughing. All this, as the result of the clash of two ridiculous and clashing ideologies.

The death of Bin Laden is largely symbolic. According to journalist Chris Hedges (see above link), Bin Laden in recent times had no operational role in Al-Qaeda. It might bring some comfort and closure to some, it might enrage and anger others but practically speaking it means little the wider scheme of things. The ideological clash is still out there and deeper and more complicated than many of us will care to admit. America will continue to reap what is has sown and continues to sow for generations to come. There is no excuse for deliberate targeting of civilians as on 9/11 but there is also no excuse for being ignorant to the history that led up to those events and the role the West played in it all. Islamic Fundamentalists didn't just decide to hate on 'Freedom' and 'Our way of life' out of nowhere. And how, we respond to events such as the death of Osama Bin Laden will continue to influence how 'they' will relate to 'us' in the future. Most importantly, we don't want to continue to create situations or use rhetoric, that will make Islamic Fundamentalism or any other form of fundamentalism an appealing vehicle to carry the dissent of disenfranchised young people in troubled areas.

Prevention to, not elimination of 'Terrorism' is always going to be more effective in the long run. But I get the sense that too many people, corporations, governments and other entities, have too much to gain from this permanent state of war and aren't really interested in ending it at all. After all, it is keeping us all in line and our minds off the daily crap we put up with.

The question is how much longer do you and I, real people, want to continue to be pawns in the whole thing? With that thought in mind we could learn a lot from the largely leaderless and secular, popular uprisings of recent months in North Africa and the Middle East.

I think back to Egyptian Democracy activists ordering pizza to strikers in Wisconsin and realize that there is a common humanity. If only, we could see through the daily spectacle and tap into it more often.

Ultimately, the power is ours for the taking, once we can convince each other that, indeed, it is.

Happy May Day!

2011-05-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

Thanks to whoever pasted this up down at the Brooklyn St Spot. Good stuff.

I spent May Day indulging in wave-sliding but I did have a very brief discussion about the historical Anarchist role within the US Labor struggle. A pretty crucial history in light of Wisconsin...

Confessions Of An Anti-Social Worker 1

2011-04-29T09:38:00.000-07:00

I took this during my one and only visit to NYC, where I walked a long long way.

I read an article in the New York Times Magazine last weekend, that posited that the worst thing you can do for your health is work behind a desk and in front of a computer. The eight plus hours of inactivity, physical slothness, is terrible for you on a number of levels. Bad for your back, your heart, your circulation, your brain. When I'm behind a desk, it is usually because I am in the midst of writing a three paragraph summary of the turmoil a young person has been through that led them to the streets, then to me and my recommendation for an initial case plan. Primarily, it is a heavy thing to process trauma history for an individual, let alone several individuals a day, often with histories as horrendous as you could imagine. So I look out the window and there is very little there a high rise apartment building a MacDonald with its stars and stripes flapping in the pissing rain. Sometimes, there are some captivating cloud formations rolling in over the west hills. Sometimes, I watch the local drunks rolling around in their own piss, wondering if I'll have to call the Detox van for them anytime soon.

I've also been watching this shit stain on a white wall slowly disappear. I actually saw the woman responsible for this stain in action. I was cycling to work, rounding the corner towards my building on a crisp winter morning. I saw her left up her skirt and I said to myself, "Please no. I don't need to see this right now." And then she bent over, arse against the wall and unloaded an holy liquid black on the white walls of the Jaguar dealership. I wondered about her health and welfare. I thought about other cultures that don't use toilet roll and then I rolled onwards myself, trying not to think about it anymore. But the shit-stain is still and I see it everyday, no matter how hard I try not look in that direction. For months now, it is ever so slowly getting gently washed away by the elements.

So I take little moments to hide from such realities by watching web-clips of Dane Reynolds or Pontus Alv. With the internet, one things lead to another and suddenly I'm getting sucked through a labyrinth of links that stray me far from my original distractions. I view an idea, concept, image for a few seconds and then click onwards to the next, each time subtly re-wiring my brain. I might catch myself in this hypnotic mindset while being sucked through the 'ethernet' and consciously decide to find something else to concentrate on. I might look at my little note book, consider writing a poem or starting the next chapter in 'Confessions Of A Guilty Expat.' But its hard to focus on this type of thing, when you are always waiting for the phone to ring with the next tragic situation for you to attend to. So it is easy to slip back into the internet in the name of research. Researching the history of Bahrain, literature... Dane Reynolds' most recent slob-air and there I am again.

Eventually, I'll get my paper-work done and feel pretty good about it. And if things are quiet, I'll take a walk. Sometimes, I think I can walk forever. I love walking. I love not-stopping. I love passing people and trees and the shit on the wall. I once told Alison I was going to walk to Alaska... this was before 'Into The Wild.' That kid, killed that dream.

A perspective

2011-04-22T07:28:00.000-07:00

The following is a message from a friend in Bahrain. I'm hearing all sorts of things from all sides of the conflict. It's impossible to tell what's really going on but I thought these words were worth sharing... Please note this is unedited and as I received it. Here is a recent BBC report to put my friend's words in context. And here is a fascinating interview with Nabeel Rajab, perhaps the last Human Rights activist who still has a voice in Bahrain.

Pete,

We are stuck in our homes. We cant go out for fear for our lives, the most mundane and trivial routine practices that an average individual carrys out on a regularity has become a life threatening practice on account of the mercenaries, thugs and Saudi forces. Peter what is goin on here is nothing short of genocide in the making or rather systematic genocide. Our women are being targeted and our girls in the government schools are being beaten up by these thugs and then arrested. In all honesty what on earth can justify thes type of practice. Another thing that has become common place is the systematic destruction of our mosques and Hossaynia's. You understand that these are purely religious places of worship. Some of which are of historic importance. These places are being demolished. They are doin their damn best to make it seem as though there is a degree of violence carried out by the people. But as god is my witness that aint so. We are terrified, the state of terror is upon us yet again this time though its become more ruthless, now that the mask of sectarian wahabi hatred is all but unleashed with the blessing of the Saudies. Heaven hlp us through this ordeal, we're caught in the middle of this hinterland and to Im hoping for some bright light in all this darkness but it aint forth coming m8.

Therapy session... apologies...

2011-04-21T09:19:00.000-07:00

I just sat through eight hours of training about how to work with survivors of childhood trauma. I knew it would be interesting and relevant but I never knew the vast majority of the room would be in tears within the first fifteen minutes, myself included. The opening video presentation was a therapist trying to get a nine-year-old girl to verbalize the sexual abuse she had suffered at the hands of her father. The therapist, to help prosecute the father, had to get the girl to talk about the hundreds of times her father stuck his “pee pee” inside her and what else he had stuck inside her since the age of four. We then went to on learn how such survivors cope or don’t. She coped because she had the support of amazing adoptive parents but even at age fourteen, would break down when she got in trouble, fearing she would be sent back to her old life. Others don’t cope and end up addicted to drugs and alcohol and attracted to insanely unsafe situations for a variety of psychological and environmental reasons, and of course often perpetuate the cycle of abuse themselves, in some form or another.

A few people have asked me how I got into working with homeless youth. My usual answer is I came to America and was shocked at how such a wealthy nation, a universally understood place of freedom and opportunity, could have so many people living on the streets. There’s some truth in this, of course but I finally understood the other day that this was not my only motive.

While in meditation the other night, an image came to my head. It was my fist connecting with my friend’s jaw, him falling to the ground, his cracked tooth and me walking away not giving a shit. Now, my childhood was pretty cushy. I haven’t suffered any major abuse but I suppose I could argue there were some key things lacking and a couple of events that turned me into a very confused and angry teenager. I only think I have untied the knots in my brain, very recently at the ripe old age of thirty-five. But still, I think about the venom that I spat out, racist and homophobic remarks I made, punches I threw and punches I took, treating friends and family like shit and I now understand that what I have been doing over the last decade is processing much of this. I never believed in the necessity of therapy but I now understand that these things don’t just disappear. I think about my dead brother all that he went through leading up to his death and what he might have endured. I wonder why I’m still alive and why he is dead and the events that determined this outcome.

We are all treated terribly from time to time. The aggressive driver who cuts you off, the teacher who treated you badly, the boss that doesn’t respect you, the kid who was rude to you, the friend who never follows through, the mother that beat you, the priest that raped you and it is doubtful that in the heat of an altercation, you are going to have the composure to slow your mind down enough to consider why you were treated so badly.

