Well off the bone
Every departure is uneasy, driving away in cars as people stand waving; clans, formations.
You drive away and begin a dialogue with the other person or people in the car, among all the other cars, and wonder if you will ever see those people again, the ones there standing or waving, and also if the meeting had been any good, if some kind of chorum had been reached, some kind of joining beyond the physical, a sharing of hard or soft facts, engagement in the events of the day, the chutz in specialised knowledge, that kind of thing, some kind of ontological orgy in a factless world.
Departures.
Consider sport. A sport. Consider the scanning of obscure PDFs at minor levels, perhaps 3rd or 4th rung, to see movement among competitors, prize money, to see web banner design and swell expectations, amateur webcasts from distant shores with crap waves.
Consider surfing.
How watching it on webcasts bests all TV. Anything. Never been a sports fan, prefer to play, engage, but this…the blue of it, the pondering of wave cathedrals, the snap of it, the dumb pulse, the bones-of-the-arse scraping, the beautiful rip in time... the dry commentators on sparse beaches...
And the bigtime too...the CT. Gäbe, JohnJohn n that. Italo. Filipe. Jordy. Julian. Grandad.
Consider the World Surf League. The vargen Wossle. Consider Fantasy Surfing. Get into it a bit. Strats, stats and obscure feels. Lash the loathing. Keep going. Might as well. Go to the end.
You win. You are the world's champion. Shouldn't games have winners? Maybe they shouldn't. This one doesn't. Are they tight or zen the WSL? Zentite?
Games distract. Like surfing. From what? The CAUSE. Are we the cause?...
Beach Grit gets it. The positioning. The pointlessness. The putsch. They cover and reward the triumph when no one else will. They see the absurdity. A Berlin dork who doesn't surf much anymore wins pointless comp gets snubbed by organising body - the steely WOSSLE. It's funny. Or it's a bit funny. It's funny enough. Fuck.
Derek, Chas, Jen, Longtom, Surfads, the BG Commentariat. There's is a world. Them, weaving, always playing, stirring when the others go straight. Salve to a burning world.
Meanwhile I’m back in unsunny Berlin after a west Aussie homie run and re-immersed in miserable Austrian Thomas Bernhard's language labyrinths. There's a guy that could spend a waiting period and then some circling around a concept...
Snapper Rocks looming. These blurs ahead, who are these foamfollowers emerging somehow down the line of time?...Filipe? Ethan Ewing? Griff Colapinto? J Wilson swansong?
Fuck knows. The rain has stopped...time for a ride...
You drive away and begin a dialogue with the other person or people in the car, among all the other cars, and wonder if you will ever see those people again, the ones there standing or waving, and also if the meeting had been any good, if some kind of chorum had been reached, some kind of joining beyond the physical, a sharing of hard or soft facts, engagement in the events of the day, the chutz in specialised knowledge, that kind of thing, some kind of ontological orgy in a factless world.
Departures.
Consider sport. A sport. Consider the scanning of obscure PDFs at minor levels, perhaps 3rd or 4th rung, to see movement among competitors, prize money, to see web banner design and swell expectations, amateur webcasts from distant shores with crap waves.
Consider surfing.
How watching it on webcasts bests all TV. Anything. Never been a sports fan, prefer to play, engage, but this…the blue of it, the pondering of wave cathedrals, the snap of it, the dumb pulse, the bones-of-the-arse scraping, the beautiful rip in time... the dry commentators on sparse beaches...
And the bigtime too...the CT. Gäbe, JohnJohn n that. Italo. Filipe. Jordy. Julian. Grandad.
Consider the World Surf League. The vargen Wossle. Consider Fantasy Surfing. Get into it a bit. Strats, stats and obscure feels. Lash the loathing. Keep going. Might as well. Go to the end.
You win. You are the world's champion. Shouldn't games have winners? Maybe they shouldn't. This one doesn't. Are they tight or zen the WSL? Zentite?
 |
| Take me to Beach Grit |
Beach Grit gets it. The positioning. The pointlessness. The putsch. They cover and reward the triumph when no one else will. They see the absurdity. A Berlin dork who doesn't surf much anymore wins pointless comp gets snubbed by organising body - the steely WOSSLE. It's funny. Or it's a bit funny. It's funny enough. Fuck.
Derek, Chas, Jen, Longtom, Surfads, the BG Commentariat. There's is a world. Them, weaving, always playing, stirring when the others go straight. Salve to a burning world.
Meanwhile I’m back in unsunny Berlin after a west Aussie homie run and re-immersed in miserable Austrian Thomas Bernhard's language labyrinths. There's a guy that could spend a waiting period and then some circling around a concept...
Snapper Rocks looming. These blurs ahead, who are these foamfollowers emerging somehow down the line of time?...Filipe? Ethan Ewing? Griff Colapinto? J Wilson swansong?
Fuck knows. The rain has stopped...time for a ride...
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