Chronicles of Birdman

NZ super 8

2011-11-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

milking barn

2011-09-30T20:21:00.000-07:00

I spent a few days pressure washing this old milking barn clean. The sun came down through the holes in the ceiling.

junk

2011-09-15T18:16:00.000-07:00

I found a bunch of old stuff in a barn in Petaluma.

cocktaillaboration

2011-09-04T16:30:00.000-07:00

cocktail napkin doodle with scott

'luma

2011-08-31T16:57:00.001-07:00

Dan, makin' like a freight train, Petaluma

new york, new york

2011-08-29T22:24:00.000-07:00

Mt. Difficulty

2011-07-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

Orchard in the Fog, New Zealand, May 2011

beer o'clock, New Zealand, May 2011

RAG -> WEL

2011-06-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

I'd overslept. Quickly I packed my things and threw them into the car and drove along the coast and into the tall bush and over the rolling hills and into the farm towns and through the suburbs to the city of Hamilton. Initially I'd hired the car for a week's time. The plan was to drive it south along the west coast back to Wellington. This would take several days and cost a few hundred dollars. Here I was two days later, dropping it off only an hour's drive from where I'd first picked it up in Auckland.

The guy at the rental car place gave me a ride to the train station where I hopped the train all the way back to Wellington.

The train ride was much the same as before, but I did not have the nice woman beside me, nor did the mist coat the mountains. I read and slept and ate. And for a while I hated on myself so hard.

If one were to look at a map and see the path I'd taken, where I'd gone and what I'd done, they'd be baffled. I was moving from one town to the next, covering so much land and passing by so much in between, and stopping only long enough for a beer or two. I felt like I was making a mess of this journey of mine, that I was throwing away money, that I wasn't trying hard enough, that I was fucking failing.

But at the end of the train ride all those feelings went away. I arrived in Wellington and collected my things. With my big duffel bag on my back and a smaller backpack on my chest, instead of getting a cab I hoofed it into town. The wind was really whipping, and my back was aching, but the evening sky was beautiful. I didn't know where I was, or what I was doing, or where I was going, and I didn't give a shit.

I was doing it the right way, I told myself. I was doing it my way. I had no ties and I was embracing that. I was taking in the atmosphere and appreciating the landscape and enjoying the food & drink and avoiding the tourists.

That night at a bar alone, in my little black book I wrote:

"This evening in Wellington I get drunk and extremely positive. God Bless this World."

RAG PT. 2

2011-06-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

I woke up scratching at my legs. This was the day I learned of New Zealand's sand flies. You can't see them, but boy can you feel them. I'd been bitten the day before as I sat on the beach, and I'd scratch at those bites for the next few weeks, an itch that meets pain.

I grabbed a few things and I set out for the surf shop. Thirty minutes later I was suiting up at the beach. I jumped into the surf afloat on a nine foot board.

The surf wasn't very impressive compared to the day before. And I'm not much of a surfer in the first place. The waves were few and far between and I was fighting for one in a group of twenty. Really, I was just trying to keep from killing anyone. A nine foot board easily gets swept up in the white wash, and from time to time I found myself tumbling underwater attached to a big bludgeoning device, hoping to God that it wasn't beating the shit out of anyone. Eventually I'd pop up and check my surroundings for injured surfers. Everyone was O.K. A few looked frightened.

In two hours I'd snagged a few waves, three maybe, and while they weren't much, one of them got me high. It was breaking to the left. I popped up to my feet, tucked and held onto the rail of my board with my right hand. As I glided along the wave's face I smiled and hollered in joy, and a guy paddling out saw my stoke and it got him stoked out too.

When I climbed out of the sea my upper body had really had it. My arms and chest were drained of energy, and a cracked ribbed from the past sticks out at an angle, and it had really been working at the skin between it and my board. But I was so happy, just happy to be coated in a thin layer of sand and salt, my lips tasty, my hair malleable.

I spent the rest of my day roaming. I ate. I had coffee. I had beer. I went to the waterfront and crossed a bridge to the peninsula where I examined the skatepark. It looked like fun. On my way back over the bridge I encouraged a small, red-haired boy to jump from it into the water below. It took some convincing but eventually he made the leap.