There is more and more compelling evidence for nurture over nature. Most people on death row had seriously traumatic childhoods, most alcoholics and drug addicts, are survivors of abuse. I personally don’t think people are ‘pre-destined’ to be ‘bad people.’ Many biologists and anthropologists actually suggest human nature is tended towards cooperation and harmony not competition and conflict.

I believe in free will but I also believe the events that make us the people we are, the events that create the culture we are born into, are going to limit the range of that freedom and the number of choices we are presented with. You only have to look at brain scans of a ‘healthy’ young person and a person who endured a traumatic childhood to understand how concrete the effects of nurture can be on development.

I’m certainly not saying any wrong done to you is justified, forgivable or tolerable or that your perpetrator had no choice but to abuse you and shouldn’t be ‘punished’ but I suppose if we can begin to collectively understand why we treat each other so badly, we can broaden our choices of how we are going to respond and cope when someone does hurts us and perhaps, inconsequence, the cycle can slow itself down. In an economic system that pits us against each other, and in a culture of the individual, this is a daunting task but next time you walk around a busy area, look at everyone you pass and remind yourself they were a baby once like you, they will die one day like you, and think about all the events that could have brought them to cross your path and what they might be going through.

Some people tell me that homeless young people just need to snap out of it, get a job, stop taking drugs and mooching off social services. Then I might begin to tell them why even in the best of economic times that is not so simple and they might retort, that they did it themselves. That they were beaten, abused, addicted, lost, raped, alone, depressed, suicidal, unsupported, neglected, unloved but they survived and succeeded in life. And good for them, but not everyone can because we are all individuals. We’ve all banged our heads against a wall wondering why someone made the seemingly ridiculous, dangerous, self-destructive choices they made, but we need to follow it up with the context of that choice and what they are choosing it over.

I wrote this for two reasons. One because the instructor told us we would need to ‘take care of ourselves’ after this training and two because she told us that if we come away with anything it should be to try and help others understand why survivors of trauma, might behave the way they do.

For those of us like bulldozers sleeping in the sun...

2011-04-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker and a softy, but A Silver Mt Zion, well, I believe them. I put them in the same category as Fugazi or Crass- Very fucking convincing... Watch the whole thing and tell me why I'm wrong.

2011-04-14T12:32:00.000-07:00

I have just started work on, what might eventually become, Foulweather Press' first book. I'm not sure how this is going to pan out yet. It has been a long time coming and I already have two novels gathering dust in the basement. However, this time I think I have it worked out.

2011-04-11T09:54:00.001-07:00

2011-04-10T11:54:00.001-07:00

Issues #2 + #3 now on sale

2011-04-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

As I get ready to ramp up for Foulweather Issue #4, I'm selling off the remaining copies of issues #2 and #3 cheap. #1 is sold out, sorry.

untitled

2011-04-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

Last week I skated a secret half pipe in the backwaters of Nehalem Oregon, after leaving my friend Slim to surf Seaside. I was trying to learn backside airs, proper style, by grabbing the nose. I was a getting a few decent little ones, then getting cocky, I went to boost a big one. Unfortunately, this secret backwater half pipe Nehalem ramp lacks the necessary vertical to get real air and so I inevitably hung up on the lip and went crashing to the ground.

As I was lying on the flat bottom, thinking I should have gone surfing with Slim, I heared this little voice nearby,

"Well Hello there."

Who says "Well Hello there" in this day and age? I wondered as I contemplated standing up.

I looked up and standing next to me was a pudgy twelve-year-old ish boy that looked like he just stepped out of 1950s television show.

"Hi." I said as I painfully stood up, "What's going on?"

"Oh nothing. Say, I'd never step on one of those things." He chuckled pointing at my skateboard.

"Well, that's probably wise of you." I replied, rubbing my hip.

Getting a good look at him. I could see he was wearing what looked like a homemade pair of jeans, a home made denim shirt, tucked in and buttoned to the neck (of course), a straw hat and black dress shoes that glistened with a polished shine.

As I continued to look him over, I noticed he was checking out the graffiti on the ramp,

"I suck sk8erz cockz 4 free. Call me if you are ovr 18 and undur 30." I almost wanted to shield his innocent eyes from the offending scribble.

"Wow, the kids around here sure do like painting. Shame their spelling is so poorly."

"Yep." I shrugged. "Hey, want to try my board?" I offered and trying to divert the conversation away from cock sucking.

"He he he he he, why surely not he he he he," slapping his thigh he continued his little chuckle, "Oh no, I'm not inclined to welcome injury upon myself today he he he."

The kid seemed nice enough and I didn't want to be rude but I was really feeling those backside airs could take me somewhere special that day, so I got up and started skating again.

Each time I fell he gasped and then when he saw I was not seriously injured, he would chuckle away. Eventually, I took a breather and he was still standing by the side of the ramp, looking at me, smiling.

"You live around here?" I asked.

"Yessir, I do."

"Cool." I nodded. "Go to school?"

"Oh no. I'm home-schooled."

"Oh yeah? Great man, that's cool."

He went on, "And I work on the farm. I might go to agriculture school as I'm going to graduate four years early. I want to learn how to operate heavy machinery."

"That sounds like a fun life, my man."

I was digging this kid. He lived how I often talked about living, off the land in an intentional, sustainable community. Making/ growing as much as they could for their daily existence. He wasn't like other kids I knew of his age. Granted, I mostly work with young people who have been through the ringer but most modern American twelve year olds don't know how to kill a chicken, drive a tractor and sew their own shirts.

"Say, I don't suppose you want a chicken?" He asked.

"Hmm.." I paused.

"Well, I do live in the city but you know what I wouldn't mind my own chicken."

He gave me directions to his family's land and told me to swing by in an hour. They'd surely love to pass on one of the family chickens to my good self.

"Ok. I'll see you in an hour." I said about to drop in and tackle a few more backside airs. "Take it easy."

"He he he he. No, you should be the one taking it easy." He annunciated the last three words as if they were a foreign language and walked off giggling his chubby chuckle.

Well, I got a few satisfactory backside airs but I still wasn't sure if I wanted the chicken or not. Driving 1.5 hours back to Portland with an unknown bird sounded sketchy. There again the prospect of free eggs every day was too appealing. So I went in search of this boy's land. I was sure I had memorized his directions correctly but I ended up driving around the backwaters of Nehalem, Wheeler and Manzanita for half an hour before finally giving up. I ended up at a nearby convenience store, bought a bottle of Sheaf Stout and drank it on the beach near Neahkanie Mountain, instead. As the sun set, the alcohol began to soothe my bruises but I still pondered tomorrow’s inevitable complications.

2011-03-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

The Phoresia story is fixed. Incase you read it, (of course you did!) and thought it read a little strange. It was missing the first few paragraphs.

Thanks David!

Confessions Of A Guilty Expat

2011-03-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

(Please note, this was written around 2004)

At nine years of age I remember I was devastated that my family was soon to be leaving Wales to live in Bahrain in Persian Gulf. Life was just starting to get exciting and I had no desire to leave the fishing village of Mumbles that was my entire world, to go and live on a mysterious desert Island. There was simply too much to leave behind. I had a crew of friends who I liked to hunt ghosts and explore the cliff tops and beaches with. I also had a paper round that I was far too young for but exceptionally proud of.

I would deliver newspapers and magazines after school, which was OK in the summer but when autumn arrived things became a bit more problematic. On those cold dark evenings the old house that was towards the end of my paper round, with the long unlit driveway that was enshrouded in weeping willows, would often not receive the South Wales Evening Post because I was scared shitless of all the potential hanging bodies, ghostly monks or worse, that were no doubt, lurking all along the way to the giant oak door. Other people who did not receive the publications that they subscribed to were skateboarders, surfers and dart players. Well that’s not strictly true. They would receive their magazines after this I was done flicking through them for a few days. And so began my life long love of surfing and darts, on top of my growing fascination with skateboards. OK, my love of darts didn’t last that long.

Meanwhile, several of my friends with older brothers were starting to talk about surfing and becoming ‘surfies,’ which basically meant adopting surf fashion but not actually surfing yet. So in between discussions about episodes of The Young ones, (which I was not allowed to watch yet) and CND (Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament), we discussed surfing. Wait, wait, eight year olds discussing CND?! That’s right. I’m sure, like surfing, discussions about CND stemmed from politically conscious older brothers and sisters spouting off in front of the younger urchins that I mingled with in the playground. So began my political (un)consciousness.

