"The black moment is the moment when the real message of transformation is going to come. At the darkest moment comes the light." - Joseph Campbell
I used to pretend to dislike Christmas, especially as a pretend atheist with an ongoing critique of consumer culture. But these days, I've changed my mind and plan on indulging in the festivities. This is essentially apart of my ongoing spiritual quest that started when my acupuncturist opened the 'Gates of Hell' (also known as Dark Gate and Hidden Doorway) few years back.
That for me was my darkest moment. A true moment of existential terror, whereby I had to accept that this being, my person, known as Pete Lewis who is carried around in this temporary mortal body is also temporary and will cease to be one day. As I walked through the Gates of Hell this prospect was absolute ego-crushing, fear inducing torment. However, it was also a wiping clean of my spiritual slate. A shrugging off of the final remnants of Catholic guilt. While I had identified as an atheist, mainly for political provocation before then, it was at that moment that I really was understood atheism and when I began to cease to be one. For then came the light. No, I was not born again. But I was able to take a renewed look at existence and see the value and joy in impermanence and begin an authentic spiritual adventure.
I remain deeply cynical of organized religion, religious leaders and authorities but this year, I will indulge, because I can sympathize with the need for ritual and tradition during these dark days. Not to bash Christians but they do not have a monopoly on end of December celebrations. First it is highly unlikely that Christ was born when they say he was born and second it is exciting to re-claim some of my own ancestors more pagan-like traditions that were co-opted by Christians to make Christianity more palatable to Europeans.
Historians say that between the 17th and 23rd of December was a traditional time for Roman Pagans to indulge in absolute debauchery during the festival of Saturnalia. I used to frown on the over-eating, drinking, revelry and excess of people who weren't Christians during the 'Holidays' but now I see the cathartic appeal. Not to mention a celebration of the very nature of our existence and the planet's path; a celebration of the darkness itself. Historians say, early Puritans in New England banned Christmas because of this and its remaining connections and nods to pagan traditions.
All this leads me to a new appreciation for this time of year. The indulgence and excess can be seen as an annual purge and cleanse. Contemplation of the darkness is like annual walk through the Gates of Hell. Because without the darkness, one cannot know the light. And it doesn't matter what faith you are, every healthy human being might do well to acknowledge that the unconquered sun returns tomorrow.
Now, that I've got the serious shit out the way some final things to get off my chest:
-Santa has more to do with Odin than Coca Cola.
-Coca Cola hired a Swedish ad company to re-write the historical truth in 1931, hence the red and white.
-Tipper Gore invented the birth of Jesus to discredit Monty Python.
-Shane MacGowan's birthday is the only reason to celebrate the 25th of December.
-I made some of the above up.
I've mourned the death of skateboarding far too many times in the past. I don't really have much more to add. All I can say is, if I was a kid in this day and age, I wouldn't have much to do with it. It would simply not serve the same purpose for those of us who were attracted to it because we were ADHD, over-thinking, spastic, non-compliant, ODD, non-joiners, introverts and general weirdos. Of course, the physical aspect of it would still feel pretty damn special. Special movements, maneuvers, interpretations of terrains, redefinitions of urban forms, constructions of wondrous intentional forms. All of that might have appeal but that would just be a part of it. I am not really interested in exclusive esoteric clubs but we had a pretty good one for awhile. And membership wasn't handed to you on a plate. You paid in ridicule, hate and misunderstanding. Sometimes that felt good but not always.
Anyway, for this year's winter Solstice I got my nine year old daughter a new skateboard? Jesus Christ, it is handed to her on a plate by her dear old Dad. It is, indeed, something we enjoy as a team right now but I really hope she finds something that confuses the hell out of me and rocks the god damned boat of complacency, as she drifts into adulthood.
I'm not quitting though.
Actually, I quit every time,
until the next.
Meanwhile, I apologize for over-romanticising the past or my interpretation of it. Which brings me to the point of this post. Neil Blender.
I'm thinking of Neil Blender a lot these days because there are no documentaries with him crying about the past in them. There are no endless retrospectives, re-issues upon re-issue of his decks, old man tours/ contests, and so on... There is a Blender mystique and I don't want it ruined by the telling of the whole story. It might be said, Blender's mind and skateboarding were the perfect vehicles for each other's development during the right time. Artist not athlete. Creative not competitive. Let's just stop right there.
Here is a short film Blender made. No skateboarding involved.
But he was pretty good at skateboarding. Thrasher photos.
Some serious tea drinking and inner views from back in the day over at Chromeball.