Raglan is a beautiful place, but going it alone has it's challenges. Relaxing alone has a lot in common with being bored alone. So when I returned to Solscape I told the woman at the front desk that I'd only be staying one more night, that I'd like to be refunded for my third night, that it was just too quiet out at the tipis. She offered to move me to a bed in a boxcar, but I politely declined. While I didn't want to be bored alone, I guess I also didn't want to relax with others.

That evening I found myself, once again, sitting on a hillside pounding beers. After a couple I gave myself a stern talking-to and I walked to the boxcar camp where I did my best at mingling. In a letter to friends I described the crowd as "a bunch of gnar surfer jocks." They weren't really that though. They were just young and uninhibited and killing it, and while I too am young I'm not as young as them, and I find that with age I've lost some of my ability to flow so easily and seamlessly into a group of total strangers. I felt like I was sitting on the edge and peering in.

I made some conversation though. I talked with a guy from Oregon, and a guy from San Diego, and a googly-eyed German girl, and it was alright. But in the end I raced to finish the sixth beer.

I'd made the evening walk to the boxcars without a flashlight, and then I had to make the night walk back to the tipis in the dark. I thought it would be easy, but it was not. Carefully I placed one foot in front of the next as I descended into the ravine, and the ferns brushed me in the face whenever I got off course. And I heard the trickling of the spring and felt the squish of the swamp and I moved so slow I hardly moved at all. I found myself wondering:

Where am I?

What am I doing?

Where am I going?

RAG PT.1

2011-05-21T15:45:00.000-07:00

A lady at a bar in San Francisco had told me that if I was going to New Zealand and was wanting to do some surfing that I had to check out Raglan. Indeed, it did turn out to be an idyllic little surf town. When I arrived I parked and took a stroll down to the waterfront where a river fed into the sea and out on a peninsula I could make out a skatepark. But my skateboard was long gone by now (I imagine that the security woman who took it from me at the Sydney airport took it home to her son. I could only hope that he'd make use of it). I stopped in at the grocery store and bought peanut butter, jelly, bread, and beer and then drove along the coast to Solscape.
I'd read about Solscape in my travel book. It sounded like the hippie/surfer place to stay, and that's the sort of experience I was looking for. For the time being I'd had enough of crowded backpacker hostels. I wanted to spread out and kick back. At Solscape they've taken old train boxcars and cut them in half and turned them into bunkhouses. That sounded pretty cool to me. But they also offer accommodation in tipis. I opted for a tipi, and I'd even reserved it ahead of time, booking it online for a three night stay.
I arrived to Solscape and checked in. The lady at the front desk explained that the tipi retreat was about a five minute walk from the parking. I grabbed a few things from the car and walked through the boxcar camp where there were a bunch of tan people chatting and lounging in hammocks. And then I saw the sign for the tipis and the trail took me down a hill and into a ravine of dense bush consisting mostly of ferns. There was a spring and a bit of a swamp at the bottom, and then the trail went up and out of the ravine, and the bush opened wide to a big, magnificent clearing, and around the perimeter of the clearing on the hillside there were six or seven tipis, each of which stood about twenty feet tall.
It sure was quiet out there. I couldn't tell for certain, but it seemed that I was the only person staying out there. But it was still early, and it was possible that others would arrive later on. Either way, I told myself, it was going to be awesome.
I went to check out the surf. As I drove along the winding coastal road my stoke ran high. It was a beautiful day out, and just a couple minutes down the road I arrived to a superb point break. The waves really were immaculate. I wondered if I should go and rent a board immediately, but I hadn't surfed in a year and didn't want to get in over my head. I decided I'd get on the surfing tip the following day. After watching the waves break for a while I drove back to town. I had a few beers and scrawled words and doodles in my little black book. Eventually I made my way back to Solscape.
Back at the tipi retreat it was all crickets and cicadas. I sat on the hillside with my six pack and read. I told myself, You are so lucky to get all of this to yourself and for only twenty dollars a night! But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to feeling a touch of the old loneliness. I knew that upfront amidst the boxcars everyone was being sociable, meeting new and interesting people, exchanging stories, maybe making friends. And on the quiet hillside I was drinking quickly, pissing every thirty minutes, waiting for the sun to set so that going to sleep was acceptable. I knew that I had it in my power to get up and walk the five minutes and say hello, but instead I raced to finish the sixth beer.

