on jazz

recently I've been delving a little deeper into jazz than usual thanks to Drift editor Joe Conway putting me on to do a jazz inspired blog for the magazine. funny how one things leads to another and connections apear out of the ether when you least expect it.

my good friend Snake and I have been talking about jazz and his experience is quite broader than mine. Snake just turned me on to saxophonist Pharoah Sanders. I feel like I need to take some time aside to get into his stuff -to listen carefully and see what I can hear. for some reason I tend to like the stuff that's a bit harder to listen too. not sure why -perhaps it's some sort of idea that non-conformity is cool. I'm brain washed by the American individualism.

or maybe I'm just learning to be patient.

sunny days

it's a beautiful morning in Halifax. we arrived home from our trip to New York city yesterday to find our garden sprouting with springs firsts. so I've had my coffee and getting ready to head in to work on my bike.

my friend Picasso who's been out the back somewhere in Indonesia for the past three months sent a quote from Rolling Stones Sympathy for the Devil. my favourite version of that song was done by Janes Addicition. you can listen to it here.

all of this got me thinking. it's now innit? you've got to do what you've been wanting to do now. live now. why wait? wait for what?

here's my latest entry at Drift

One Day

wish I had something clever to say today. or maybe tell you that I went surfing before work and rode choppy waist high waves alone in the morning fog. but it wouldn’t be true at all.

I woke at 6:48. rode my bike to work in the steady rain, avoiding rooster tails coming off rear tires of every car that passed me too close for comfort. I sat at my desk and clicked, dragged, typed and backspaced. I ate lunch at my desk, trying not to splash food on the papers strewn here and everywhere.

now I’ll strain another cup of dark roast and add one spoon of sugar. I’ll sip it as I click, drag, type and backspace until it’s time to ride home again in the rain, avoiding rooster tails coming off rear tires of every car that passes so close I can touch it with my elbow.

lucky for me that B and Moe are waiting for me with open arms. lucky for me that music has been by my side all day. Chet Baker, Wolf Parade, Lawrence Arabia, The Supremes, Earth Wind & Fire, and Empire of the Sun kept the vibes irie and cool.

alive in the ether

inspiration is like the ether. if it’s there we cannot see it. Monday night’s amazing sunset session set some ideas straight for me and left me inspired.

one: learning the nuances of a board takes time and patience

two: that patience pays off grandly as I explore new parts of a wave

three: I can slide my foot back over the fins mid-face to power through a turn –just gotta be present in the moment to remember

four: slowing the wave down and watching it while it does its thing in front of you is stupid hard

five: if I can manage to slow it down then I can surf it with more poise than a flailing monkey dancing to an accordion on old cobbled streets

on a side note –stoked to have a new side project with Drift magazine. I will be writing a jazz inspired blog a few times a month.

the author not the writer

Where do I begin? Over the past two weeks I’ve been endlessly devouring information as is so easy to do in the interwebs. Where has it gotten me? I have no fucking idea. One aspect of my personality that never seems to go away is this feeling of always wanting to do something, always on the verge of something great. Who knows if it’s simply remnants of childhood dreams of escape or if it’s adult escapism.

In an attempt to better understand myself I always ponder about my motivation to do “something.” For a long long time now, since my early teens I reckon, I’ve wanted to be a writer. I always pictured myself as a writer, doing readings and interviews, thumbing through the pages of my own books and admiring the fonts and page layouts. But therein lays the joke which I played on myself. I mean, I could I suppose, blame the joke on my ego. That is if there were a way to separate the I from the I. But their ain’t no way. So the joke is this: all I ever dreamed about was the fame and not the written word!

Big surprise eh! What a fucking brilliant mind I have. Well it’s probably why instead of writing wholeheartedly over the past twenty years I’ve got a half a book shelf of half scribbled-in journals and notebooks with hardly a word worth reading, and I don’t mean public reading, I mean me reading. I keep luggin the goddamned journals first from town to city, then across country and finally across the continent. And for what? Inspiration, material, nostalgia? I’ll tell you why –it’s a central theme in this here blog and for most blogs I guess. It’s for ego. Simple.

