50s Simmons bellyboard.
editor sean...and they wonder
why the cuts are so long in coming.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
phantasmagoria: simmons & shafer
50s Simmons bellyboard.
editor sean...and they wonder
why the cuts are so long in coming.
the unexpected knock...
i grew up on the Tales from the Tube comic book insert that
came with a very early 1970s SURFER magazine. Illustrated
by the likes of Rick Griffin, Robert Williams, and Glenn Chase.
I bit Glenn's pen and ink style as best I could. See here two
of my 8th grade efforts from 1974. Also see a legitimate Glenn Chase
Innermost Limits poster. I ran into Glenn yesterday
at Windansea, still making art, still tripping.
Artists like Griffin and Chase were oracles who
laid down the visual prophesies of surfing's future....
and thus...it came to pass.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Polihale
On the dry, desolate far west shore of Kauai,
under the black fluted palisades of Polihale,
golden dunes vanish beneath the sea. The
earth spins, drawing me back into the eastern
dusk. Out west, beyond the horizon, a
violent sky slowly mellows, succumbing to
the stars. There are no people here. The warm
wind is both comforting and hauntingly lonely,
like an indifferent companion on a long journey.
The thorn scrub creaks and rustles. A presence
is here, primeval and ancient, conjuring a
vague, instinctual longing in my gut. People
lived here long ago, the first people to arrive
here, but no more.
On the south shore of Oahu, in the shot-out
meth dusted neighborhoods west of Chinatown
i startle a young Hawaiian woman smoking ice
as I drive down an alley. Our eyes lock, her
gaze burns, like the pain of grieving ancestors.
She just puts the flame closer to the glass and
pulls harder on the pipe, and I look away and
drive on.
Journal entry, Hawaii, 2006
under the black fluted palisades of Polihale,
golden dunes vanish beneath the sea. The
earth spins, drawing me back into the eastern
dusk. Out west, beyond the horizon, a
violent sky slowly mellows, succumbing to
the stars. There are no people here. The warm
wind is both comforting and hauntingly lonely,
like an indifferent companion on a long journey.
The thorn scrub creaks and rustles. A presence
is here, primeval and ancient, conjuring a
vague, instinctual longing in my gut. People
lived here long ago, the first people to arrive
here, but no more.
On the south shore of Oahu, in the shot-out
meth dusted neighborhoods west of Chinatown
i startle a young Hawaiian woman smoking ice
as I drive down an alley. Our eyes lock, her
gaze burns, like the pain of grieving ancestors.
She just puts the flame closer to the glass and
pulls harder on the pipe, and I look away and
drive on.
Journal entry, Hawaii, 2006
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