I spent my last summer in Wales scoping out houses that I thought were haunted, exploring World War Two era bomb shelter remains on the top of Mumbles Hill and watching the surfers slash the brown waves that occasionally pumped into Langland Bay. Life was beautifully simple, all I wanted to do was hunt ghosts, ride a bike with no hands, tic-tac a skateboard and catch an episode of The Young Ones. My parents were beginning to discuss the possibility of moving overseas. I thought we already lived in paradise and pretended not to hear them.

Back in school after the summer, my teacher joked that it was going to be so hot in Bahrain that I would soon be wearing a thobe. The only image of Bahrain that I had seen was of local kids running bare foot through the dusty streets chasing a hula hoop with sticks. Not a skateboard or surfboard in sight.

Christmas 1984, my Dad was not with us, he was already in the Persian Gulf on the island Emirate of Bahrain. We spoke on the phone around that time and I asked him if there were good waves in Bahrain and he said no, there was no surfing but there was windsurfing. What the fuck was windsurfing? At this point I was hell bent on becoming a surfer and so this was a harsh blow. After we hung up the phone, I went to look at what I knew was a skateboard, wrapped up under the Christmas tree. It would have to do.

By pure coincidence a new boy had joined our class during those my last few days. His family had just moved back to Wales from Bahrain. He was very clean cut and tanned, didn’t sound Welsh at all, had a gold ring and was shit at rugby. I didn’t like him but he was the centre of attention and so before I left I asked him what Bahrain was like. I don’t think he liked me either and replied,

“Horrible, you’ll hate it there. I’m glad we moved back.”

Two months later, I was cruising bare foot at sunset on my skateboard, pretending palm trees were tubing waves, marveling at the Islamic prayer to call that echoed through the evening. My dad had shipped out my mother, younger brother, sister and grandmother to Bahrain, for three years to earn some tax free salary to pay off our house in Wales and raise some money to build an extension for Gran to live in and generally secure a middle class existence.

Thousands of years of history crammed into several meager paragraphs

Bahrain is an archipelago of thirty-three islands tucked away in a corner of the Arabian Gulf, with Saudi Arabia to the West and Qatar to the south. It has a fascinating history that is still being uncovered and researched today. In the 1960s a Danish archaeologist became convinced that Bahrain was the site of the ancient civilization of Dilmun (3000 BC) that lasted for two thousand years. After years of excavation of many of the thousands of burial mounds by an international crew of archaeologists, it is now widely accepted that Bahrain was indeed the center of Dilmun (which at various times in history covered a large area throughout the Gulf and Eastern Saudi Arabia). It was and still is exceptionally fertile and green considering its geographic location due to the freshwater springs that bubble up from beneath the land and sea. The name Bah-rain, actually means “two seas” referring to the salt water sea and the fresh water springs that lie beneath it. The location of the islands was in a key position for trade between the East and Middle East. As more and more traders passed through, Dilmun and later Bahrain became known for its abundance in pearls and the skilled divers that harvested them. Pearls contributed significantly to the wealth of islands. That is, until the discovery of oil. In 1932 Bahrain was the first Gulf nation to discover oil and the first to reap its benefits. And like the pearls the supply of oil was not unlimited.

Location, fertile land, fresh water and wealth also ensured that throughout its history Bahrain has been subject to conquest and occupation by a variety of outside peoples. Bahrain has been occupied by the Babylonians, the Persians, the Greeks, the Omanis, the Portuguese and the British Empire up until 1971. Some Bahrainis will still argue that Bahrain is still under occupation by people who do not belong there.

The current rulers of Bahrain arrived on the islands during the mid-eighteenth century. The Al-Khalifas are descendants of a powerful nomadic tribe from mainland Arabia. They are not native to the islands. The indigenous people of Bahrain, often referred to as Baharnahs are of Persian descent. Furthermore, the Al-khalifas and the ruling class are predominately Sunni Muslims (approx. 20-30% of the Bahraini population), whereas the native Bahrainis are Shi’a Muslims (approx 70-80% of the population). These ethnic and religious differences are at the core but not necessarily the sole reason for the ongoing tensions in the country. The British ensured the puppet rule of the Al-Khalifas throughout their own occupation, until Bahrain gained independence in 1971. It seems it is easier to control a totalitarian regime than a democratic society. For the first three years after gaining independence, Bahrain had a National Assembly, a constitution (drawn up with the aid of Britain) and a system that resembled some form of democracy until it was gradually broken up and dissolved by the ruling elite. Political parties were soon outlawed. Yet, the British and Americans continued to help to advise and manage all aspects of the government, security and military despite the total dismantling of any semblance of democracy.

The majority Shi’a working class population is still governed and ruled by the minority Sunni families, headed by the Al-Khalifa royal family. The distribution of wealth is not coincidently inversely proportionate to population make up. Since independence Human Right’s organizations, the British and US governments have all agreed, to some degree, that democracy, basic freedoms and civil/human rights are lacking. Meanwhile, Bahrain is sold as an Islamic nation that enjoys a ninety percent literacy rate (including women) and a relative lack of absolute destitution in comparison to other ‘third world’ countries. Bahrain is often cited as a shining example of a relatively peaceful, harmonious and liberal country within the Middle East. From an outside perspective (that includes expat residents), the people of Bahrain seemingly enjoy adequate education, health care and housing. Indeed, on the surface it seems that Bahrainis are very proud of their heritage, their culture and even their royal family and they also pride themselves on the fact that so many foreigners from around the world come to Bahrain to make a better life for themselves.

Yet, the roots of a very desperate problem have always been well concealed. Dissent has been all but snuffled out using the most crude and brutal methods over the last few decades. Daily newspapers depict a harmonious and diverse community. Yet, a visitor to the island need only put in a little effort to discover people living in destitute villages and many others begging in the capital city of Manama. There are several hidden “Shanty” towns that have been barricaded from the view of the main roads. Yet, that is just surface level stuff poverty that most people would expect and accept. There is a much deeper issue that it takes some effort to discover and examine. This is the horror that has brought Bahrain to the attention of international Human Rights advocates. It is a horror that has seen the need to shove glass bottles up the arses of teenage boys in punishment spray-painting inflammatory graffiti amongst other things.

Essentially, there are two potentially revolutionary forces that threaten the existing power structure of Bahrain. One is a secular demand for a more open and democratic society including, elections, an open dialogue on local Human and Civil Rights issues and a free press. The other is an Iranian influenced move towards Islamic theocracy. It seems as though the ruling elite have chosen to move along the more democratic path or at least to try and convince the outside world that this is the case. Mainly, because the majority working class have more in common with Iran than they do with the Al Khalifas. Thus an Islamic theocracy would put an end to their rule and has to be avoided even if it means ‘opening up’ to the idea of democracy a tad.

In 1999 the Emir, Sheikh Isa died and his son Sheikh Hamad replaced him. Not surprisingly, Sheikh Hamad made a commitment to moving towards democracy and improving Human Rights when he assumed the throne. A referendum was held in 2001 to approve constitutional changes. As a result Bahrain is now a constitutional monarchy. Local elections were held in 2002 with women being able to vote. Other gulf states, including Saudi Arabia are watching Bahrain’s steps towards ‘democracy’ with close eyes. While Human Right’s groups and democratic activists continue to criticize the ruling regime. Pro-democracy events continue to get banned. The working class youth continue to spray political graffiti and riot in frustration. According to the French newspaper LaMonde in 2005, 80,000 people are still struggling to survive below the poverty line.

Throughout the 70s, 80s and 90s hundreds of mostly young working class Shi’a men were rounded up and imprisoned, often for years without official charges or a fair trial. Oftentimes torture was involved, oftentimes to the knowledge and even under the direction of -British and American ‘security advisors.’ Someone should and could right a book on the hidden struggle of working class Bahrainis and the dynamics of the last four decades of dissent but my role here is to examine to role of expatriates (particularly that of the white western species) in the whole saga.