I mean who doesn’t want a legacy? Who wants to be forgotten? And who doesn’t want some recognition of their humanity within their own lifetime, even while they still have some youthful vigor? I’ll let you answer that one.

So here I am. Left to my own devices I’ll continue to devour information on the interwebs which will do me absolutely no favors. It’s a tedious life this life. Lucky for me there’s more to my life than ego and misinformation. Moe and B are waiting at home for to me cook super together, play together and dream together.

human conditioning

paddled out into what looked like perfect overhead rights from the vantage of the bluff. I had the 6’3” under arm -shoulda had the 6’8” for paddle power. so much water moving made it hard to paddle for the 8 to 10 foot peaks. got stuffed a bunch. cut two slashes into my brand new winter suit with sharp glass fins. can’t imagine what woulda happened to my rear had I been skinning it. big bomb sets swept through the lineup. homeboy on the Flyer was in perfected position for a macker and rode it with style as we three sat on the shoulder in resigned drift.

paddled out again the next sunrise. walked down the trail, two boards under arm and a backpack with winter gear, skirting mud holes in the darkness. clean lines left over but all power gone now. big seals watched as Blacks and I shared the dregs of the previous day’s bounty.

saturday afternoon I bottled 61 red ales. it’s the second batch of brew for me and will be ready for tasting in the new year. six and a half percent power and of deep red colour. I hope it tastes as good as it looks. I’ll start a new batch as soon this one is ready to drink. maybe a dark lager.

professionally I stand at the threshold of dramatic change. the swing is dramatic –one way will be a working hell with a lousy work environment accompanied by endemic lifelessness and a demise of hope for self in the staff. the other swing, a new opportunity for me to write creatively for a living and perhaps still maintain a work life balance. or should I say a surf/work balance.

what would I give to be able to make my own hours and surf anytime the swell is running. at 34 I feel in better physical form than ever. and it’s strictly because of a surfing life. I am also more creative and surfing inspires me to write.

so any of you extremely wealthy folks out there who may be thinking about what to do with so much dough I have a proposition for you.

set up a trust that would pay me a humble salary so that I may focus on this surfing life and creating written works. in turn I will repay you by taking full advantage of a dream opportunity of a lifetime and transform myself completely into a finely tuned human. I will strive to achieve the highest potential of my physical and intellectual self to show that we have much more to offer than we are led to believe or allowed by our modern pursuit for the acquisition of wealth.

think of yourself as a muse, an investor in the human condition, in the dying art of personal development.

whadaya say?

mongrel dog

I was caught by self doubt. like a mongrel dog tryin to cross the road after a beating. it is an absurd world that we live in. and the self aware notice the absurdities more often than the self involved. but we are all ego one way or another. some manifest it less and some more.

what is courage?

what is determination?

what is gritt?

some like Chinaski did what they did out of a sense of duty to their own constitution –he, praising and cursing his muses depending on the severity of his hangover.

some do nothing at all. they go through motions like so much flotsam and jetsam at mid-tide on a Jamaican beach.

and where do you see yourself?

how are you living?

how am i living? with trepidation.

that is no way to live a life is it?

fear is not a hoax but it also isn’t concrete. it can be malleable like Gumby. it can be used to one’s advantage or can be crippling like ms. it is the ability to move beyond failure that is a measure of one’s success. this is the paradox of our human condition and perhaps the crux of our western belief in good vs. bad. there is no good. there is no bad. there simply just is. everything is everything. absurdities arise when we negate this basic principle.

Himes wrote of the prison preacher preachin about pork chops and mashed potatoes in paradise.

do mongrels get pork chops in the afterlife?

more absurd world from Buk

one thirty-six a.m.

I laugh sometimes when I think about
say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...
ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,
ordinary men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having difficulties with life
while being puzzled almost to madness.

Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes back
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the casino and
the roulette wheel.

Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
died today, I won't have to make any more
visits there.
when I saw him last
he paid his doctor bill;
it's those who don't pay their bills,
they live on and on.
Céline walks back, sits down at the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.

Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn't know what a writer's block
is:
he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
damn near as magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.

and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep on the
table
hiding his eyes from the
light.

he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.

more at bukowski.net

sunday

early bird went hungry this morning. solitary drive keepin an eye out for deer in the headlights -coffee in hand to sharpen vision. at the coast the fog still thick and milky. a southwest wind pushing through the fog with surprising stealth and the high tide making a dribbling weak mess out of secret sandbar plain sight number sevens.

alone on the boardwalk I admire the handsome Atlantic. her sands slowly gaining momentum in the less turbulent summer months as if we were on different clocks. in winter we swimmers get fat for warmth and perhaps from less movement while she slims, spitting her sands out with each long period swell that rocks her skirts. the icy cold brine like a tonic for making beaches turn to stone for months only to magically appear sandy in August.

standing there I relish sleep and so after looking over the dunes and admiring the sword thin grasses swaying at ten knots I got back in the car drove home peacefully. no music in the car for over a year now -a fact that seems to escape my attention but also provides solitude on drives to visit Maritime shores.

now I will turn my attention to other matters. bacon sizzling and later back yard shenanigans and if I'm motivated a run around the peninsula to see what Sunday people do with mid-days.

evenin edit:

got a call from Picaso 'round mid day -says he's gonna take a gander. I catch a ride and we score low tide grinders with two others at secret sandbar plain sight number seventeens. a surfy day after all.

in the face of drink and smoke I run

these are no longer disthymic times. the clouds have lifted and with them the figurative fog has given way to sunshine. a cold northeast wind still blows and the ocean is lake calm with lucky low tide sandbar sessions here and there but mostly smooth silky surfaces on the horizon. is it spring or strain of will that lifts the greys to lighter hues? I can’t say but one thing is certain, one step in front of the other gets me somewheres.

each day I try and try to remember. eleven years ago I asked skinny Rob to stop his Santeria for a moment and use his tattoo machine to etch a simple statement on my calf. “will transcends fear” I said to him proudly, displaying a mix of symbols, some as old as three thousand years. what did I know about transcendence and wills and waning idealism's in the face of drink and smoke so thick that for years I would not escape the fog?

what do I know now? nothing more than there is only one step in front of the other. legacy? that’s for sculptors or perhaps scientists. written words are no longer a path to remembrance for futures. written words are like so much dirt, so many opinions loosed upon us with disregard for thought or person or creed or even crude human decency. Burroughs knew it in his drug addled middle years as he led his ragged troop of beats into oblivion and shitty parenting –unwittingly (or perhaps not so much) outliving them all by decades.

surf? it is transcendental but we can’t write about that now can we. oh no. if you’re not producing you ain’t shit mister. “sit down and shut up.”

I grabbed a number ticket from the red dispenser and sat in the stale waiting room. H1N1 signs and sanitizing stations every 12 inches like sentries. who are the swine anyway? is it not we who are ruining it for we?

“again sir I will not ask you again. sit down and shut up.”

so now I run. at first from fear and, lookin behind my shoulder knee jerk reactions, left over from those early sleepless nights in Isnotu. could I blame it on my Tia? she took me at a tender age to see the old soothsayer in his dark dank home to see if he’d cure me through shitless scare tactics out of sucking my thumb again. after the celebration with the superman piñata I slept less and less until 13 years after she didn’t come that night I lost it completely and then it got foggy.

surf? not to be underestimated in terms of power to reconnect those synapses loosed from the ether. like it or not we are beasts with intrinsic needs. we can philosophise our ways out of thinking we’re not needy but sooner or later the thin veneer that is our vanity vanishes and then what?

I run. for ego and self image and I can’t say it’s not a draw. I run from what I would be doing otherwise. sloth or time wasting.

