Camus Don't Surf

St John's Portland/ Pier Park : Fuji Instax Mini 8

Murdey Surfboards

It is a never an ending quest, the search for that one board that finds the balance between your strengths and weaknesses, aspirations and limitations, fantasy and reality. It is a little bit more special when you get to slash a few grinds and drink a couple of beers with the shaper of your next surfboard, when you get to shake hands and share a laugh or two with the craftsman whose going to try and turn your abstract nonsense into something functional. The term gets over-used a lot but yeah, stoked. 

Summer Solstice 2015 : Horse Thief Butte

Short Sands : Fuji Instax Mini 8

Agate

Fuji Instax Mini 8

 

Hit the road with a little instant camera.

"I'm Simon Graham, What The Fucks It To You?"

Life is short 
Filled With stuff 
Don't know what for I ain't had enough 
I learned all I know by the age of nine 
But I can better myself if I could only find 
Some new kind of kick 
Something I ain't had before 
Some new kind of buzz 
I want go hog mad I'm lookin and lookin and lookin for 
Something I ain't had before 
I'm lookin' and lookin' and lookin and lookin to find 
Some new kind of kick
-New Kind of Kick- The Cramps

This photo reminds me of my friend Simon Graham. Simon was a couple of years older than me when I met him and he was total Fred Smith III devotee.

I met Simon’s dad first on the compound we lived in near A’ali on the island of Bahrain. Simon’s dad must have seen me skateboarding around and approached me one day to tell me he had a son who was about to move out with him and could I show him around because he’s had some problems. At the age of twelve or so, it made me feel important and I looked forward to the day of meeting another expat Brit lad my age, cruising by the house daily until the mysterious Simon would arrive.

When he arrived, he reluctantly came out to meet me, probably because his dad forced him. He was wearing tight black jeans wild spiky hair and a Cramps T shirt  and full of Working Class Glaswegian attitude. He had very little to say to me and almost seemed irritated by me form the get go. What a let down. However, he soon picked up skateboarding. It was something I already knew how to do so I got some begrudging respect from him. Very quickly he developed an obsession with Fred Smith the III an obscure 1980s skateboarding pro (who was never really professional if I remember correctly). While the rest of us worshipped the glamorous Christian Hosoi, Simon was all about this crusty tattooed (way before tattoos were OK with square society) East Coast Alva boy. He’d only ride Fred Smith boards and soon his spiky hair became dreads like a true Alva boy. I was pretty fucking impressed and we soon became mates.

Simon introduced me to some amazing music, had a bogey collection named 'bob' that was the size of a baby's fist that he would keep in the drawer beside his bed. He also taught me how to sniff glue (not cool kids, not cool). I remember I was probably thirteen and Simon was fourteen, and he was around my house and casually lit a cigarette in front of my mum. No shits given. I remember asking her afterwards why that was OK with her and she said something to the effect of, “Well it looked like he knew what he was doing.” I was proud to be associated with him and enjoyed introducing him to people, which would often result in a classic snot-faced, “I’m Simon Graham what the fucks it to you?” Which cracked me up every time.

Often we'd stay around his house listening to bands I'd never hear of until two in the morning, drinking a crate of beer that his dad had bought for us. We were pretty tight for about one year and then one day, he said to me, "You won’t be seeing me much anymore Pete, as I am going to be pursuing pussy instead of skateboarding." I told him that sounded ridiculous but fine.

Sure enough, he was true to his word, the dread locks became flowing long hair, the Cramps became Guns and Roses and girls replaced skateboards. He lost me and I lost him. I haven’t heard from him since he left Bahrain. He did say that he could not wait to return to Scotland to try every drug he could get his hands on. Hopefully he made it safely through that pursuit. I often wonder how he turned out but really I don’t want to know. It simply wouldn’t sit well to find out he’s wasting away in an office in front of a glowing monitor like the rest of us. In fact I hope I never hear from the wanker ever again.

Polaroid : Distraction

Been fucking around with a giant bucket-full of old polaroids I have, scanning and destroying them via photoshop and instagram. Just a way of procrastinating bigger projects...

Birth, Beach, Death

Winter Sanity Update

Trying to stay sane with The Upsetters, Black Monolith, Rocket Coffee and low impact street skateboarding. Reading Stephen King for the first time in about twenty years (don't ask) and hammering out my own version of 'The Body.'

Thanks to the daughter for the stills.

WANTED: Dead Loved Ones

“If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely, I will free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life - and only then will I be free to become myself.”