Expatriates make up about 35% of the population. Human Rights Watch states that between the years 1981 and 1991 15,800 of 74,200 new jobs in the economy were filled by expatriates. Even though there are expatriates from all over the world in Bahrain they can be basically divided into two camps. One is a population that comes from Asia (largely India and Pakistan) who are prepared to do menial work for exceptionally low wages. The second is, professional and/or technically qualified people from the ‘West’ who are paid vast salaries, live tax free and are provided with numerous other ‘perks’ to provide incentive to live and work in Bahrain. It is worth noting that there are obviously many overlaps and exceptions to make up of the expatriate community. However the point remains the same, the situation leaves many Bahrainis unwilling to work the menial jobs for below poverty wages and unqualified for the higher paying jobs. While the government might admit that there is something of an employment problem for working class Bahrainis, Human Rights watch stated in 1994 that unemployment amongst young men in Shi’a communities was twice that of the official 1994/95 rate of 15%. Furthermore, it might not simply be a matter of acceptable wages and qualifications. It has been suggested by dissident groups that the Shi’a have a far harder time working their way up the economic ladder and getting influential jobs because the power structure and rigid hierarchal nature of society intentionally tries to keep them down. One only has to note that the ‘Public Security’ force is largely made up of Pakistani expatriates.

White Filth and Easy Living

I wrote a horrible poem few years ago about not being able to escape squares and rectangles. It was about how we live in squares, work in squares, watch the box and so on while being disconnected from the circles and cycles of nature. It was pretty piss poor but thinking about it now as I ponder the current mode of the expat existence in Bahrain, I think I see some relevance buried beneath my pretentious poetics. It seems as though white western expats go from their barbed wired and guarded ‘compounds’ to air conditioned car to air conditioned office or school, to the exclusive air conditioned private sports club to the expensive air conditioned restaurant in the hotel, to the air conditioned shopping mall -full of McShit between the Gaps- and back to the compound again to swim in private swimming pools or play squash in private air-conditioned squash courts. Of course there is more to the expat existence than my cynical depiction but it is sometimes hard to say what that might be.

It seemed as though back in 1985 there was still some form of meaningful interaction between the western expat community and the local people from the villages. When my family arrived in Bahrain, we moved into a compound not far from the village of A’ali, famed for its pottery and the vast stretch of ancient burial mounds nearby. When I was about 11, I used to venture outside the compound to explore the wider world away from the tennis court and swimming pool of the compound. My friends and I would cycle around on our BMX bikes and go to the village to buy spray paint and exotic brands of chewing gum. Inevitably we would cross the paths of young Bahraini boys our own age. Sometimes the interactions were positive and we would discuss break-dancing and bikes and show off how unquestioningly great we were at both these activities. Without a doubt, sometimes these interactions were negative.

When I was about 12 I insulted a local’s younger brother for holding hands with his friend, something that is very common amongst Arab males of all ages but not that cool to us young white western bigots. The result was a pre-arranged fight. I was to meet the older brother at a designated location (a stretch of ‘wasteland’ between compounds and villages) in the early evening. I arrived with a crew of about a dozen kids my age and as I had suspected so did he. So we were getting ready to rumble when the boy I was supposed to fight pulled out half a pair of scissors and locked the finger hole onto his middle finger and then beckoned me to fight. I told him I would not fight him unless he dropped his weapon but he refused, so then I said to wait while I went home to get my own weapon. Anyway the fight was soon cancelled. I ran into him the next day and he attempted to apologize. I refused to accept his apology and so he sucker punched me in the face and the fight went ahead after all. Even though this incident demonstrated the potentially disastrous results of such a cultural clash, most of our interactions with the Bahraini villagers during that era did not culminate in fights.

Obviously my friends and I were not the only western white expats interacting with Bahraini villagers. Back in the mid 1980s it did seem as though there was a bit more integration (to use the term loosely), than in the years to follow. This was a time when there was still no MacDonald’s on the island so you might go to the village to get shawarmas. There were no chain stores to buy the same clothes as people were buying back home and so you might go into the Souq to purchase some material and then take it to a tailor to fashion you some unique clothing. There was no Coca-Cola, Cadbury’s chocolate or British Home stores and even though we longed for those things, their absence forced us to seek out local alternatives and thus interact and communicate with Bahraini people. Not surprisingly the more these imperialistic mega-brands forged they’re way across Arabia, the more Bahrain lost its character and the more segregated the local community and the expat community became.

While it seemed like a tremendous novelty to finally be able to buy Coke in Bahrain, I now believe the ensuing results were unfortunate and irreversible. When expats got access to everything they missed back home they were arguably no longer living in Bahrain. They were now just driving from one compartmentalized version of western consumer capitalism to the next. The Bahrain of old disappeared in their rear view mirrors, hidden amongst the dust, torn up from the ancient foundations of Dilmun by their Lexus SUVs.

Even before Coke arrived and before the huge shopping malls began to pave their way along the coast the expat community and the Bahraini community obviously led starkly different lifestyles. For one, Expats would frequent expat only (except if you were brown) beaches and private sports and sailing clubs. Even though Bahrain had been independent for well over a decade, by the mid 1980s a colonial mentality was still prevalent, whereby expats felt they were living in some remote outpost, where they had to make an effort to nourish a sense of community amongst themselves. In actuality this was just an excuse to drink a lot and convince each other that despite the stress of training the locals to run their own country, they were living some idyllic lifestyle unlike everyone they had left behind in dreary old pessimistic, unemployment ridden, crime ridden England or wherever. It was also an excuse to avoid thinking about the political implications of their being in Bahrain in the first place and a way of way to ignore the devastating human right’s problem that existed right in font of them.

By our early teens, my friends and I were bored of sailing with our parents and going swimming at the Gulf Hotel Club and so we began to seek out alternative adventure. We began hitch hiking as our primary mode of transportation and as an assertion of independence from parents. We would hitch into the city centre of Manama to ride our skateboards under the glowing neon signs and towering mosques. It was usually a young Bahraini who would pick us up, always male, usually in his twenties, chain smoking cigarettes and listening to reggae. I hated smoke, so I’d usually be leaning out the window trying to get some fresh air, while my friends tried to scrounge fags off the driver. I didn’t mind the reggae though, even if it did not fit into my musical diet of largely thrash metal, punk and hip-hop. A lot of reggae is a not-so-strangely fitting soundtrack to Bahrain. People often associate the music with an idyllic island lifestyle but a closer look reveals a desperate political situation. Linton Kwesi Johnson’s Sonny’s Letta could easily take place in Bahrain as opposed to Brixton. Of course Bob Marley was often the favorite amongst the Bahrainis. I wasn’t conscious of it at the time, but Marley’s songs about curfews, shanty towns and post colonial Jamaica obviously struck a chord with some of these youths, growing up in Shi’a villages. Sometimes, one of us might try and score some ganja from one of the people who picked us up hitching. The result was often, us being driven into one of the labyrinth like villages while our eager-to-please-the-western boys-driver would attempt to score us some. On more than one occasion we ended up jumping out of the car and running off as we sensed we were being driven into a sketchy situation. Picture a group of three or four scruffy white fifteen year olds, running through a Shi’a village at three in the morning.

Saudi Arabians who had driven across the Saudi causeway[1] for a weekend of debauchery also were often eager to pick us up. Inevitably, not long into the journey, they would offer us beer or drugs in exchange for us taking them to where some of our female friends might be. I had lifts where the driver had nearly completed three cans of beer in a half hour journey and lifts where someone had to pull a knife to get the driver to stop to let us out. Sometimes I am amazed that I came out of such situations unscathed. A few expat kids weren’t so lucky.

By my mid-teens, much like most teens, I was pretty fucking angry at the world. Angry at the stupid British education system, angry that girls wouldn’t talk to me and I was incapable at talking to them, angry that I would be eaten alive if I was return to school in Wales, confused at parent’s growing prosperity and angry at Bahrainis who would stare at me for riding a skateboard with stupid hair cuts and bad fashion. Boohoo, woe was I.

Sometimes my anger would result in me stabbing my mattress and slicing up my school uniform. Sometimes it would result in me picking fights, usually with friends who were not white. I once beat a good friend until he admitted that he was a ‘Paki-shit.’ For the life of me I can’t think of what he did to provoke that. On one occasion, two friends and I were turned away from a nightclub for having inappropriate attire. So we snuck into the toilet armed with ketchup bottles, Tabasco sauce and mustard that we had nicked from a nearby food trolley. We proceeded to paint the whole room a wild mix of red, white and orange, screaming at the top of our lungs. We were caught by the club security and they proceeded to call the police as they guarded the exit. However, I spied another exit and made ‘eye signals’ at my friends to make a run for it. I nodded the count to signal our break and bolted for the door. Several blocks into the city centre we realized that there were only two of us. Our other friend was caught and left to clean that almighty mess up by himself or go to jail. Needless to say I nearly lost a good friend that night. On another occasion, I once got blind drunk and stormed through Mananma on a crowded weekend night shouting obscenities about Islam. I was chased by some angry Muslims and had to hide out in the maze of alleyways in the Souq before it was safe to re-find my friends. I should have a Fatwa issue against me for that one. Other stupidity included, spending a night in a Bahraini jail cell for crashing my mother’s car while under the influence of Foster’s lager and I once decked a security guard who attempted to confiscate my skateboard.

