americanifesto: surf

With frothy peaks mounting atop the deeps black he ducked under wavelengths of ceaseless attack. When surfaced once more on the churning far side a perfect one coming ws all that he spied and turned for his takeoff and nailed it anon and without much effort was surfing and gone. When its forces were spent his exit arrived and his was a purest joy to be alive and he turned once more and once more paddled out while sounding his loudest and sharpest war-shout. A maiden was nearby and she turned to look as he from his forelock the briny drink shook but with a few stokes of his lean mighty limbs pulled past her and toward that one sweet spot did swim. Through haze sun was setting and sending up steam it watched as he kept getting up on his beam it watched as he sped through the oceans atop the great mighty breakers that never did stop. When his forces left him he aimed for the cove and thanked all the gods who looked down from above and thanked all the gods living under the sea in a short swift sincere surf ceremony. With aplomb he wormed slipped and dodged all the rocks and ignored the nay-saying beer-drinking jocks who piled on the shore-front to stand there and leer whenever a surfer-type came them too near. His heart though was pure and he kept his mouth shut and kept right on walking to his meager hut where he took a shower too brief and too cold then vowed he'd still love the sea when he was old.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

30 April 2014

in Kuta Lombok

I went to town to look around and took in many things: I saw one cow – don't ask me how – and one bird with brown wings. It sang a song both loud and strong to flee its cage it sought, wreathed in a cloud of burning trash – sad things mankind has wrought. The ride this morn was swift and fleet we slept perhaps three winks, in captain's berth we sampled mirth, the ferry did not sink. Now through this cabin we explored while sleep into our brain-pans bored, we looked in cubby; cranny; nook; as wave and sea the vessel shook. There was the book by Chairman Mao – his lesson, guide, and rule – three fancy shirts, a dead cockroach, some bits of foam, a toilet brush, the AC vented cool. Then through the hills and sopping fields our caravan did wander, in search of places rich in surf from here to there and yonder. We quarter in a spartan room, the basics they are present, my company is quick to laugh – indeed she is quite pleasant. The waters glint with plastic junk, so much it can't be counted; now off to rest, to try this bed, with consciousness dismounted.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

03 May 2013

Vicente v. Ord

This author is barely back a week from Los Angeles, and already he yearns for the runs. The velocipedist who reads this blog will recognize the Ord Run from previous writings: it starts at Marukai Market in Little Tokyo, heads up to Hill and Cesar E. Chavez, and mashes Sunset all the way over to where that boulevard hits Vine. Old man Ord, however, has a new companion, the San Vicente Run (i.e. Santo Viczenzo), which starts at where Wilshire crosses the 405 freeway and approaches Hollywood from the west, either via Elevado or Santa Monica Boulevard.

Both of these runs the author would make regularly, never ever standing to pedal, on an L.A.-made, fixed-gear, gray Retrospec bicycle with bright green wheels. He surfed Bay Street and the Venice Breakwater, hunted urban art from the Palisades to Elysian Park, and ran the runs whenever he was able to – during rush-hour or at 3 am, under skies clear and smoggy, his heart bursting joyfully with every passing foot, flashing spoke, and humming tire. And the Boba Fett nods he received from other smog-sledders (!!!), each glance-and-dip a barely perceivable acknowledgement of his worth as a self-respecting street cyclist, each quick look grudging recognition of the toughness commonly found among persons who mash California's sun-burnt boulevards.

Someday, I will once more reside in the fine Golden State, and run these runs whenever my heart desires, but, until then, be well in my absence, fair Angelinos, and mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