— Martin Heidegger

I am an obituary writer. I am not a member of The Society of Obituary Writers and I have never taken any classes on how to write an obituary. I have no formal qualification or training. Let me ask you, what do you imagine when you think of an obituary writer?  An Edgar Allen Poe wannabe help up in a dingy basement? Perhaps, a bitter old writer comprising a living? For some reason, I used to imagine a woman in her late 60s, educated, with proper manners, perhaps an etiquette instructor of yesteryear. I am not sure why but it seems for most of us, an obituary should follow a certain form. But I never learned this form. I have my own set of questions, I ask of the bereaved and then I insist on meeting the subject wherever possible and I insist on looking into their cold dead eyes.

Truth be told I am a ghost writer. I write farewell letters between you and your dead loved ones, in special code. And further truth be told, it is the same letter every time, someone dies. Your dead husband was not special. His life was no more or no less full than the next person. But I can make it seem that way. Your dead pre-pubescent daughter was not a unique flower about to blossom.  But I can make it seem that way. And when you die you will be nothing out of the ordinary also. The human mind is so held-up in its own ego, it needs to believe in its own eternal 'exceptionality' but we all follow the same trajectory. We are all born so the universe can try and look at itself in the mirror through yet another angle and then we all return to everything again, our lives meaning profoundly little and beautifully everything. But I can make it seem ever-so-special for the benefit of those left behind.

Obituary writing is a very fruitful business because people keep dying and always will. We all die. Unless, Ray Kurzweil has his way and we attain immortality via computer upload. And then I’m done for. My secret profession will cease to be and I will cease to be and so will the universe. This I know.

I am a young man. But I am a grown man. I am twenty-nine. I have been an obituary writer for four years, since the day I accepted my own mortality. My ‘day-job’ is a night job. I work as a security guard for a building in the city-center that houses the head offices for a telecommunications company. Nothing has done more to disconnect us than the advent of mass cell phone and Internet usage. This I know. It’s a wonderfully horrible illusion. I am surprised more people don’t try to burn this building down in frustration for I would let them. Burn it down or ask your neighbour over for tea. Both will take tremendous courage.

In such a world it is easy to not think about death and this is why you need me to do it for you. You are busy writing your life story, constructing your perfect profile, working towards an ideal, and you are avoiding death. They say life is a journey but really it is not. It just is. If there is any destination at all, it is your non-existence and that can be a real brain-fart of a concept. And that is how I make my living. Because, of your inability to think about death, I can live a full and free life.

When someone dies, I think about the work it will provide me and I get a jolt of energy. The stars shine brighter and the wind feels crisper, each and every time. Sometimes, on my work break, I walk around the city. Every person I encounter, I think to myself, they are going to die and I could write their obituary and make a nice little earner. I wonder who will miss them, what they did with their lives, what they did not do, who they matter to, are they alone or not, what they felt their life-calling was and what got in the way of that calling, what they settled for and how I will put a inimitable spin on this from the perspective of their oldest son, or widow, and how well it will read in the Sunday Paper. And I return to work feeling,

really feeling, clearer.

And higher.

I am obituary writer. I think about death frequently. I think about death many times a day. Nearly every waking moment, aside from taking care of my basic needs, eating, shitting and so on, I am thinking about how you and I are going to meet our end. Old age, horrible diseases and accidents. Sometimes, an unknown swordsman will cut off our heads from out of nowhere. Sometimes spontaneous explosions just blow us to infinite pieces. And I think about ironing-out the confusion that leads up to that liberating moment.

So let me write your loved one’s obituary. Let me write yours. It will be easy. I have had lots of practice with an extensive portfolio for you to peruse.

I have your life down to formulaic science but I can make your death read like magnificent poetry.

The Legend of Sleepy Reef: Waves of Red in the Pacific Northwest

The other day, I re-read Washington Irving's 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,' I also had a copy of Cormac McCarthy's 'Blood Meridian' nearby. The next morning, possessed by dark liquids and unholy music I dove deep into Norse Mythology Natvie American folklore and quite out of my control, came up with the following...

“Gymir's wet-cold Spae-Wife

Wiles the Bear of Twisted Cables

Oft into Ægir's wide jaws,

Where the angry billow breaketh.