AUCK -> RAG 2011

2011-05-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

My first night in Auckland I got cleaned up. I shaved and had a steaming hot shower that turned me red. I put on some fresh clothes and walked into town.
I was staying in Parnell, a nice area up a hill outside the city centre. I walked the length of the main drag down and back in search of the perfect dinner, but in the end I settled for a kebab. Then I went to buy a bottle of wine. I figured I'd drink it from a bag on a bench in a park.
The wine shop was a nice one. Because I came to New Zealand to make Pinot Noir in Central Otago, when the owner asked what I was looking for I said, "Pinot from Central Otago." He showed me where to direct my attention. After I picked something out I got in line at the register behind another guy. The owner of the shop praised this other customer for his choice of a couple different Italian wines and went on to bash those who spend their money on overpriced Pinots from Central. I got to the register next. "Hey, now I'm really looking forward to drinking this (you dickhead)." He back-pedalled fast saying, "Oh...no...they're great," and asked where I'd be working. I told him Mt. Difficulty and he asked, "Working for Matt?" Yeah. "Oh, well, Matt makes great wines. Don't tell him what I said."
Back outside it was raining. My bench in a park was out of the question. I opened the bottle as I walked down the road and I had a couple sips from it. But I determined then that I didn't want to drink. I'd been on the piss every night since my arrival to New Zealand, and what I really wanted to do was go back to the hostel, get in bed and fall asleep.

The next day I went nowhere in particular. I wandered blindly, but struck upon a nice part of town, a posh area consisting of cafes and bars, bookstores and fancy clothing shops. While I visited the cafes and bars and bookstores(I actually stumbled upon the same bookstore where eight years earlier I bought Lolita), I only gazed through the windows of the clothing shops. After hours of eating, drinking, and people watching, I went to the movies and with me I brought that bottle of wine from the night previous. I saw The King's Speech and I'll be damned if that wasn't a super cute and touching film, and in combination with all the wine it tugged at my heartstrings, and when I left the theater all I wanted to do was jump on the email and send a love letter.

But the next morning I was glad I hadn't. That was the day I was to depart from Auckland. I took a trip down autorow in search of a cheap rental car, but in typical fashion I went without anything reserved and so there was nothing available. Eventually I settled on a car that cost twice as much as I wanted to pay. I left town feeling sick over the burning sensation in my pocket, but I tried not to think about it. I listened to the idiotic banter of radio DJ's ("Call in or text!! And let us know if you like eating soggy cereal!!) and then Mary J. Blige. It was all interstate for a while, but then I got off the main road and I was driving through small, farming town suburbs, and then it was into the big, green, rolling pasture hills and I lost the radio. I sang to myself, but I'm no good at memorizing lyrics, so I sang Christmas songs. Things loosened up more. The roads got wild, and things got jungly as the bush grew thick all around me, and the air felt tropical and it was like I was entering a lush jungle paradise, and I was singing Jingle Bell Rock the whole way. Then I arrived to the town of Raglan, and it all went surfy.

WEL -> AUCK 2011

2011-04-11T13:17:00.000-07:00

I had to get out of Wellington. I wouldn't be able to handle any more of the crowd or accommodation. I knew of a train out of there, got online and booked a departure for early the next morning.
When I woke up it was 6 AM and raining. I hailed a cab to the station, bought some fruit, and found the way to my seat on the train. Altogether I'd spent around twelve hours in Wellington, half of them asleep.
The train was bound for Auckland. It was a twelve hour ride, but a pleasant one. The stormy conditions kept up the whole way. On the train there was a little outdoor platform between cars and from there I filmed the countryside all coated in mist.
I was seated beside a woman a few years older than myself. We both kept to ourselves for the first ten hours of the ride, but in the last two started talking. As it turned out she's a writer, and she'd seen me writing in this little book so much, and so we had writing to talk about. She asked me who I like to read. I was about to say that Hemingway is my favorite but instead decided not to answer and told her that I always freeze up at that question. She said that she does too, that it's a stupid question, and I felt such a relief I didn't say Hemingway.
When she asked what I like to write I told her that in school I focused on fiction, but that since then I haven't had the drive for it, that now I'm more a fan of non-fiction (and by that all I meant is that I like writing casual accounts of my travels in this little book). She went on to tell me that she'd just finished a documentary, and I remember that I felt so strongly that she is in a league much different than my own, a serious league, a league where people really have some drive, where people write things that get written about.
Then, hesitantly, she told me that she'd just had a poem published. She said, "I've never really written poetry but...." I laughed and told her that I was afraid to admit it, but recently poetry has been my main squeeze.