Crass Art by Gee Vaucher‘Are you for CND?’It must be about 1982 or 1983 and I’m seven or eight years old. I’m in the playground of Oystermouth Primary School in Mumbles, the small fishing village on the outskirts of Swansea, Wales. I’ve just been approached by three of the more lively lads in my class, all of who have older brothers. I have older brothers also but mine don’t live with me and have not provided me with any ‘political instruction.’
‘What?’ I reply.
‘Are you…’ dramatic pause ‘…for CND?’
‘What you on about?’ I shrug my shoulders.‘Just say yes or get punched.’
‘All right yes, I am.’
‘You are what?’ ‘I am for CND… but What’s CND?’
‘Campaign For Nuclear Disarmament. Right, Pete come with us.’
And with a welcoming arm placed around my shoulders, I’d been accepted, for that day at least. And now it was my turn.
‘Are you for CND?’ I asked a small unassuming boy.‘Not sure.’ He replied.
Thump.
‘Now you are.’
Of course CND was a pacifist movement but eight year olds had to have the pacifism beaten into them.
Many years later, I understood that 1980s Britain was a pretty fascinating time and place. At the time, all I knew is that my teacher’s went on strike and I got to stay home, or that because of Maggie, we no longer had free milk at lunch time. I remember seeing striking miner’s fighting police up the valleys, on the telly. I remember worrying about my dad getting called up to fight in the Falklands. I remember seeing CND peace symbols and Circle As spray painted here and there but had no idea what they meant or who was doing it. I liked the Circle A because Rik from 'The Young Ones' used it a lot, although I wasn’t allowed to watch 'The Young Ones' that much, and that was my principle concern.
I moved to Bahrain at age nine and would not get a chance to figure it all out for nearly a decade but, piece by piece, I began to discover the music, culture and history of '80s Britain with my own political awakening. Through the 1980s and most of the 1990s, the forces of globalization were still relatively weak. Coca Cola and MacDonald’s had yet to invade Bahrain and neither had the youth and alternative cultures of the UK or US. Well, they did but in bits and pieces and incredibly diluted and out of context.
Of course, recently arrived expatriate kids would bring snippets of the culture they left behind and we’d lap it up. Then we’d search the bootleg tape shops for the bands they told us about. Soon, I had quite a collection of tapes including Dead Kennedy’s, The Stupids, DRI, Corrosion of Conformity, Suicidal Tendencies, The Clash, Agnostic Front, along with the heavy metal and rap that was a bit easier to find. I kept reading about the this thing ‘punk’ in some of the magazines I’d get my hands on and was curious as to what the hell it was, not knowing I was already pretty deep into it. Then things went shitty and all my friends got more into the metal thing. I dug the crossover stuff and Bay Area thrash bands but I had to draw the line when people started getting into Motley Crue, Poison and WASP. I wasn’t sure why but I knew it was wrong. Then I went down my own little indie rock path. With the introduction of CDs it was now easier to get a Pixies disc than it was a rip-off Minor Threat tape. Anyway, I’m not trying to write a punk rock 'High Fidelity' here…
Upon return to Wales, as an eighteen year old, I was be-friended by a group of people who unlike myself had been able to live through the entire era and dwell on its historical context and significance. The day, my parents dropped me off in Aberystwyth, we drove past a young man with dread locks down to his rear end, skin tight black jeans, combat boots and an oversized army jacket with a large Crass logo painted on the back. My dad turned to me and shook his head, ‘What is this country coming to?’ I was little intimidated also but my dad’s comment really irked me so I responded, ‘Well, there is every chance I’ll end up sitting next to him in an English literature lecture.’ And I did. But it was a little while before we became mates.
First I met my friend Craig. Craig had stopped me in the street because I was wearing a pair of vans that were barely hanging onto my feet. ‘You skate?’ I was not sure what the appropriate response was but affirmed ‘yes’ noticing his own pair of vans (not quote as worn as mine). But it wasn’t skateboarding camaraderie that attracted me to Craig (we were the only two enrolled in the University of Wales Aberystwyth as far as I knew) it was the political and musical education he soon provided. Craig was a vegetarian and I’d been contemplating it, so he invited me around to his place for a vegetarian curry. In his room, I saw posters for Anti-Fascist rallies and fox hunt sabotaging and numerous punk LPs and lapped it all up, like a little innocent thirsty kitten. To be fair, I was already pretty aware of this stuff but coming from a privileged middle class white expatriate existence, I needed someone like Craig to help me connect the dots. Craig gave me the liner notes of Crass' 'Christ The Album' to read, 'Last Of The Hippies' by Penny Rimbaud. Was I too middle class for this shit? I wondered to myself. By the time I’d finished I knew the answer was no and my political fate had been sealed (for the time).