And the Sea-Peak's Sleipnir slitteth

The stormy breast rain-driven,

The wave, with red stain running

Out of white Rán's mouth.”-  Refr

Kristport is a sleepy little town along a forgotten stretch of the upper left hand corner of America, with a population of barely a thousand or so. It sits a few miles inland from the sea; surrounded by misty hills, open valleys and a solemn network of murky waterways that make up the wider Salimook watershed. Its population has been in steady decline since the death of the logging and fishing industries. There are more churches per capita than in any other town in this particular state, which is largely made up of Scandinavian descendents and descendents of the native Salimook tribe. Most of these churches are of such scant congregation it boggles the mind as to how they still stand. In actuality, most of them are barely standing at all. Monuments to a more God-fearing era, they are now in real danger of becoming empty sheds devoid of faith where teenagers will get down on their needs for all-sorts of other reasons beyond prayer.

From Kristport, one can follow the pothole-ridden road along the Serpent River, a few miles from Salimook bay and soon be greeted by the mighty Pacific Ocean. It sounds idyllic enough but rest assured these are unfriendly waters on many different levels There is a constant battle that rages between fresh water and salt water, a deathly rage of brine that constantly shapes and re-shapes the surrounding inlets, lagoons and beaches. Save for perhaps a few weeks in late summer, the water is an unwelcoming and unholy tumult. Even on calm days, when the sea is lulled into temporary pacifism, it is usually cloaked in a thick grey fog. On the rare clear summer day, when the sun’s grace is allowed to briefly shine over this cursed coastline, one might even be tempted to enter the ocean for a leisurely bathe but even then the water temperatures remain so deadly low, one can expect the onset of hypothermia within mere minutes.

Just south of where the Serpent River meets the Pacific is a tiny fishing hamlet of Ranstown. Ranstown is rumored to be one of the oldest permanent settlements west of the Mississippi (of white people, that is). Yet, several other fishing and fur-trading towns along this stretch of Pacific also lay such a claim. No one is entirely sure where Ranstown got its name but given the Norwegian heritage of its settlers, it is likely named after the Norse Sea Goddess, Rán. Rán was notorious in Norse mythology for capturing sailors and fishermen and dragging them to their watery deaths. Local historians, of which there have been very few, speculate naming Ranstown was an effort to appease the Norse sea-goddess and an acknowledgement of how, even though potentially fruitful, establishing a town and livelihood along this treacherous coast was not without considerable risk. Legend has it that the native Salimook aboriginals had warned the settling Norwegians that they would be pounded by relentless storms for most the year and that they were also living in a precarious position in terms of Tsunamis or the Great Flood Water as they called it. They warned that the land would shake East to West, the sand would seemingly begin to soften beneath their feet and everything would begin to sink. Men would turn animal. And animal would turn man. The sea would turn blood red, until the great Flood Water would arrive a few hours later and wash everything away and the world would begin aknew. When pressed further the Native tribes people, said that there had not been Great Flood Water within their lifetime or the lifetime of their immediate ancestors but they all knew it was coming.

The settling Norwegians put this down to baseless superstition but they were not without superstition themselves. In fact, the settlers of Ranstown had left Kristport due to their rejection of Christianity in favor of their traditional Norse Gods. They had come to America so they could pursue their own beliefs but when the Kristport townspeople made it clear that the Heathen were not welcome amongst them, the Ranstown settlers had little choice but to keep going West, as far West as possible and virtually into the belly of the beast, so to speak.

What the Salimook tribes did not initially tell the Norwegians was that there were sanctuaries nearby. Safe havens where the Gods and ancestors offered protections to the earthly inhabitants of this hellish region. One such sanctuary is now known as Sleepy Reef. Sleepy reef was on the south side of a huge, mile long cape, Cape Foulweather. Sleepy Reef was tucked away and protected from the giant Northwest seas that hammered the Ranstown settlement and sheltered from the relentless icy Northerly winds that cursed the white man. The local people’s knew it would enrage their animistic protectors, who hid in the woods warding off foul weather, if the white settlers ever caught wind of this sanctuary.

However, the Salimook people could only keep Sleepy Reef secret from Ranstown for so long. The hardy environment birthed an even hardier generation of Ranstown folk and they eventually found the tiny hidden villages that lay in the lee of Cape Foulweather and the safe waters that surrounded Sleepy Reef. The Salimook had seen it coming and knew they had little choice but to share the surrounding beaches and forest with the Ranstowners despite the potentially cantankerous consequences. As, the alternative was the fate that had met all other Northwest tribes, extinction or assimilation into the unfriendly Christian communities inland.