It was nice to meet her.

A girl in Wellington had recommended me a place to stay in Auckland, so when I arrived I caught a cab over there. We pulled up front, I paid the guy and he drove off, and then I walked in and they were all booked up. I'd done it again. But it was only a short walk in the rain until I found a place. It was a good spot. It was such a quiet spot. I booked it for two nights up front. And so I'd spend some time in one place.

KAI -> WEL 2011

2011-03-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

From Kaikoura I continued north. I spent the morning drinking wine in Blenheim. Then I dropped the car in Picton (and the cigarettes in the trash) and caught a ferry to the North Island. It was a scenic ride through winds so strong that it was a four hour trip instead of the usual three. I filmed the scenery and got some rest.
I arrived to Wellington with no plans. I caught a taxi into the city center and looked for a bed. At the first place I stopped in at I was told they were totally booked and that all the other places in town were too. I broke into a slight panic and got angry with myself for not having arranged any accommodation. But I also laughed at myself and felt some excitement over the mystery of where I'd end up.
After dropping by a few more places I found a bed, but it was at the last sort of place I'd ever want to stay. It was a very young crowd there, all travelling by tourist buses, all very much Tourists. I had a bed on the sixth floor in a room that stunk of urine. I showered and dressed and got the hell out.
As it turned out there was a big music festival going on that weekend. That's why it was hard to find a bed. And that's why by seven o'clock the city was already popping off. I couldn't find a bar to go to alone. I tried a couple different places, but alone I looked so lonely. I'd order a drink and throw it back quickly and then escape back to the street. I went for another pack of cigarettes. This time it was decorated with an old, rotted-out pair of lungs. I smoked on a street corner and cursed the crowds of smiling party-goers.
It was a Friday. I was supposed to be having fun out on the town. I didn't really feel like drinking though. I went for a whiskey on ice and took it as a shot. It wasn't any fun. I felt dark. It was the trip's first bout of loneliness, but it was funny to watch myself squirm.
It was that night, sitting in a nice bar with a tall bottle of beer that I revised something I'd written in the past. I had once jotted down: "Travelling alone purges the soul of its weaknesses." I changed it to: "Travelling alone does not purge the soul of its weaknesses so much as it acts like a flashlight and just points them all out."

KAI 2004

2011-03-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

I met Grant and the first thing I noticed were the tattoos on his hands, and it was hard to tell the difference between his natural odor and the sack of weed in his pocket. Grant was a good person and we talked about aliens and politics, and history and everything, and so I learned that Grant was good as well as knowledgeable and said some funny shit on the side. There were some talkative sisters from Christchurch and some old ladies who gave me a cup of whiskey mixed with lemonade. And I woke up that night to find the sisters sitting in bed with me until one left and came back and left again (and that's what she had been doing all night at the bar, leaving and coming back, and I couldn't understand why. I just sat alone eating cookies with my beer).
She and her sister had checked out and left by the time I woke up the next morning. One of them had left her socks behind. I considered for a moment keeping them but in the end I threw them in the trash.
The next couple of days were hazy downers with some good food on the side. I thought that maybe I was wasting my time hanging around Kaikoura but I was happy so I didn't mind. I knew that soon enough I would be on new adventures meeting good people around the country.
On my last night I couldn't sleep and then a siren started going off somewhere in town that sounded like the end of the world had come. Grant and I had a talk of conspiracies and the state the world is in and I decided that now is a crazy time to be alive - a time when anything is possible.