...to be continued...
For now here is Penny Rimbaud being interviewed by Ian Svenonious on Soft Focus (VBS.TV). Whether you know who they are or not its pretty much essential viewing. Sometimes, the internet proves its worth.
Towards the end of last summer, my person accrued a weird stench and I can pinpoint the exact time it was assigned me. I had been out skateboarding all day in the blazing heat with no food in my stomach. After four hours or so, I was dirty, bleeding, de-hydrated and in pain but it all felt incredibly good at that point.
My friends Eg and Fitz encouraged me to join them for some beverages to celebrate our skateboarding and the summer. So we went to this scummy little bar on Powell Blvd called the Lottsa Luck. The first pint was overwhelmingly refreshing. I had a small cheese sandwich and another pint to wash it down. Soon we were fed and rested but the beer kept coming. We are all fathers of young children. We pulled out our hair with parental frustration, cried in the joy of it, moaned about our jobs and laughed at being thirty something grown-ass men, with beards and beer guts living for a few hours of skateboarding in the sun. It was now 8PM and I was supposed to be home by 6pm.The physical pain from skateboarding had subdued and I stepped out of the Lottsa Luck and tried to skate in the car park only to fall on my face. I got up and immediately fell off my board again and again. I was in hysterics and so were my friends. It was ridiculous; I couldn’t roll three feet without ending up on my arse… If, I’m honest deep down inside, I was a little scared that I had surrendered my skateboarding skills to booze and the following debauched behaviour. For some reason, I then traded in my skateboard for a bike and we moved from the Lottsa Luck to a karaoke bar called the Bear’s Paw.
I sang ‘Amazing Grace’ and drank more. Still covered in sweat, blood and dirt, (I was actually dirtier than I had been all day at this point after rolling around the car park). Us three grown ass men on skateboards immediately began to attract a lot of attention. Things got weird quickly and mostly the details elude me but some things stand out. A couple of gay bus drivers who walked up to our table and proceeded to tell us that they were beginning to feel a bit threatened by some bigots at the bar and did we ‘have their backs?’ Damn straight we did. I would have died for them right then, I was so high on life.
Next, I was approached by a girl who was celebrating her twenty first birthday. Would I be nice and sing a karaoke song with her? Never mind the fact I had never sang karaoke ever before, I soon belting out ‘Let’s hear it for the boy!’ or as I was later informed ‘Let’s hear it for the Oi!’ aimed at the skinheads who I presumed were hassling our gay bus driving friends. I soon realized I could not read as fast as the prompts on the karaoke machine and so the foulest language I am capable of game streaming out of my filthy gob. More beer. And then some kid began to sing 'Amazing Grace' but was absolutely destroying it, so I took the mic off him and showed him how the Welsh sing, only one song after loosing my karaoke virginity. Fitz sang Sweet Home Alabama three times and Eg sang obscure bubble gum pop songs, I’ve never heard. My African American co-worker squealed in delight when I told her I rescued ‘Amazing Grace over the weekend.
One of the skinheads then approached me and asked if my drunken tirade was aimed at him. I commended him on his courage at approaching me and said I was just a cultural observer. He seemed OK with this, so I went for a piss and none of the skins ended up coming in to the toilet to give me a seeing to.Next a clown walks up the our table and starts a conversation with me. It is a friend of my wife’s named Brian or Pompeii, which is his clown name as is Briano and Zompei. Anyway, he is a real clown and a hilarious character and he had caught some of my act. However, I had a hard time convincing anyone that Briano is a genuine bona fide clown. For whatever reason, this frustrated me and I began my descent but not before a wonderful midnight cycle home through the leafy green neighbourhoods of Southeast Portland.
I got home just after midnight blind drunk and festering in filth on all levels. Six hours late. I knew things were bad but I have sunk pretty low in the past and always managed to pick myself up. But before I could even collapse on my pillow, my wife uttered in disgust ‘Jesus Christ you stink, go sleep in the basement.’ And kicked me out of the bedroom.