Surprisingly, the Salimook enjoyed a relatively harmonious existence with the Ranstowners for close to a decade, which is more than can be said for their relationship with Kristport. The Ranstowners were not so crude as to move their entire village to other side of Cape Foulweather in one go, instead they moved slowly, family by family and modeled their existence from that of their Native brethren, now that they had been humbled by the harsh nature of the north side of the Cape. They were mostly able to live off the land and sea without too much dependence on Kristport. The shelter of Cape Foulweather made life much more pleasant and tolerable for much of the year although intense storms still hammered them from time to time and then they would disappear into the woods. The result was the occasional intermarriage of the native and the white Heathens but this was largely kept secret from Kristport.

However by now, Kristport was growing by the month and white settlers of all descent and denomination began moving in and establishing their businesses and churches all based on the flourishing fishing, logging and fur trade. If one is familiar with the tragic trajectory of Native American history, one can imagine the fate of the Salimook. Whether intentional or unintentional, Western modes of life soon killed them off or forced them to move on to a more domesticated, sedentary, pitiful and hopeless existence and leave their ancestral gods deep in the woods and under the sea.

Meanwhile, although Ranstown was tolerated, as Kristport grew, its survival became dependent on the discards of their Christian neighbors. So it continued, until too much of the forest was depleted and too many fish were caught leaving Kristport in inevitable decline, which it still going on to this day. Needless to say, there remains scant evidence of Ranstown and the Salimook tribe but Sleepy Reef, in the lee of Cape Foulweather is now well known, much the dismay of its long-dead and undead inhabitants.

For most of the populace, Sleepy Hollow is now regarded as place of outstanding natural beauty. It remains difficult to get to, requiring an arduous hike through old growth forest and scaling down a jagged cliff face but the pay-off in vista and natural wonder far exceeds the cost of entry for the few that actually put in the effort to reach it.  For those that will never make the effort to reach it, Cape Foulweather Sleepy Reef beach make for a spectacular post-card. Lush old growth in the background, golden sands for endless miles populated by no one save the occasional deer or elk. Vertical cliff faces, circled by Eagles in the air and migrating grey whales in the ocean and the occasional feeding frenzy of a Great White feasting on sea lions. For those of a superstitious disposition, Sleepy Reef is an awe-inspiring place. Legends abound, the paradisiacal beach, so tempting on the surface is said to be the gateway to a very real hell. Several unprepared, adventurers have made their untimely doom on the way to Sleepy Reef. From poisonous plants, bear attacks in the woods, snake bites, antler impalement, fatal falls, drownings, shark attacks and several murders have all taken place over the decades,  in the woods and on the beach that surrounds Sleepy Reef.

One such event involves the sordid rape and dismemberment of a Girl Scout. During the autumn of a couple years prior to the events that are about to transpire a Girl Scout troop were on a nature hike when two of them got lost in the woods after they went to relieve themselves in the woods. After an hour of searching the troop leaders called in the coast guard who did not find them until the next day, face down in the water, on the beach, strangled to death by their sashes, bloodied, beaten and violated in the most horrendous way imaginable. The Pacific Ocean gently lapping at their bare white feet. One of the mothers of the slain girls never recovered. Too many horrendous nights alone with thoughts of her daughter until she finally had to escape her haunted mind by jumping out of it and off the cliffs along Cape Foulweather.

The Sleepy Reef was also legendary in Pacific Northwest surfing folklore. The reef itself on a very rare occasion but usually the months leading away from summer and into early winter, can provide one of the better, if not the best surfing experiences on this challenging coastline. Most surfers, worth the crusty salt on their faces have given it a go but few have caught the reef producing the waves they hear it can and dream it could. Most traveling surfers will never catch it under the correct conditions as the variables are too high and efforts are too demanding. Many local surfers even give up after several miss-attempts.  Some surfers paddle out anyway and get themselves into trouble. Unforeseen riptides and currents make positioning challenging, often dangerous and sometimes deadly. And then there are those that are successful. Those that score Sleepy Reef in all its glory. And when they do, they never really leave and will spend most of the rest of their surfing lives trying to recapture the waves they have ridden down there.

For the Waves, wow, let me tell you about the waves. A good wave creates, form out of emptiness, briefly transporting planetary energy across an aquatic medium. Riding them is a mystical experience at the best of times. But surfing Sleepy Reef is an all-together different level of experience. It is said; the surfer forgets all sense of time and space when catching the right wave on Sleepy Reef. All of his or her anxieties about the future and past regrets, wash away. They embark on an eternal ride of the present moment and their very being unites with the whole universe. They lose their selves in the most wonderful way. It is said, any surfer who has surfed Sleepy Reef does not fear death but at the same time has an incredibly hard time moving on and doing anything else with their lives, as all they want to do, is catch the reef working properly again, which they rarely, if ever get to do again.