Thankfully, most of my anger was not that miss-directed. I never went into a mosque, shat on the Koran and shouted obscenities through the loud speaker that Muslims pray through, as one expat kid from Liverpool did. I never beat an Indian security guard within an inch of his life as two other English kids did, which resulted in a year or so in a Bahraini jail for both of them.

I’d like to think that each one of my misadventures provided me with a growing education of the expat role in Bahrain. For instance, my night in a Bahraini jail cell brutally opened my eyes to my privilege. I had been slapped by cops before but this time they were very cordial and kept telling me I was a ‘good boy’ because I was not drunk and only had one beer. Then in the police station they offered me sweet Arabic tea and allowed me to make numerous phone calls to try and get someone to bail me out. Essentially, they said that if I called the right person I would be able to leave without consequence. The right person would have been a member of an influential family. Being that many members of the royal family attended the same schools as western expats this possibility was not that remote. However, no one was willing to help me out at two in the morning, probably because I was an anti-social bastard. My parents were back in Wales so I could not call them. So in the cells it was.

I got to choose from four or five different cells, each with about four other people crashed out on the floor. I was given a blanket and that was that. I covered my matted blonde hair and white legs with the blanket and just left my boots showing. All night, I was kept awake by the praying and wailing of various people who were about to be deported. It was the first does of the harsh reality of life in Bahrain for the underprivileged that I was forced to witness close up. I was eventually bailed out by a friend of my Dad after a long hot morning in a stinking cell with brawling Kuwaitis, drunk Saudis and weeping Indians who had no idea when they were getting out. All of them were very cool to me, offered food and were curious as to why a white teenager would end up on a concrete floor in a festering jail cell.

Awakenings

A couple of months after I turned 18, I left Bahrain for Wales. I chose to return to Wales to attend university as I wanted to rediscover my roots. Even so, I left thinking I was far superior for being an expat kid. I felt like I was a worldly internationalist in comparison to those who grew up in the UK. I was in for a rude awakening but it needed to happen. Thanks in part to the people I befriended who were from far different backgrounds to that of my own, I slowly developed a bit more of a political consciousness that eventually helped me understand my role in Bahrain. I began to consider the class structure of the country and the totalitarian nature of the absolute monarchy. I also began to read up on the Human Rights struggle, largely through the Voice of Bahrain (VOB) website (http://www.vob.org/). VOB is made up of pro-democracy activists from all sectors of Bahraini society, both Islamists and those of a more secular persuasion. Part of the website details arrests, prison time without trial but what struck me the most was the detailing of torture. I knew some of these things were happening but the extent just boggled my mind. What further boggled my mind was that many, mainly British and American expats were indirectly and sometimes directly involved with it all.

It is no secret that Bahraini security forces have violently suppressed dissent. It is no secret that a Brit, named Ian Henderson, was the chief advisor to said security forces. Henderson (who helped suppress the Mau Mau in Kenya before moving to Bahrain) is a wanted man amongst Human Rights activists. The only secret is why he isn’t being held accountable for his actions. When I realized that I had socialized with people who had worked under this wanker, I was outraged. I was even more outraged when I sparked this discussion with fellow expats and they came off so disinterested. I could find very little sympathy for the plight of disenfranchised Bahrainis amongst those who had profited from the socioeconomic/political structure of Bahrain. Amongst many expats who were in Bahrain at the time of the protests and riots, the traditional colonial attitude prevailed.

What are they shouting about now? Blocking roads, burning tires, and blowing up gas canisters isn’t going to get them anywhere is it?

Perhaps, I was expecting too much. I returned to visit Bahrain in 1994 just in time for a mini uprising. It was largely contained in the Shi’a villages, hidden from the expats in their confined compounds and the rich in their villas with barbed wired perimeters, but I sought it out.

My brother, a friend and I decided to drive around the island one afternoon to have a look at all the anti-government graffiti. We were leaving the city centre when we could see several helicopters hovering over a particular area. There were also columns of black smoke rising from this area. We decided to investigate and drove over to what we determined was the Shi’a village of Jidhafs. There was a heavy police presence on the roads surrounding the village, so we drove in through the narrow back alleys. As we got deeper into the village, we could see hundreds of people waving black flags and chanting in the face of the heavily armed security who were marching towards them. A thick black smoke was in the air from the burning tires. The security forces were unlike any I had seen before in Bahrain. They were dressed in all black combat gear with riot protection helmets and shields.

We tried to drive closer to get a better look when we came across one of the security/policemen. They motioned wildly for us to turn around but there were several cars behind us and it was difficult to turn in the confined area. Then the tear gas began to fly. We were trying to turn the car around when a tear gas canister was shot through the air towards us and landed about fifty feet away. Unfortunately, we could not turn the air-conditioning off before some of it leaked into the car. On our way out of the village I attempted to take a few photographs but I panicked as the security forces furiously directed us out of the scene. On the way home we stopped by the sight of the aftermath of another protest and found a burnt Bahraini flag. I can say that at that point, I knew I had witnessed something exceptional in that these events were not being documented anywhere. It was my responsibility not to ignore what I had seen. Elsewhere the island was peaceful and calm as usual. I later learned that some of the faces behind the riot gear were white.

Since then a few articles have appeared in the likes The Guardian newspaper and Lord Avebury (ironically, a member of House of Lords, perhaps the most undemocratic of British institutions but that is another story) has spearheaded a campaign to look into pro-democracy struggle and the ensuing abuses of Human Rights. Also, Bahrain has taken more baby steps towards a more open and democratic society. Meanwhile, more shopping malls have sprung up by the dozen, more and more American and European goods are available for consumption, compounds are more secure and clubs more exclusive. Many Bahraini dissidents have aligned their struggle in solidarity with Palestine and Iraq, perhaps encouraging a more anti-Western sentiment to their dissent. Yet, it seems as though the atmosphere in Bahrain is currently pretty calm. Elections have been held, free association and a free press are supposedly legal again. The people have been thrown just enough crumbs to keep them quiet for awhile. As demonstrated by The Battle of Algiers, a reaction to hundreds of years of oppression by colonial and post-colonial forces remains inevitable. The chickens could still come home to roost.

For more, check out: From a Safe Distance in Coming To Amerika Issue #3, Days of War, Nights of Skateboarding in Bail Magazine Issue #1 and Biting the Hand That Fed Me: Growing up a British Expatriate in Bahrain in the Feb/March 2001 issue of Clamor Magazine.

1 Saudi Arabia and Bahrain are linked by a 14KM Causeway that crosses the Gulf.

Saudi does not have night clubs or legal alcohol. Bahrain does.

On this eve of his awakening...

2011-03-21T18:28:00.000-07:00

...we welcome back the Green Man of Spring

On A Far Lighter

2011-03-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

Skateboarding in Bahrain during the Gulf War, Pic M. Thiebaud

but not completely unrelated note David and Ricardo from Phoresia asked me to write a little something for their website awhile ago. It is part of a larger project I am working entitled, "Confessions Of A Guilty Expat" which will eventually become an account of my time in Bahrain and resulting political awakening and eventual immigration to the US.

Anyway this recent piece on Phoresia is a little snippet about how skateboarding fit into the whole thing.

Thanks again Ricardo and David.

2011-03-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

Well my parents are free to move around today, relatively unhindered and without being harassed by either side of the conflict, apparently. Not sure, about the flight situation though. I just hope they jump on one when the opportunity arises but I think they have gone to stay with friends at a 'safer' locale. Thanks for those of you that have been in touch.

However, it is the people on the streets who are the ones who need our thoughts the most. They aren't going anywhere. I think the best we can hope to do for them, is to try and sift through the chaos to find a semblance of truth about the situation.

Some worthwhile analysis of recent events in Bahrain:

Nick Kristof for the NYT

Shirin Sadeghi for the Huffington Post

Mark Lynch for Foreign Policy

It is crazy to think people like Nick Kristof follow this type of thing around the world. How can a human being function when they're dodging bullets one day and writing about the devastation in Japan the next?

Back to my cushy life of coffee and checking the surf forecast...

Wishing the best for everyone trying to reclaim their lives from recent disasters both natural and political.