CHCH -> KAI 2011

2011-03-13T19:57:00.000-07:00

I arrived to Christchurch and rented a car. It wasn't until I tossed my bags in the trunk and changed into some fresh clothes that I smiled big.
On my way out of town I stopped at the first bottle shop I saw and picked up a sixer and a pack of Winfield's. The cigarettes had a warning on them about heart disease with an image alongside. Back at the car I cracked a beer and took the cellophane from the box of cigarettes. I was disappointed to find that the health warning was not a sticker that could be peeled from the box and forgotten about but actually printed on the packaging. From then on I'd fetch a cigarette without looking at the pack, avoiding at all costs that diseased organ.
At first the landscape wasn't much to talk about - just a flat suburban spread of dull colors -, but once out of town it quickly came to life. It's a dense and diverse patchwork. From one side of a fence to another, depending on what's being farmed or how heavily the land is grazed upon, the colors and textures can vary dramatically.
I was reluctant to pull over and take pictures. I just wanted to get there. But I did pull over. I brought along my old super8 video camera. The first time I pulled the car to the side of the road it was to shoot the hills with their almond-colored grasses blowing in the wind (and I worried that I might return home with my video footage consisting entirely of grass blowing in the wind). There were sheep up the hillside and a dry brown gully ran through the land with green-saturated palm trees in it (the kind you'd find in a Dr. Seuss book)(Seuss lived in New Zealand for some period of time).
Popping a second beer I carried on.
The hills are reminiscent of those along Northern California's coast - the golden grasses of Pescadero (ironically, I was travelling along New Zealand's Pacific Coast Highway 1). The further north I headed the more lush the bush became. From golden to lime green the grasses went. There were more and more of Seuss's palms, and there were ferns, and higher up in elevation lines of pines looked like corduroy.
I stopped briefly in a town called Chivton. I filmed a fat boy riding his bicycle. I climbed a fence and filmed forty old men lawn bowling. I got a bloody nose and got back in the car. I opened one last beer and lit up another cigarette. I hate cigarettes but I felt them really working, melting away all the layers of stress accumulated on all the flights over from San Francisco.
Next thing I knew I was taking turns at 100km with a cig between my lips, a cool beer held between my thighs, and my camera in my right hand shooting blindly out the window.
I laid eyes on the ocean and attempted to let out a sort of celebratory yodel but it came out as more of a wolf howl, but the wolf howl felt more appropriate.
As I arrived into the small beach town of Kaikoura I thought about what all I remembered from when I was here last. It was seven years ago and I was nineteen years old. I remember this bend in the road, and that's where we ran out of gas that time, and around this bend will be the skatepark! (O! Skateboard! Where are you?!)
I rolled up to the same hostel I stayed at the last time I was here - The Fish Tank. I got a room and it was the same room I slept in the last time. I told the guy at the front desk that I'd stayed there before, seven years ago. He said, "Well, you'll see that we've made some changes, cleaned it up quite a bit." I asked how so? He said, "Well, we don't grow dope on the roof anymore and we don't let hookers hang around." I wondered to myself, "Were those girls hookers?"
That evening in Kaikoura I didn't do much. I had some beers, walked along the beach, and cooked some pasta. After dinner I took my little notebook and pen and went for beers down the street. It was a quiet night in an already quiet town. It was the kind of bar where you can sit alone without looking lonely.
Sitting there at the bar having my drink, my only thought was of how anonymous I felt, of how anonymous I really was. Nobody knew a thing about me, and I found such a feeling of comfort in that.

CHCH 2004

2011-03-09T19:40:00.000-08:00

Due to the recent earthquake I didn't spend any time in Christchurch, but back in 2004 at the age of 19 I arrived to Christchurch after 65 days in the Australian Outback. I had a book back then that I was writing in, and I only filled the first quarter of it. I thought it appropriate to bring along on this trip.

I hadn't read from it since back then, and it has been a funny read for me. The language used and themes hit upon are all rather dramatic(not much has changed). Having reread all these old travelogues, I can say that over the years I've definitely forgotten certain details of my '04 solo travels. Also, I remember things happening that get no mention. I certainly censored some of my experiences.

Anyways, I thought it would be funny to put some of these stories up.

Christchurch, 2004

I arrived in Christchurch, New Zealand looking utterly homeless in my filthy bush pants and my hair in my eyes. I was feeling particularly self-conscious, certain that I would meet no one because of my appearance. In the hostel I saw beautiful girls, and everyone was dressed up nicely and I had horrible thoughts of cleaning myself up to look like the rest of them. I downed beer after beer hoping to get drunk enough so as to escape myself.

Between beers I would go down the streets with my hood on my head. I walked in circles in front of a Gothic church and it seemed as though the clamor of the bells would never stop and an older man and woman were trying to play their guitar and fiddle and I really wanted to listen but they got frustrated and left. I sat in front of the hostel where groups of people my age socialized and met for the first time, and I felt pathetic.