Which brings us to the “hero” of this sordid tale. His name is Kristian Porter. Kristian Porter is a rather ugly fellow. Ugly in appearance and character but not without potential redemption. He was known for being long-limbed but not excessively tall, somewhat skinny and frail in appearance but he was actually quiet strong. Kristian was a young man who never really knew what he wanted to do with his life and so, sort of, fell into teaching. Growing up in the suburbs of Vanport, a bustling city, inland from the coast of our current concerns, he always had a vague interest in science.  However, he never really had the aptitude or drive to pursue a doctorate and so after his initial degree settled on becoming a high-school science teacher. Krisitan was young for a teacher at age of twenty-five without much worldly experience. His loneliness confused him. He felt he was a relatively stable young man with a steady job but he remained unmarried and how shall we say, unloved. In truth his primary objective in life was to connect with a woman and this became increasingly more frustrating for him. Unhealthily so. Eventually, Kristian came to the conclusion that being a ‘solid dependable nice guy’ with a steady job was simply not enough despite current societal mythology.

Kristian tried everything to make himself more attractive to women with ever-increasing ferocity and he slowly began to lose site of why he wanted a partner in life. He worked on his looks, worked out, beefed himself up, got dental work done, learned jokes, purchased a nice car, a house, signed up for dating-services but he remained isolated and alone. His only connection with the female kind was with his students. Meanwhile, Kristian had taken up surfing after reading about it in a local hip adventure magazine. He thought it would make him more interesting and it seemed to becoming increasingly fashionable to young urban-dwellers to pursue rugged outdoors pursuits when they worked locked into their city jobs. Lo and behold out of all the things Kristian had tried to better himself, surfing was something he actually genuinely started to enjoy and believe in.

Then his life took a turn for the worst. Kristian was teaching sexual reproduction to high school freshman. It was not really that awkward for him, despite never having sexual relations himself, or for his students as he largely taught the mechanics of it all. Cell by cell, what made up what, how the eggs were fertilized and what happened from there, on a very molecular scientific level. But one day, while showing microscopic slides of live male sperm in class, one of the female students asked him where he got the sample. As it turns out Kristian used his own sample and told them so. He really did not see anything wrong in this. Then they asked him how he got his sample and well; let us just say that was the end of Kristian’s career in the Vanport school district. Desperate and jobless, he moved to the coast and took a job with the even more desperate teacher-short school district of Kristport.

Life at the coast was even lonelier for Kristian than in the big city. In Vanport he could at least be around strangers at a bar or club but in Kristport everyone knew who he was and that he was alone. And they knew he was strange, perhaps even a tad ungodly, not unlike themselves. Before long, Kristian felt as though this was the course his miserable life had always been destined to follow and shame on him for not taking more control when he had the chance to do so. But at least he had solace in surfing.

Kristian spent all his free time surfing within fifty miles up and down the coast. He got to know the popular spots and even explored a few lesser-frequented surf spots by himself. He never really made any friends with other surfers. They were largely tribal and kept to their own. However, he was able to glean some crucial information from them every once in awhile. The scientist in him had little trouble learning how to predict weather forecasts, and wave formation. He began to immerse himself in the heady variables that resulted in good waves, swell direction and period, wind direction and strength, bottom contours bathometry, atmospheric pressure, storm trajectory and so on. The pursuit of waves had overwhelmed his pursuit of female companionship, which had become a lost cause in his eyes, although he could not pretend he had completely rid himself of human needs.

And then he heard about Sleepy Reef.

Kristian was enjoying some waves a subdued beach break one late August day. A nice long-period mid-sized swell was running, groomed by gentle offshore easterly winds. The water was strangely warm and comfortable. There was only one other surfer out in the water.  Kristian soon caught a good wave and rode it to the best of his intermediate abilities. A local Kristport surfer named Vali, who Kristian vaguely knew from town congratulated him on his ride.

Sensing a potential meaningful connection with another human being, Kristian thanked him and tried to make small talk,

“Hey, its pretty quiet out here today. Where is everyone?”

“Who knows? On a day like this, lots of  surf spots could have good waves. Perhaps, Sleepy Reef has woken up HA HA…” The local joked and laughed, almost manically.

“Where?” Kristian inquired.

“Sleepy Reef. Ah well, even if its happening today, we could be in for winter shut-down any day now and all hell will loose again until next summer.”

“Hmm, I’ve never heard of Sleepy Reef.”