She later asked me if I had pissed myself, which I don't think I did... But since that day, I have been unable to get rid of that stench and my body odor absolutely reeks, even after showering. Piss, sweat, smoke, alcohol, excrement body odor, dirt, cap park scum, blood all smeared into my skin, under my arm pits, my arse crack, my bollocks, my breath, behind my ears, between my toes, under my fingernails. My wife is really concerned as she doesn't want to be anywhere near me. I’m still embarrassed to go to work and I must have had at least twenty showers since that night. Every time I sweat, it is as if I have been living under a bridge for the last ten years. As if I rolled around in the cat litter. A deep funk has been released from a forbidden depth. I’ve been to see my doctor about it. Even they gagged when I lifted my arm-pit. All the doctor did was ask if I had changed my diet and told me it would fade in time and perhaps drink more water.
It all brings to mind me a great Italian film I once watched before moving out the US, called Caro Diario, or ‘Dear Diary.’ It was on late night television. Late night British television can actually be quite good and its part of what makes being on the dole so great. So in this film, the protagonist, who is also the director, takes on a journey, both geographical and metaphysical, around his daily haunts. We get to sit on the back of his moped and cruises around the narrow winding streets of the city. We get to share his elation as he zooms out to the surrounding countryside. We get to relish in the beauty of normal people going about their day, celebrate Rome’s architecture and drool over the scenery of the Aeolian Islands.
'Caro Diario' is split into three parts. The first two of which are mostly devoid of plot. I like this. Oftentimes a good film can set itself apart from a narrative. Why rely so much on plot and narrative? If you want to do that write a book. Film really should take advantage of the liberties of its medium. Few directors really do this. Terrence Mallick does it and so does Nanni Moretti for the first two thirds of his film. He let’s us taste Italy through his senses. We hold his hand tighter and tighter begging for more, and then in the third act he develops an itch. And also insomnia. In fact he develops a tumor but he doesn’t yet know it. Suddenly the film changes pace and becomes an arduous struggle for diagnosis and cure. It is pretty depressing from there on out but we are still grasped tightly to his hand. It is staggering how much so, actually. While we sympathize with his cancerous condition, it is easy to loath him for taking us on the route he did to get us there.
Ultimately, there is little Nanni can do to help his condition but drink more water. After all it can't do any harm.
And that is all I really have to say about that.
A journey an artist might make to honor he that inspired him.
photo by me old mum... Oregon Coast AquariumOne of the reasons I continue to make zines despite the ease and accessibility of media such as this here innernets blog is that I still appreciate good hard copy. Obviously, just because someone has the means (or nerve) to self publish a book, release a CD, photocopy a zine or whatever, it doesn't mean the finished product is any better or worthier than anything in the virtual world. But I do appreciate people who take that extra step to make a unique and tangible 'product.'The blog world has opened doors and empowered a lot of people to express themselves. It is pretty amazing to check in with people's random musings and creations each morning with your coffee and oftentimes make meaningful 'connections' with these people. Yet, it has also spawned a lot of ridiculous drama and posturing. The instantaneous nature of virtual communication is both a blessing and a curse. Less and less consideration is taken before criticism and careless retorts are slung through the fiber optic ether-ways. It is all too easy to create an 'online persona' with a tremendous amount of false self-confidence. This bollocks isn't real. It is a tool.I worry about Myspace and Facebook and all that shit and the connections people think they are making to each other. I wonder why someone who hated me when I was fifteen, now wants to be my friend seventeen years later. Fuck You.Maybe its OK. Maybe community really is being created and meaningful relationships are sparked. But when we know less and less of the names of the people who live within walking distance of our place of physical residence, I just don't buy it.The more I travel and the smaller the world becomes, the more I feel we might be better off never leaving walking distance of our homes. The planet would certainly be better off if we all learned to live off our immediate and reachable land base. I received a letter today from my friend Saeed. I haven't received a personal letter in years. It is hard to describe the feeling of seeing my name and address written in someone else's writing sitting in the letter box. I still haven't read it. But when I do I know it will hit me harder than the last dozen emails I received.I'm loosing more faith and interest in modern convenience. Just yesterday, I ripped my cell phone to pieces. Sure, it was a childish hissyfit thing to do but I've fantasized about doing it for so long. I was having a conversation with a loved one that we should have been having face to face. It reminded me of some people I once knew who could barely talk to each other in person who tended to fight and make up with multiple phone calls throughout the day and then return home to each other in silence.We hide behind technology. It is easier to pretend to communicate through a technological interface/filter. (Of course the written word, art and even language are also filters but that is a conversation for another time) It scares me. I am glad I have this medium to express these random thoughts to the six of you that might be reading this far. I'm glad for your readership but I'll be a lot gladder when we are sitting naked on the beach. Our cold arses sinking into the wet sand......just chatting... or not...