Passing the socializing group I asked one of the guys what there was to do in "this goddam town," making it sound as though I had looked all over and come up with absolutely nothing. He said "smoke weed" and I laughed and he and his friends were amused with the way I spoke and the fact that I was cruising without plans and they told me that I was loose, which as far as I could gather meant that they thought I was an alright guy.

We went to pool hall with some girls from Georgia where we drank liquor from a teapot. I met a girl named Jenny (and her friend said, "I'll pay you a dollar to kiss Jenny," and I told her that she didn't have to pay me.) Jenny laughed at the sight of the holes in my shoes and it became apparent to me early on that the two of us would get along. After a few unskilled games of pool we left and went to another bar, past a river and through a park where Jenny and I laid down and kissed and held each other and she said, "I needed this," and I said, "me too."

At the bar a large man blew flames from his mouth and I conversed with a seriously genuine person named Sam. He bought me a beer that I didn't need but I thanked him and sipped it down quick. He told me that travelling alone has its ups and downs and I appreciated the advice of this brutally obvious truth that I had yet to recognize. I asked him for his contact information and said, "Maybe I'll just write you some time," and he said, "Don't say maybe," and I said, "Ya know, sometimes people meet when they're drunk - " and he said, "No man, get in touch," and I said I would.

I wanted to leave the bar but Jenny had two drinks for some reason, so I drank one, a vodka tonic, and I hate vodka tonics, but I drank it and we left. We went back through the same park and later bumped into one of Jenny's friends who brushed grass off Jenny's back and pulled a leaf from my hair.

Jenny's hotel was next to my hostel. We kissed out front and then I asked Jenny what her last name was, and then I said, "Goodnight Jenny Shaw," and I went inside.

SF -> CHCH 2011

2011-03-05T15:59:00.000-08:00

On the eve of my departure to New Zealand I dreamt of sharks circling me in icy blue waters. But they did not devour me.

My flight was for Christchurch. Just recently though, Christchurch suffered a devastating earthquake. My initial thought was that it might be cool or interesting to see a crumbled city. But as my departure date neared and I read up on the situation there in Christchurch I came to realize that's it's neither cool nor interesting, just very sad.
My mom urged me to rearrange my flights, to fly into Auckland instead, and I told her I'd deal with it once in Australia.
On the way over from Los Angeles I still had thoughts of going through to Christchurch. "There might not be anywhere to stay," I thought, "but I've got my sleeping bag and I can crash in a park and it'll make for a good story." But I recognized these thoughts to be similar to bad ideas I've had in the past, and so I decided that once in Sydney I would arrange to fly to Auckland.
The 14 hour flight was actually not at all bad. I played it well. Stayed up for the first five or so hours, watched a movie, had some food and drink, popped some pills and conked out . Woke up with three hours left on the clock.
Once in Sydney I learned that my bag was checked all the way through to Christchurch. I'd have to act quick if I was going to get a flight to Auckland and then have the bag intercepted and sent along with me. I was to go through security, and it was there that my skateboard was confiscated.
"You can't take that through," she told me.
"What?! Why?"
"No sporting equipment, love."
"Can I check it somehow?"
"No, too late."
"Can I carry it to the gate and have them stow it for me?"
"No."
"So I can't have my skateboard anymore?"
"Sorry, love."
She went on to tell me that if I went to the gate and made a big enough fuss they might make and exception for me, "but you didn't hear that from me," she said.
I tried to fuss twice and flirt once. None were successful. Each time I was greeted with a rules-are-rules attitude.
This attempt to rescue my dear friend took up any time I had to arrange for a flight to Auckland, and so I boarded a plane headed for Christchurch. Not surprisingly, the plane was only half full. The flight attendant offered me a newspaper. It was from Christchurch, and the headlines read like this:
"Central City 'could be closed for months'"
"Tributes laid in shadows of city's broken heart"
"Searchers to begin hunt in cathedral for bodies"
"City chokes on clouds of clogging dust"
"This is NZ but it's 'like a zombie movie'"

AP Vin

2011-02-24T10:12:00.000-08:00

With my New Zealand wine experience in the near future I take a look back at my most recent harvest work at A.P. Vin.

This last fall I worked as right-hand man to winemaker Andrew Vingiello, making handcrafted, vineyard-designate, liquid-dynamite.