The local surfer turned to Kristian and frowned at him.

“Wait a minute? Aren’t you that sexually deviant teacher kook?”

Kristian shook his head. Speechless, ashamed and paralyzed.

“Fuck you, man.” The local spat and paddled away. As Vali paddled away he did feel a tiny bit of remorse concerning his immediate judgment of Kristian for he was well aware that the lines between fantasy and reality, morality and immorality were incredibly blurred along this stretch of coast.

Living in Kristport, Kristian had never that far from Cape Foulweather and Sleepy Reef and it was not long before he had a rough idea where to begin looking for it. It was not that hard, after all it was on post cards he had seen on in the local shops but he never knew there were waves to be surfed down there.

Kristian found Sleepy Reef without too much trouble that October. Prime surf season and by his calculations after studying an ordinance survey map and the weather charts, on a day where it was bound to have good surf.  By now, he had heard all the stories of the drownings and rapes and shark and bear attacks  and the infamous Girl Scout rape/ murders, but he did not really fear such things. While he had grown up timid and afraid of life, since he was fired from his first job for showing a classroom full of teenagers slides of his enlarged ejaculate, he had decided to live life without unnecessary apprehension. With that in mind, he hiked the ten miles down Cape Foulweather with plenty of water and food, in the pre-dawn darkness, to time the tide just right.

At the end of the trail he came to edge of the huge cliff and found the rope people used to scale down to the beach. First he lowered his backpack and supplies and then his surfboard. He had chosen his favorite 6’6” pintail based on the Sleepy Reef’s legendary power and the forecasted well. And then he lowered himself. He rappelled down the cliff just as the sun began to delicately penetrate the dense woods above him.

Photo by Danielle Connor

Once on the beach, Kristian knew he would not be standing there long, for the surf was absolutely, awe inspiring. He knew he had to fuel up and get out there as soon as he could. As he ate his sandwich and hydrated with big gulps of water, in between pulling on his wetsuit and waxing his surfboard, he could barely takes his eyes off the overhead waves that were hitting Sleepy Reef just perfectly. The water was a lovely green, nothing like the color of the sea at his usual surf spots. In between sets, the sea’s texture was so smooth and calm , barely a ripple on its surface. Paddling through it would be like a hot knife through butter. And then when the sets came in, they hit the reef in the right spot every time. Perfect almond shaped tubes that then reeled into long lined up carvable walls. It was six to eight feet easy by Kristian’s  estimation. He was a little nervous but, no apprehensions, right? Right! There was nothing else in his life, in life, than this moment and the waves he was about to ride.

Kristian paddled out in a convenient channel to the south of Sleepy Reef and around the back of it where the waves were peaking. Once outside, there was a lull in the sets and he took some time to take in his surroundings. The leaves had begun to turn within the last few days. Amongst the evergreen were subtle streaks of yellow, brown, orange and red throughout the woods. The sun eventually rose above the trees breaking through the sea mist and fog with heavenly rays, bringing an alluring shimmer to the ocean waters. Kristian was alone but it was a profound alone that for the first time in his life he was moved by with cosmic delight. So alone, he was beginning to get strange new glimpses of the universe before him. Visions of absolute reality. The troubles of his pitiful life, his job, his history and reputation, all became meaningless to him in that moment. As Kristian pondered these implications, waiting for the waves to come, he saw a pair of antlers rusting through the bush back on the beach. As the antlers made their way into open view and onto the sand, they stood tall. Kristian was momentarily sure he saw before him a large man, naked save for the mud, blood and moss that was smeared across his body, and the majestic antlers adorning the top of his skull. And the waves began to stat marching in from the horizon. Kristian knew he had to line himself up on the reef properly and did not want to get caught in the wrong position as he had a good suspicion the subsequent aquatic beating would be a brutal one. He paddled to the horizon and took a last look at the deer man who was on the beach only to see a large buck casually strolling south along the sand.