I said it before and I dare say it again. I have these muscles and tendons and bones. and well honed they can move me through space with the grace and fluidity of any wild animal. fail for just one day to use them and I forgo the greatest gift I’ve been given. the gift of self propulsion. some praise our ability to think. but how amazing is it to ride the swells upon the ocean and then forget?

I run to surf.

surf? because you can.

whys and how comes

I never said I wasn’t doin it anymore. just that I wouldn’t be doin it as much. because doing mostly happens on my feet, outside, away from these keys. in the interim since the last post I’ve received a small heap of whys and how comes and yer kinddin’s and assorted other whatnots. there have also been a healthy number of encouraging and complimentary cues from friends in flesh and virtual too. thank you all.

today is Canada day and we have a day off of work. I’ve been working, however lightly and haphazardly, since before seven am on various virtual projects. the irony of this keyboard for me is that somehow I’ve learned to use it and the inteweb in ways that some find useful. so it is that I spend so many hours sitting in a Western pose developing a weak core and perhaps other less than glamorous ailments. so to balance this life I get up at four in morn to surf small kine waves and arrive at work tired as a dog but clear of mind. things don’t make sense but the experiences that I remember are the hardest ones to come by. now I have to go for a run.

read the Esteyonage today it good for you.

putting an end to the fuckery

A one surf week is ended with the usual blog roll and interwebs fuckery that is a morning at work. Recently the word fuckery has been used profusely by Lewis Samuels in Post Surf. Not sure where he got it from. I heard the word used often in Jamaica as in “ gwaan man -yuh a fuckery” or maybe in reference to political news on the radio you would hear someone say “a fuckery dat man” or when a rum head came beggin around the shop for a drink old P would yell “come outta ere with yuh fuckery man! Guh wey!”

For a cynical mind like mine fucekry is the perfect looking glass for deciphering the cipher. In my waning interest to keep talking about how my latest surf session went (it’s just a bunch of fuckery anyway) I wonder if it’s even worthwhile to continue Ku Yah all together. I can see the hits decline as the surfy posts subside. Of course initially Ku Yah was an exercise in writing –to learn to write. Indeed I did learn to write –if only in short ADHD spurts and mostly about fuckery so only time will tell if that particular skill will come in handy some day.

I’ve asked myself why I read other people’s blogs. Is it the grass is always greener rubber neck ego trip in my head that makes me do it? There is so much content on the interwebs and a lot of it rehashing of itself. Do I want to add to that fuckery too? Some folks I reckon actually use the interwebs for personal expansion and growth. And relationships of value can occasionally spring from the virtual black hole. But mostly it’s a waste of time.

If we are to consider our assets in life, and I don’t mean capital assets, what do we have? We have our health, our intellect, our ability to forgive and love (because that’s how you get forgiven and loved), and time. Time is as valuable resource and like trees or fish it’s a finite non-renewable resource. And god do I ever know how to squander it with fuckery.

Over the past five weeks I’ve been trying to develop a running practice. “Here he goes again with some fuckery” you say. Well perhaps. Certain incidences have inspired me to run; one being the coming of a little one and the practicality of running as a way of maintaining basic fitness. But there are other effects to a running practice like meditative moments, transcending discomfort and pain, learning self discipline, developing will power, experiencing the weather and its moods, expelling toxins out of my body via sweat, strengthening my heart, lungs, bones, muscles, relieving stress –all without spending any dough or fossil fuel. Running is simple and pure.

We evolved to run certainly for escaping danger as much as for pursuing prey. Our modern lives of sedentary livelihoods have all but eliminated running from our lives. So much so that running is seen as a fringe activity, something that body conscious people do. But it is as natural as breathing or taste.