Andrew's '09 Rosella's Vineyard Pinot Noir retails for $48 and just received a score of 95 from Wine Spectator.

2011-02-20T22:33:00.000-08:00

After 4 months away from the blogosphere I formally announce my triumphant return.

And then I realize I have nothing to show for myself (other than the print displayed above).

watercolors & ink

2010-10-04T18:58:00.000-07:00

arnold, explorer crossing to island, gorilla

nude with mug, rice, cigarette

Yampans

2010-09-08T12:13:00.001-07:00

This film comes from a trip down the Yampa River, July 5-10, 2010. This is really just the raw footage with some music on top. I won't really edit it until I get my hands on Final Cut and learn to use it.

I'm a painter now

2010-08-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

scottumented

2010-07-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

Alice Pencavel put on a play entitled The Elephant, and drafted Scott Cooper to paint a backdrop. He went with elephants.

cute animals

2010-07-28T13:05:00.000-07:00

dogs

cat

feel calm

2010-07-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

The Shower Journal

2010-07-11T11:16:00.000-07:00

For various reasons I've taken quite a break from this blog.

Something about moving to San Francisco and finding myself surrounded by artsy types...

wore me out.

But I'm over it.

Having just returned from a 5 day paddle down the Yampa River, I'm feeling recharged, inspired, and excited. I have some photos on the way, as well as my biggest film endeavor since I was 15, or maybe ever.

Unitl then -

Back in 2005 I bought a waterproof notepad with the intention of using it only when showering. It didn't work out. I found that I didn't feel like writing when showering. I much prefer bathing.

As of today I called it complete. Here are a few highlights from The Shower Journal.

Shower Journal - 11/18/05 - 7/11/10

"Ahhh, writing in the shower. This is challenging."

"Charlie's Requirements," suggested by Daniel Wegener.

Fruit Personified.

Schedule for the week.

Naked Lady.

Chin Guy.

Notes on shoes, Booty Girls.

Invented lyrics.

Thoughts on happiness.

eggs

2010-04-14T14:52:00.001-07:00

in one basket

rainy rainy

2010-04-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

this is basically two songs together. the first half is very repetitive. i was going for texture. if you get sick of it skip ahead to 2:15. enjoy the rain.

"deafen(bass)"

king of poets

2010-04-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

these come from a project i did for a writing class a few years back. musical accompaniment for a couple Charles Bukowski recordings.

"Friendly Advice to a Lot of Young Men"

"My Father"

bweedol off

2010-03-31T18:40:00.001-07:00

i'm not much of a musician, but i like to think i make an alright one man band. more of a sound arranger than a music player. i have my personal music philosophies but i won't bore you with that now. tomorrow maybe.

"bweedol," recorded 11/26/05

To Africa, On Pills

2010-02-14T01:47:00.000-08:00

1.
My mom said she's worried that I'll come back from Africa skinny. I asked her why she worries. Because, you don't take care of yourself, she told me. Maybe that's true. I wonder if she also thinks I'll come home with a bloated belly and flies in my eyes.

2.
It was 5 in the morning when when my dad and I pulled up to the curb at San Francisco International. I got out of the car and went around back to take my bag from the trunk. I put it down on the sidewalk and my dad came around and gave me a hug goodbye.
"Call us when you get to New York," he said.
"I will."
He went to get back into the car, and I put my bag on my back and stood there. He looked to me. I said, "I'm still not excited."
I don't know what I expected him to say.
"Wait for your next flight," he told me.

3.
That Jay-Z/Alicia Keyes song about New York. It's true. The lights do inspire me. It all inspires me so much. The cement and noise and trash heaps. And the crazy people. So many crazy people.

4.
I met Homer on a corner somewhere in the city. We were gonna go for dinner but weren't hungry. I told him I wanted to go somewhere cool where I could get an awesome drink, and not to worry about any budget.
We walked halfway down a side street and off the sidewalk down a staircase. There was a black door, no sign. We rang the bell and a guy answered, let us in, took our coats, showed us in. It was a beautiful, quiet place. There were just a few seating areas down the long and narrow room, old, comfortable couches and worn-in chairs, maybe ten people in the place. The waitress came over and gave us a menu and explained that if we needed anything, just to pull the cord. Coming from the wall between our chairs, a cord.
We each had a couple drinks. Great drinks. I wish I'd recorded the contents - honey, sugar, nice Champagne, 20-year-old Scotch, spiced salt, lemon, Tequila, Rum - all this shit that tasted great. The bill came to eighty bucks. It was awesome. Matthew Broderick was there.