Letter from my dad

2011-03-16T08:19:00.000-07:00

Not sure I should post this but it is not everyday one gets an email from the front line... I'm trying to keep my shit together as they find a way out....

Hello All,

Well, it had to happen, a full scale conflict is occurring here in Bahrain. Unfortunately for K and I; we are trapped in our apartment, surrounded by a massive contingent of troops in tanks and armoured vehicles etc., together with rioters and riot police firing tear gas, live ammo. and cannon fire; not nice. The situation is now very serious. Some of the rioters are even attacking ambulances and the paramedics!

We do have enough food to last a few days and have been told to flee the country ASAP, but there are no airline seats available at the moment and we are on a waiting list. However, even if we do get a seat, the possibility of getting to the airport is highly unlikely. The gun fire is becoming ever incessant and getting on our nerves, but the noise from the helicopter gun ships that sweep around throughout the night is really causing us to lose a lot of sleep.
We can't even get back to our friends at the residential areas, which are relatively quiet, because of the road blocks manned by both troops on certain routes and the rioters on others!

What a mess this beautiful country has fallen into. I have never seen such a massive and intestified military presence in this region, or any other conflict zone to quell an uprising; it certainly seems like taking a sledge hammer to squash a fly. However, these people cannot be criticised for their out and out bravery. considering they are relatively unarmed to take on tanks and heavy gun fire! It is reported by a Doctor friend of mine that some of the troops are using shot guns!!

If this conflict continues for too much longer, I will have to resort to using the assistance of those Shiites still loyal to me; at least to get us to the airport. That is, if seats become available. If one seat becomes available, K will have to go alone. I will do my best to blend in and get out when I can. This should not be too difficult for me as I have dear friends on both sides.

Having written all that as we sit here, the gun fire and burning is increasing in intensity, and I and Kathy are worried sick about the innocent people caught up in the carnage.

Apart from all of the above, K and I are in good spirits and, I'm sure, the imposed reduction in our calorie intake will further our quest to get fit and well again!!!

Please pass on our sincere best regards to all our friends.

With Our Friendliest of Regards,

T and K

Martial Law

2011-03-15T16:56:00.000-07:00

Hamad Mohammed/Reuters Photo

Well Martial Law has been declared in Bahrain. Saudi troops are allegedly shooting anyone on the streets, defying curfew. There are some horrendous photos circulating of gun shot wounds to the head. One ray of hope is that reportedly some Sunni have had enough and are now coming to the defence of their Shi'a brethren. With any luck the Al-Khalifas will dig their own grave with this. Or perhaps it is out of their control now? Perhaps Saudi is calling the shots in a desperate attempt to prevent Iranian influence gain a stronghold....

Mum, Dad, the airport is still open for now. Get the hell out, while you can...

Not sure what else to say. My thoughts are with everyone out there. I hope the people of Bahrain know that some of us are trying to pay attention and find the truth amongst the chaos.

I'm not sure what the fuck our elected officials are doing, if anything, at this point....

Links:
-Democracy Now (Some intereseting thoughts on the US role in recent Bahraini affairs, Did Robert Gates know what was about to unfold?)
-Al Jazeera
-Angry Arabiya
-Al Jazeera video (Proof that the government is sending in plain clothes police/ forces to instigate trouble?)
-Reuters

A long road with daunting obstacles....

2011-03-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

The situation in Bahrain has escalated, while I have to admit to having tuned out over the last week or so. Perhaps, not coincidentally, events have escalated as the world turns its attention to the devastation in Japan. Then I receive random emails from my mum that include the words, 'rubber bullets, tanks, beatings, curfew, Martial Law, explosions' and so on. It is hard to imagine the Bahrain I once knew, is now virtually paralysed.

History is what's happening, as they say.

While my sympathies are with the people on the street, it saddens me that the entire opposition will be put to blame for every fucked up move some angry kid takes against their perceived enemy. Meanwhile, many people are conveniently disregarding, who originally instigated the violence and more importantly the history of the power structure and abuse of power in this country that is fueling such actions. These events have been a long-time coming. There is inevitably a lot of bottled up anger. It is not my place to tell young Bahrainis on the streets to take the high road or 'turn the other cheek' but I do hope they see that ultimately they'll gain more sympathy and progress their cause further, if they do.

At the same time it is impossible to tell what actions are being carried out by who. Misdirected dissidents or agent-provocateurs....? My sense is pro-democracy activists understand all to well that they won't get very far if they try to fight their way to freedom with a violent struggle. Their strength lies in their numbers and their continued civil disobedience in the streets, as the world watches and the ruling regime tries to figure out what to do. At this point, the authorities are likely resorting to all manner of tactics to paint the opposition as violent extremists. Thankfully, the international media is not yet buying it.

I really hope Iran is not fueling any dissent in Bahrain. I hope the mobilization of Saudi and UAE armed forces won't push the dissidents towards fundamentalist Islam and Iran, polarizing people any further. It would be tragic if Bahrain became the battleground for Shi'a and Sunni or Arab and Persian to hash out their disputes once and for all. This has to remain a democratic struggle, a class struggle. There should be no room for ethnic and religious conflict in this struggle. Maybe that is what the Al-Khalifas are banking on?

Genuine Democratic progress is going to be messy. It is time for the West to acknowledge this. The days of the US and UK propping up totalitarian regimes who best serve their interests are over. The game is up.

Links:
-BBC
-Internet crackdown?
-Human Rights Watch
-Bahrain Center For Human Rights

Platform

2011-03-12T12:17:00.000-08:00

My skateboard…

Yeah I’m an old man

But my skateboard…

As effective as a daily 5000 IUs of Vitamin D

Or any pillow to hide under

Or any blade to cut my arm with

Or any shoulder to cry on

It weaves through a narrative better than any poem I’ve written

Lee Ralph Fan Club

2011-03-08T10:55:00.000-08:00

Taken From the Pocket Pistols Site.

This blog has taken a rather serious tone of recent... So, after a good weekend channeling Lee Ralph in the concrete and aquatic curves of the Pacific Northwest, I thought I'd lighten it up with Lee Ralph schrapling through a proper Smith Grind in New Zealand. You see when I'm not making millions selling zines, I'm the President of the Lee Ralph Fan Club. Why? You ask.. There are lots of reasons but no one needs to read about them right now and who needs them anyway, when you have a fully lapped, coping mashing, frontside smithgrind, bare chest, toothless grin, bald crown and red beard? Shame he's not barefoot but we can't have it all....

2011-03-01T11:05:00.000-08:00

From the safety of our winter living rooms, we watched them fall.

Heads spinning.

Minds unable to pull away from the tiny snippets.

Watching it all unfold via fragmented reports, artificial glows.

Another cup of coffee. Breathing in the aroma.

Regaining some sensitivity before being sucked back to the slaughter.

Once and for all, desensitized, we finally left the house and carried on as normal.

2011-02-27T09:17:00.000-08:00

Looking for meaningful criticisms of the technological life via google images is futile

US Double Standards Exposed in Bahrain While People On The Street Find A Common Standard

2011-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:00

Photo found via Seek/ Find Blog

In case there there are still any doubts about the US Govt being bedfellows with totalitarian regimes at the expense of human rights and calls for democratic representation. Michael Slackman of the New York Times, lays it all out for us. You want democracy? It was never going to be pretty but let's leave behind the double-standards once and for all...

If those of us in the 'Democratic West' still have any faith in our elected leaders, perhaps it is time we demanded a higher standard of integrity from them... on second thoughts that's never worked in the past. No, perhaps it is time we follow the example of our friends in Egypt, Tunisia, Bahrain, Iran, Jordan, Yemen... Anyone know of a big roundabout in Wisconsin?

Biting The Hand That Fed Me: Growing Up A British Expatriate In Bahrain

2011-02-20T17:19:00.000-08:00

Click to read

Here's an article written by some naive young kid back in 2001. Not the article I would necessarily write today but back then, I never would have imagined the events of the last week.

From Clamor Magazine Feb/ Mar 2001. I'd like to thank Jason and Jen, the editors of the now defunct Clamor Mag, for giving me a chance with this article. Photos by my Sister Gemma.

You can't be neutral on a moving train

2011-02-19T09:36:00.000-08:00

NYT reporter Nick Kristof has been deep in the trenches through the whole thing during recent events in Bahrain. His Twitters have been mind-boggling, despite many efforts by pro-government agitators to discredit him. It looks as though the army has backed off and The Pearl has been re-taken. Who knows what's next but the mood is optimistic for now. Check Kristof's latest NYT column.