In short I may not write much here anymore. Instead I will focus on action. On using my muscles and tendons to move through space –whether it be splitting lanes on the cruiser or surfing or running. I will read books. Something I’ve neglected for some time. I will cook and finish some creative projects that have been marinating in the basement or in my brain. If you’ve read this far I’d like to say thanks. Thanks for stopping in often and for your occasional commentary. If you want to be in touch feel free to send me a note at rasblog at gmail.

cheers

ras

respite

there's nothing to report. last week I joined Facebook. then I closed it. I learned what's inside Facebook -wasn't missing anything. I ran a lot last week and went for a fun trail spin with JB and buddy Michael. muddy trails and fun descents. one gear and springy front end. new content? original content| that's what should be here. no surf. flat. a nice reprieve from humdrum of surf surf surf everyday surf. what board do I ride, do I need? can I ride that? will it float me? run to trim the fat and make the thin sled fit the form. then flat. no waves for even logs. so run and ride the single track. lady slippers and new ferns. greens everywhere. after the rains, puddles of mud. pull up the front wheel and let the back one dip into the brown thick mix of post winter soil. run some more. one foot in front of the other. focus on three inches below my centre. focus on even breath and smooth form. focus on what feels natural. intentionally bring one foot forward even with hip to keep up with forward pulling gravity. in the evening? single malt, three cubes of ice and soda water. or one or two pulls. track the mileage and time. make tea and dream and start again. it's flat. no surf. this thing is running its course. it too may need a respite.

Jaimal Yogis and "Salt water Buddha"

A couple months ago Jaimal Yogis sent me a copy of his soon to be released book. Actually the book is out on Friday. Often I've wondered if I relate to others based on generational similarities (music, art, current events, etc.) or sheer coincidence. Perhaps it's a mix of the two. Saltwater Buddha however resonated with me in so many ways it's uncanny. Here's a short clip about the author and the book. I'll be writing a more detailed book review on Phoresia.org in the coming week.

three days

Rain is softly pattering outside as the low moves over the mainland. I sit at my desk, organizing my thoughts for the days toil. But I keep slipping back to feelings of paddling through ocean swells. I surfed three days straight. The first day in stormy overhead peaky surf, the fog so thick that the usual indicators were hidden on shore, forcing me to sit closer to the boils on the takeoff zone than I’m comfortable doing. A few late drops combined with several beatings made for some good cleansing after a weeks work. As the fog lifted in the early afternoon it let the onshore winds in like opening the flood gates, killing any hopes for those that waited.

On Sunday I rose an hour before my alarm was set. I was on the road by six, trying to make it to the lookout spot by first light at six seventeen. The fog still present but not dense enough to ward off the southwest winds, I coasted down the hill and up the coast looking for shelter and size. Nothing. Finally, I drove back to where I should have started and found an inside section perfectly sheltered and peeling. Mostly chest high with a few head high sets, I shared the drifty peaks with a small crew as they rinsed the previous night’s revelries by immersing themselves in the still icy cold Atlantic.

Yesterday the receding swell granted me another small window of opportunity. This time the waist high waves came scant, but clean and perfect as they wrapped into the bay. Just two friends and I shared the little jewel. Off in the distance we would see the plumes of breaking waves over a shallow reef. In the bay the wind was calm and the sky overcast. The grey light making it so that the steely colour of sea surface and grey clouds blended, camouflaging the tiny pulses until they hit the cobblestone bottom and stood for a second before crumbling into mellow shoulders. I surfed for over two hours, mostly on the eggy thruster which at 5’10” and foiled makes me feel like I can turn like never before.

On the bus ride to work this morning I stood and held on to the railing and the bus bobbed up and down on soft air shocks over the winter’s rain filled potholes. I could feel the muscles on my back and shoulders repairing after so much paddling. I look around the bus and wonder how many of my fellow passengers communed with the elements. I sincerely hope that the number is higher than my cynicism will allow me to guess at. I don’t feel disdain or pity for them if they are sedentary. I only wonder why? Why would we live in these amazingly tuned and functioning bodies and not learn to use them to move through space with the grace of birds and fish? And why did I leave my bike at work forcing me to take this blasted bus.