The waves were soon upon him. Kristian let the fist one go and could tell there was tremendous fortitude cycling within them. And so he swung his surfboard around into position for the second wave of the set. He paddled slow but steadily, digging his arms deep into the cool but pleasant water. The wave let him in with ease and he jumped to his feet. The wave sucked water off the Sleepy Reef and Kristian could see the mushrooming boils created by the kelp covered rocks a couple of feet below the surface. He dropped in and carved right, engaging his fins in a smooth and long drawn out bottom turn and then quickly hooked his board into the pocket of a long walled up right hander that began to spin south towards where he had paddled out. The surfing was effortless. The wave generated so much power there was no need to manipulate his board to create speed. He just had to remain calm and calculated within it all. This was a new experience for Kristian, as now he understood what surfing was supposed to feel like. He felt whole. Human. He casually turned his board up and down the wave in a series of perfectly timed top and bottom turns, cutbacks and even a figure eight and then he could feel the wave getting faster and steeper. He knew it was about to tube and momentarily panicked that he had no idea how to ride a tube. His anxieties soon floated away as the emerald lip of the towering wave began to curl over his now head. And soon. And forever more. He was locked within the perfect tube of this flawless wave that was reeling along the outer edges of Sleepy Reef. He knew nothing would be the same again. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time but remained quiet as he stood there within this watery tunnel being transported to God knows where. It soon became peculiarly arousing and as he noticed his arousal, the wave shut down on him. And  so it was, there was to be no glorious exit from his first ever tube ride.

Underwater, Kristian experienced a turbulent hell. He had failed to take a breath before his wipeout and now his lungs were punishing him for it. He hit the rocks, got tangled in kelp and was thrashed around by cascades of white water that were swirling all around the various submerged nooks and crannies of The Reef. And then she came for him, the faceless sea goddess, Medusa, Ran, perhaps older than all mythology, older than story-telling itself.  Kelp and sea serpents swirled around where her head should have been and she aggressively beckoned him out into deeper water, reaching for him and he nearly went with her.  She told him, without words, in pre-language that he could live forever underwater forever, if he dared to commit to a lungful of sea-water. But he could not commit and Kristian was soon ejected onto a shallow sandbar and into the breathable realm again. Terrifying, as this experience just was, he was still aroused and felt an immediate urge to address his condition.

On the beach, Krisitian peeled down his wetsuit and knew he had to immediately offer his seed to this beach, the cape the reef, this place, this time, the universe at that moment. It was an overwhelming urge that he could barely control. As he stood there, taking care of this earthy, very human urge, a family of hikers consisting of a mother, father and two teenage children suddenly interrupted him. But he could not stop or hide himself.

“Just what the hell are you doing, down here?” The father demanded, both disgusted and amazed. Turning to his children, “Kids go back into the trees for a bit.” He barked.

“Sir, this is not what it looks like,” Kristian pleaded, still unable to stop.

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what it looks like, man. Honey do you have any cell service down here? Call 911 now! And then go be with the kids!” The man could not take his eyes of Kristian. “Dude, you are disgusting. Disturbed and disgusting.”

Kristian eventually ejaculated his seed onto the wet sands and then slowly sat down in shame.

“The cops are on their way, man.” The man shook his head and walked back into the woods to his confused children and horrified wife.

Kristian did not even think to run and hide. He knew he was never leaving this beach. The day progressed rapidly. The sky went from orange to a hellish red, as the sun followed its autumnal trajectory. Despite his seemingly imminent doom, Krisitan could only think about paddling back out onto Sleepy Reef to ride a few more waves but was till trying to pluck up his courage after that horrendous wipe-out. And so he sat there ashamed, wretched, a sorry excuse for a civilized human being.

The police showed up just before sunset. The swell was still compelled towards Sleepy Reef, forming the most perfect waves a surfer cold imagine, wave after wave after wave. Unbroken lines of water conformed to the shape of the reef until it tripped them over into climatic explosions of white water that raced in cylindrical lines for the sand. Only what was once almost crystal clear water with a hint of emerald was now a seemingly dense, thick red. Soon the ground began to violently shake from East to West and the sand seemed to soften beneath their feet. While the police panicked, Kristian stood up quickly, ran for the water’s edge with his surfboard and paddled out into the bloody waters, away from a fate worse than death and eternal damnation. 

Spill

convex meniscus

delight in pre-overflow

and what of the spill?

a properly poured pint

sweet drought-ridden beans from Ethiopia

a new ancient song on repeat

keys to floodgates

an attic room with a tiny window

in a house we shall occupy one day

over-looking atlantic seas

antiquated technologies

in dusty corners

turntables

type-writers

books

books

and books

macho authors

keeping you awake on rainy spring nights

forcing you to take sides

in Spain

changing histories

and talk of food

and talk of drink

and how to love

and how to die

you take to wearing strange hats from countries that no longer exist

to keep the thoughts warm

and your eyes mostly hidden

like blinders

but the sun comes out

and a knock at the door

and a stomach rumble

and a notice of over-draft protection

and a powerful thirst

and a giant truck rumbles

along your quiet street

and the liquid in the glass

quivers

but never spills.