I saw Godspeedyoublackemperor last night. There could not have been a more fitting soundtrack to the current unraveling events in the Mid East.

Watch With Caution

2011-02-18T15:08:00.001-08:00

2011-02-18T09:57:00.000-08:00

Just managed to get through to my parents in Bahrain. It was hard to know what to say on a number of levels. I know phone calls have been listened in on in the past. I didn't want to go off on any rant that would put them under any scrutiny. I could tell they were also being careful about what they said. For one they think I'm a worrier and second, I sensed concern from them about what should be talked about. At this stage, I don't think Western Expats are really the concern of either side. The dissidents are just trying to dodge bullets while burying the dead, while the army is busy enforcing Marshall Law. Meanwhile, journalists are being detained in the airport... but word is getting out. The whole world is watching. As I hung up on the phone with my dad, we both agreed, nothing will ever be the same again for Bahrain.

2011-02-18T09:14:00.000-08:00

Doctors were attacked and beaten when trying to treat the wounded. Msnbc Photo

As people attempt to bury their dead, security forces are reportedly using live ammunition on the crowds. Please know that elected leaders of the US and UK know very well what's going on. Please know your elected officials have sanctioned the supply of arms and crowd control equipment to Bahraini security. Please know that your elected governments have actively supported and sanctioned this totalitarian monarchy for decades. The Al Khalifas and Hillary Clinton can argue how far things have come and how this 'constitutional monarchy' has moved closer to democracy but that farce has been horribly exposed.

As it stands Bahraini opposition is relatively secular and moderate but that will not last. This is how terrorists are birthed. Strip a teenage Shi'a boy of his dignity, imprison and torture his older brother, open fire on his mother, and you're not going to keep him passive for long. Violent fanaticism of one form or another will be an increasingly appealing option for this young man. He's got nothing to lose. They need to know rationale thinking people in the West give shit about their plight.

We are bedfellows with thuggish monarchs and viscous dictators, make no mistake about it. The question is how long are 'we' going to sanction this?

Bahraini Regime Brutally Exposes Democratic Farce

2011-02-16T21:57:00.000-08:00

Well things ended in Bahrain about as bad as they could. It is truly astounding that Bahraini security forces would crack down so hard on a peaceful assembly while all the world was watching. At about 3am on Thursday morning, the police broke up the camp on the Pearl Roundabout with tear gas, rubber bullets and shot pellets. So far there have been two reported deaths, dozens of injuries, missing children, and further attacks in Shi'a villages and even hospitals. I'm not sure how the ruling regime can realistically talk its way out of this one. Bahrain will never be the same. It has been amazing to track live Twitter feeds from a variety of sources. Even those that didn't necessarily sympathize with the dissidents' cause are shocked at the response this morning.

The Bahraini government makes few moves without consulting the Saudis, Brits and Americans. I just wonder who knew this was going down. I'll be curious to see the international response in the coming hours.

From what I understand, opposition groups figured they'd get a few more days of peaceful assembly before the international media got bored and then there would be a crack down. They had no idea the ruling regime cared so little about what the rest of the world thinks of it.

Years ago, when Bahrain was still an Emirate I met the Amir, Sheik Isa Bin Salman Al Khalifa. I was hitchhiking home from the beach with a few friends and he drove by and saw us. He had driven by and seen us. His driver beckoned us and we went over to chat with him. He was barely five foot tall, friendly and smiling.

'Where are you from?" He asked.

'UK.' I replied.

'Oh. Very good. I am friends with Queen Elizabeth.' He said, or something to that effect.

'Do you like my country?' He inquired.

'Of course.' I said.

'Tell me what you like about it.' He pushed.

'It is a beautiful a place and people are friendly.' I said.

'Let my gardener give you a lift home.'

That was my one and only brush with a monarch.

His son Hamad Bin Isa Al Khalifa is now King. A man of moderation and progressing thinking, so its said. King Hamad yesterday announced that he was devastated that two protesters had been killed in a peaceful demonstration. A day later, his security forces made it brutally clear they don't really give a fuck.

As I cycled home tonight in the driving sleet, I have to be honest I had an incredibly hard time processing what was happening at The Pearl Roundabout. It has been over ten years since I've set foot on the island of Bahrain. I have had many confusing memories come flooding back, including my brief meeting with the last Amir. And I have to admit, I feel a tad filthy.

-Audio clip of ABC correspondent getting beaten by police

-Ibrahim Shariff's account

-The Guardian Newspaper's blog of events

-Useful background information from a Bahraini Human Rights Org

It looks like some products are still USA made...

2011-02-16T12:56:00.000-08:00

...such as this tear gas used to disrupt peaceful protests against totalitarian regimes. I'm really proud my taxes go to help crush calls for democracy and human rights. I'd put up a link to the Twitter account of the person who took this photo but his account has been crushed. Hilary was just saying how proud she is of the progress Bahrain has made... so proud...

I never thought I'd see the day Bahraini dissent would make international head lines.

It was almost ten years ago, my brother Joe and my friend Matt and I followed some black helicopters into a Shi'a village to see what all the black smoke was. Turns out we stumbled upon a police riot. The village was burning, people were pissed but we didn't understand why, after all Bahrain was supposed to be a peaceful and progressive Gulf state where we all lived in harmony. Matt was driving and I began to take some photographs from the passenger seat. A cop soon detected us and fired a tear gas canister at us. As Matt manipulated the car into a three point turn, tear gas came streaming through the air conditioning vents. Elsewhere, the rest of the island was as calm as can be. If they never left your residential compound, shopping mall, sports club or school, an expatriate Westerner would never know what was going on in those villages.

I spent the next few years trying to make sense of what I had seen. Why were those villagers so angry? Why were the cops cracking down so hard? Why were people burning flags and what role did we play in it all?

Hold Strong, Bahrain

2011-02-15T20:30:00.000-08:00

The crux of the issue

2011-02-14T21:42:00.000-08:00

I've long since given up telling people what they need to watch, read or listen to, well mostly. I don't think any director is as capable as getting to the crux of the matter at hand as Terrence Mallick. What the fuck is it about? What the fuck are you about? There aren't many films that make you feel like you've just woke up from the most profound dream that finally helps you understand the unity of all things. All of Terrence Mallick's films do this. I think of the mass-produced pap costing millions, draining resources, to make a few people wealthy, while feeding us crud and killing our brain cells. And I simply, Can't wait for 'The Tree Of Life.' His films really do fulfill the potential of the medium.

"The nation will start the uprising 14 February."

2011-02-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

This recent Associated Press photo takes me a long way back to my youth. The village of A'ali, age ten, cruising around on BMX bikes and skateboards, hanging out with the local Bahrainis. Sometimes having a laugh, sometimes fighting, causing chaos. A pasty white Welsh kid thrown into the hot and dusty streets of Bahrain... I can't really convey how it has shaped me as a person in a blog post. I've been trying to make sense of it for a long time.

It took me ten years to even understand some of the implications of my family's presence on that tiny island. The ruling Al Khalifa family have viscoulsy oppressed the vast majority of indigneous Bahrainis for generations. Meanwhile, Western expats occupy the highly specialized/ skilled and managerial occupations, workers form the Indian subcontinent occupy the menial works. If the Bahraini Shi'a complain about any of this with any fervour they risk detention without trial and likely torture. Currently, there are allegedly polticial prisoners as young as ten years old occupying underground jails, probably for doing little more than the young man in the above picture.

This is totalitarian regime that has been actively supported by the US and UK. Not to mention Ian Henderson, who helped to brutally suppress the Mau Mau in Kenya was chief advisor to Bahraini security forces for decades and is now wanted for the crimes against humanity.
Bahrainis are not afraid to get out in the streets. It is not like you or I blocking the Broadway Bridge to denounce the War In Iraq. This is life and death shit to these people but when you've got nothing to lose...

While Islamic Fundamentalism has been a vehicle that has carried much of the dissent, the people of Bahrain have had very real gripes beyond religious schism, that include: the lack of freedom of expression, freedom to organize, lack of representation, insanely unequal distribution of wealth. Small concessions have been made over the years. A Parliament has been formed, elections happen, there is free press and legal unions and so on but everyone knows these are often meaningless token appeasements to keep the ruling elite firmly in power. Give 'em just enough to quell the grumbles, allow them to be pacified by some token freedoms and luxuries. Obvious lessons learned from western 'democracies.'