un-skunked

well after a hella sprint home on the mighty Cross Check after work yesterday I loaded up the blue flame still breathless and tried to beat rush hour traffic and the fading swell. I surfed for a couple of hours with some local heavies. even though the waves had dropped a bit and the peaks were shifty everyone seemed genuinely happy to be surfing on a Tuesday evening. local shredder Nico was out makin it look easy as usual blastin 360 grabs way up above the lip. other certain individuals were pickin off mackers from outside on quad fishes and snappin turns under offshore groomed lips. I got a few little ones on the 5'10" Stamps skillet which by the way is about as fun as a case of beer on a Wednesday night with an empty belly and a get out of work for a day pass. got home to turkey dinner with B and E and the in laws, enjoyed a couple of fine bottles of Keith's finest, and went to bed at 10. all in a days surf eh.

the latest issue of SBC Surf is out and this time it's packed with content. quite a few travel stories including gnar backpacking back country surf adventures. there's also some loggin photos from local lumberjack and Californios. I was able to somehow squeeze two little pieces in there. they are at the newsstands now so whateryawaitinfor?

work

over the years I've had lots of jobs. always avoided restaurant work. wouldn't have the patience with someone being rude about their steak. here's a list jobs I've had.



- Printing press assistant on a 1910’s three color press
- Grocery store clerk
- Landscape worker (several years)
- Children’s librarian assistant
- University library clerk
- Construction worker (several years) building foundations, carpentry and renovations
- Customer service –phone and Internet
- Land surveyor – rod man
- Truck loader for a shipping company
- Community organizer
- After school program manager
- Peace Corps volunteer
- Administrative assistant
- International development organization administrator
- Free-lance writer

in an ideal world I would wake up early as I do now. make breakfast and coffee for B and look after the dog and other morning activities. then I'd go for a surf. after surf I'd do some writing for a few hours. have some lunch and perhaps do some gardening or tidying up around the house. go for an afternoon glass off session. make a nice dinner for B and in bed by 10. perfect. nice to dream no?

the virtue of ego

on my way in to work this morning I was thinking about the ghetto boys. I felt like my mind was playin tricks on me and I was wrestling my way out. what kinda tricks? dirty ones. ones that make you feel like you know where you stand when in fact you’re about to sink in quicksand.

a while ago Foulweather wrote an insightful piece on community and the Internet.

“I fear people are seeking community here at the expense of real community, taking social risks 'online' but barely able to have meaningful interactions with their neighbors. It is going to catch up to us. There's nothing better than going a way from computers, cell phones and all that shit and having to actually interact with real live physical people.”

the internet gives us a false sense of community. I say false because although we do create some sort of community through our blogs or forums or the scourge that is social networking sites such as fecalbook, it is all based on words and images which may or may not reflect anything about our individual day to day lives. knowingly or not we build these virtual persona and social groups which exist primarily in our heads and fingertips.

you may ask what is wrong with that. isn’t it the way of the future?

remember that sci-fi film a while back when the guy goes into the future and meets a girl. he thinks that they are about to have sex when suddenly she sits him down and hands him some sorta helmet with which they will make a virtual romantic experience. the irony of course being that they are in a room, alone, sitting mere inches from each other –the perfect conditions for a true intimate experience.

the point I’m trying to make is that we are already separated enough from the natural world tucked away in our offices and cars and malls. and now with our “internet communities” we are separating ourselves even farther from a natural experience. humanity separated itself from nature a long time ago with its “taming” of nature and creation of the scientific method. this intellectual separation from nature has had many ill side effects which have been written about and documented by the same said scientists. however, this current separation that is taking place from natural human relationships is still new and can have massive potential downfalls.

in the immediate I write these words as a didactic self exercise –exorcism. I want to remind myself that what gives me meaning is making dinner with B each night, or meeting a certain dark one at the crack of dawn for a dip in the turbulent north Atlantic, or making lots of double shot espressos with my co-worker all day long to see if we can hallucinate from too much caffeine.

this space is no more than a sounding board for my ego, a way for me to learn to express myself with the ultimately ineffectual written word (more on this topic some other time).

I leave with the classic from Bushwick Bill and crew.

after one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'I want to see the manager'

william s. burroughs