Sepsis: A New Year's Poem

Pierpont, Ventura, CA

when you are in tune with the universe’s perfection there is no need for art

i was cured all right

by god i was cured

of the witless terror that comes with a detuned mind

i cured it by stopping, sitting still, listening and being attentive

accepting and embracing all that is

shrugging off the yesterdays and never dwelling on the tomorrows beyond fleeting and casual wonders

i slept very well

people started to talk to me

but something was not quiet (w)rite.

my notebooks were empty

my guitar gathered dust

and my paint brushes were crusty with dried paint.

it was all a little too passive

for this world.

there was not much room for zen in the world i saw on the news

i had to find a way out of the complacency

so i began abusing myself

gently at first

starting late at night

a few extra beers

then in the mornings

with lots more coffee

awakening the ego

exhuming the buried confusion

lust

desires

fear

time travel

(i)

I raced in traffic

I asserted myself

I claimed

I claimed hard

(I)

and then I gave up water

no more water

coffee pop beer only

no showers

no serene dips in the river

certainly no surfing

a still glass of contained water

tasted putrid

a budding sepsis

the even-level had to be disturbed

for if I was to shit out my masterpiece

it would have to hurt a little

and not in a ‘we all suffer’ manner of speaking

a racking pain in over stretched arms

I studied legs walking down the streets

I watched pornography

I pushed the limits of acceptable desires

made my life sordid

so yours looked ideal

I began to think of my birth

and second hand smoke

teachers who had fucked me over

I began to kill them in interesting ways

girls who made fun of me

boys who beat me

the boss

the parents

I placed my self at the center of the universe

stationary, isolated, disconnected, unmoving, stoic and permanent

and then I felt the guilt

gut-wrenching guilt

sweating pellets of guilt

unfit for and undeserving of, any joy-guilt

the cosmic joke

all on Me

so I could write my way out of it

all

over

again.

Dark Gate: Happy Solstice 2013

"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.

War Cry

A Bahraini boy takes part in a demonstration against the killing of a Shiite protester during clashes with Bahraini police, on February 22, 2013 in the village of Daih, West of the capital Manama. (Mohammed Al-Shaikh/AFP/Getty Images) found via WoDu Media

twelve years old

we went into battle on our BMX bikes

a mounted cavalierly of pubescent white boys

out to fuck the world

not long after leaving the safety of our fort

we saw the enemy in the distance

they were armed with

2x4s wrapped in barbwire

2x4s with protruding rusty nails

most of us felt like re-treating

even if no one verbalized this

then

one of us

i can't remember who

picked up a giant rock

and yelled

a death curdling war cry

i momentarily pretended i didn't hear it

but the offensive had begun

and could not be called into retreat

onwards we charged

as a unified unit

we would not be intimidated

even though secretly, we were all shitting our underpants

the enemy, far too hastily re-treated bare-foot into the labyrinth of their dusty village

we felt invincible

but the worrier in me, played out other outcomes in my over-active mind

from then on we feared not sneaking into their territory

for cheap burgers and shawarmas

forbidden sweets

and bicycle parts

here we are

try and say something about it boys!

one night the enemy launched a surprise attack

and stole my bicycle

you don't steal a twelve year old's bicycle

so i went into the village

frothing

looking for blood

but i couldn't find them

once i saw two of our enemy holding hands

boys holding hands i thought, what's this?

hey, gay boys!

gay boys! are you a couple?

are you romancing?

bummers!

they calmly walked away but i knew there would be retribution

a fight was organised

i preferred spontaneous fights

but, oh well

a location

some ground rules

and a time

given that both sides

broke the ground rules

the fight never kicked off

and life went on

until one day i was ambushed

by an effort at reconciliation

an outstretched brown hand reaching for my own

stubbornly i refused

and was thusly punched in the face

this was the punch i had been waiting for

and so we fought

finally 

after all that time

the outcome doesn't matter

soon the berlin wall would come down

while more impenetrable walls were built up between us and the enemy

there were no more cheap shawarmas and bike parts 

undercover missions behind their lines, deep into their village were replaced by 

sanitized times in fortressed compounds, segregated beaches and exclusive clubs

however, nearly a man

on more than one occasion i stumbled drunk through their territory

still looking

but i never found them

and now i think of lungfuls of tear gas

i think of brothers in prison without charge

i think of denial of their most basic rights

i think of torture

beatings

disappearances

and i wish we were still fighting our stupid little war

-For the Shi'a Youth of Bahrain August 2013