Ultimately, like in Tunisia, Egypt and the rest of the Middle East the power structure can not be meaningfully 'reformed,' it needs to be actively dismantled. Surely, a lot of the world will have a legitimate concern over who and what will fill the power vacuum but hopefully, February 14th will display a genuine egalitarian challenge to an autocratic regime, whose demise has been a long time coming. Inevitably, a less than ideal government will take hold in all these countries but the lessons learned in the streets are going to provide invaluable learning opportunities for eventual lasting change for the entire International political stage.

Leaderless, horizontally organized challenges to illegitimate authority, the decentralization of power and eventual direct control over our own local communities is coming. Maybe not in our life time but these 'moments' are going to give us glimpses of just what's possible. There really is no alternative at this point. It is just a matter of how long the planet can afford to sustain us while we get our shit together.

To my friends in Bahrain, As-Salamu Alaykum.Some of us are rooting for you.

Mum, Dad, be safe.

And Mabrook Egypt!

Get well soon, PJ

2011-02-12T10:08:00.000-08:00

PJ (Pete Jones) is an absolute legend in Welsh surfing. Still ripping shortboards around Gower whenever the swell is up at age 60. Sounds like he suffered some sort of brain injury recently while surfing. Not sure on the details but just wanted to project some positive thoughts his way. This man is eternally stoked and a huge influence on Welsh surfing.

!?yousufferbutwhy?!

2011-02-07T21:31:00.000-08:00

2011 and is proving to be a Bipolar year so far (more on this later). Just this morning, one young person told me, 'I really appreciate what you've done and I get a good vibe from you and then within five minutes someone else announced, 'You're a fucking asshole who has done nothing to help me.' while they desperately tried to break the glass window that separated us. One day, I'm surfing with the Sultan of Stoke, the next I'm at war with a man who must have this last wave, on this last day before the world ends.

Meanwhile, I try and keep even keel with it all and not let myself cling to ecstasy or wallow in the muck, as I may have done in times past. We all see individuals who are experiencing such dramatic swings between highs and lows within themselves, and those that are so heavily medicated in order to find their own functioning even-keel, they resemble ghosts of their former selves.

The increase of Bipolar Diagnosis and Mental Health in general in young people has gone through the roof in the last decade. There are a number of explanations for this, from different approaches to diagnosis, pressure from the pharmaceutical industry to the general social malaise of our times to increasing isolation from nature to the effects and pressures of technology and social media. No doubt the truth is a complex combination of all of the above.

Perhaps, the highs and lows are symptomatic of the human condition and as long as we occupy these physical vessels, we'll never escape them, but I fear current cultural conditioning, is not allowing us to see them what for what they really are; fleeting and impermanent.

In, "The Coming Insurrection" by The Invisible Committee a group of intellectual anti-authoritarians argued that "The maintenance of the self in a permanent state of deterioration, in a chronic state of near collapse, is the best kept secret of the present order of things."

In other words we are pressured towards the realization of this perfect ‘self’ while both our individual selves and the world around us are ever changing. Naturally, we as humans along with the planet as a giant organism, are ever-changing, growing, decaying and dieing. Add to this ‘given’ fact of life, a confusing catalyst of fears of environmental destruction, war and other disasters, the erosion of our relationship with nature and modern consumer pressures in a culture that equates well-being with monetary wealth; it is surprising the modern individual can hold their shit together at all.

Ben Okri wrote, ‘There can be no poetry without the tension between heaven and hell.’ The eventual goal is to write a poem about perfect silence, a poem that snuffles out the distracting chatter and sits in a perfect present. Until that point, ups and downs are to be expected, but we need to learn how to see beyond them and for what they really are. If we are strong we’ll use them to come away from the ride with a much keener awareness of ‘reality.’

Perhaps, Bipolar Disorder is largely a fabricated ‘illness’ created by a sick culture desperately clinging to an insane socio-economic arrangement so that its participants aren’t really given the option of participating in a viable alternative.

Some surfers suck, some don't...

2011-02-02T09:34:00.000-08:00

Some surfers convince me the secrets of the universe can be revealed in the face of a wave. Others leave me absolutely no hope for mankind. Stoked to share a few with Mr Pipeline recently, that is for sure.

Go Egypt, Go!

2011-01-31T10:11:00.000-08:00

AP Photo

Most of us believe we need the police to keep the populous in line. Not ourselves, of course but others... Anyway, these Egyptians are policing themselves. Protecting looted goods from roaming gangs. You don't need a government to organize yourselves and take care of each other. Moments, like what's happening in Egypt right now, show us the potential... I just hope something positive fills the power vacuum. Worst case scenario, fundamentalist Islam will rear its ugly head. Best case scenario, there will be some genuine Democratic reform. Yet, the greatest value is what is being learned in the streets, what social experiments are being conducted as the people organize themselves, what possibilities are being imagined for a genuine and lasting dismantling of power. These events, like in Paris '68 or Argentina in the Early 2000s, provide tiny glimpses of total liberation. Egypt will inevitably, only be a short-lived glimpse of the possibilities but it will surely be another building block for a further-reaching and lasting to challenge to the way we as humans are allowing ourselves to be penned in.

2011-01-26T21:31:00.000-08:00

Spiral City, Melanie Smith

It was as if they were in a cage whose door was wide open without their being able to escape. Nothing outside the cage had any importance, because nothing else existed any more. They stayed in the cage, estranged from everything except the cage, without even a flicker of desire for anything outside the bars. it would have been abnormal -- impossible in fact -- to escape into something which had neither reality nor importance. Absolutely impossible. For inside this cage, in which they had been born and in which they would die, the only tolerable framework of experience was the Real, which was simply an irresistible instinct to act so that things should have importance. Only if things had some importance could one breathe, and suffer. it seemed that there was an understanding between them and the silent dead that it should be so, for the habit of acting so that things had some importance had become a human instinct, and one which was apparently eternal. Life was the important thing, and the Real was part of the instinct which gave life a little meaning. The instinct didn't try to imagine what might lie beyond the Real, because there was nothing beyond it. Nothing important. The door remained open and the cage became more and more painful in its Reality which was so important for countless reasons and in countless ways.- Raoul Vaneigem

Twatted

2011-01-14T10:57:00.000-08:00

WHO DOESN"T LIKE A GOOD SUPER 8 TIMELAPSE??? from Six Stair on Vimeo.

Charnoski and Nichols make good films. All the more interesting in this day and age of HD...

The surf looks like crap, the city is wet, the fam is in work/ school, so I'm forced to sit at home, daydream, drink endless cups of African coffee, listen to the Minutemen, Sonic Youth and other SST greats while working on some writing... I'll probably go and hide from poetry with a bike ride in a minute... How many twats was that?

Countdown To 2012 From LA

2011-01-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

Don James photo

Hugh Holland photo

Ever since I read Mike Davis' City Of Quartz: Excavating The Future in Los Angeles, I've had a minor obsession with what Southern California was and what it could have been. I recently got to flick through Don James' Surfing San Onofre to Point Dume: 1936-1942 with my seventy-one year old father-in-law who grew up in the South Bay area. He had a classic tale of being out on a big day, all alone in the early fifties, on an obscenely long and heavy wooden board. He said he remembers taking a big wave on the head, trying to manhandle the board and thinking to himself, I'm either going to be a surfer or I'm going to work." He chose work. Like with my father-in-law, it seems the hedonistic indulgences of utopic beach-life were crushed under the pressures of modern capitalism. Mike Davis details the subsequent coming dystopic nightmare from a Marxist yet effective perspective.

Whenever I do go down to LA, I still see 'cracks in this facade,' 'signs of life' and rememnants of the promised land. Yet, ultimately we can only conclude that Los Angeles was the victim of its own appeal.

While the Garden had long-since been paved over by the 1970s, the Beach as Utopia was still a culture to strive for. For me, growing up in a fishing village in South Wales that was surrendering its own innocence during my childhood, there couldn't have been a higher aspiration. Hence, my interest in Hugh Holland's Locals Only: California Skateboarding, 1975-1978. (thanks to Skate And Annoy for the tip) Holland's photographs, not only document the salad days of a socal youth subculture but offer a refreshing change from other representations of that era. It seems his photographs are less about documenting the actual 'action' and more about capturing the dreamy atmosphere.

But then came the 1980s...

"I Know one day the world will end
but not before I go out and shred!"

Surf and Destroy by B'last

Soon we will be grinding on the ruins of where the end began, seeking to re-grow our gills, and go slithering back to a picture perfect Don James ideal.