5.
I have a 15 hour flight ahead of me. I don't think I'm excited. I have a window seat and a few different sleeping pills, different colors and strengths. I'm seated, watching as the others board, waiting to see who will have the seat beside me. Turns out it's only the biggest guy I've ever had to sit beside on an airplane.
When he sits, his body presses against the arm rest between us and it squeaks. He's held there at the arm rest, but his side-fat seeps beneath it and hangs over the top of it. And he's sickly, too. He covers a portion of his body with the red blanket we all got. He holds it to his face and coughs into it. And his arm is bandaged poorly, wrapped like it's been broken or burned. I try and keep positive. I do have some space. But when I pick up my right leg and put it over my left, coffee-shop style, he expands into that space that has just become available. Any space I give, he takes, and so I take a sleeping pill.

6.
I'm in Africa to make wine. I'm living and working in a place called Paarl, about a forty-five minute drive from Cape Town. The prison where Nelson Mandela spent his last days locked up is in Paarl. I live on the farm in a cottage surrounded by electric fencing, surrounded by vineyard on one side and cow pasture on the other, mountains in the distance. I live with Bertus, who's the assistant winemaker at the winery(and only 23). It's a nice enough house. Bertus seems a nice enough guy. His dog, though, is a fucking asshole.

7.
My second night in South Africa, Bertus takes me to a bar/dance club called Op Skopp. I bet it means "hop-scotch" in Afrikaans. Most everyone there is Afrikaans, of Dutch descent. Bertus explains to me that they have a dance they call "the long arm." Basically, what it is, is this: The guy and girl hold each other in ballroom dance fashion. Then, all the couples on the floor rotate around the room in one big circle, doing simple swing-dancy maneuvers. They do it with a lot of gusto.
Bertus tells me that they do this dance to a certain type of music, Afrikaans music. He describes it as a blend of that Eagle Eye Cherry song and "Summer of '69." And that's exactly what it is; pretty awful stuff.
I have a lot of anxiety about all this. I'm not good at dancing like that, and I don't know any of these girls. I have a few beers and about a hundred cigarettes before someone clues me into the local drink of choice - the double brandy and Coke. They say that brandy has no brakes. They say that brandy is made from tires, panties, and boxing gloves.
A few double-brandy-Cokes later I'm on the dance floor with a girl named Crystal. We're moving in the circle but everyone's passing us by. I don't understand. She tells me to hold her closer and I do. I step on her toes repeatedly. I'm apologetic. I say, "I'm sorry. It's been a while."
She sort of smiles, not a real smile, says it's alright, that it happens.

8.
Bertus takes me for a weekend at a friend's beach house. There are ten of us staying there. Everyone's very nice, but conversation feels strained, on my part.
It's the same with everyone, which is understandable. "Where are you from?" "What are you doing here?" "How do you like it so far?" "Will you travel when you finish working?" "For how long?" "Why are you still in Iraq?" It's exhausting, doing this over and over again.
So I do this with everyone. I get through it. But after that there's nothing. It's seems I'm the shy guy. I wonder what's wrong with me, why I don't have anything to say. Am I a shy guy?
I'm not a shy guy. Really, there's hardly a chance to get in on the talking. The conversation tends to be about one of their friends who isn't present, about something he did this one time, about how funny or dumb he is. It's hard to comment on someone you don't know, and really hard to care. And when it's not like that, all these guys do is quote movies. Just on and on, the quoting of movies. They run through entire scenes of Anchor Man. "Jazz flute," the one guy says, and everybody laughs hysterically.
I can see myself becoming negative, cursing these people in my mind. Some more people arrive and I find that I'm happy to answer all those questions from before. "America." "Wine." "It's interesting." "Yes." "A couple weeks." "For the oil, idiot."

We go down to the beach. There is an ambulance and fire truck and a helicopter in the sky and boats searching the waters. They pull a body from the water and take it to shore. A dead little boy. They continue to search, for the boy's father. They'd been swept from the rocks while fishing. People take pictures of it all. It's awful. We go body surfing. The water is almost perfect.

In the evening we start drinking heavily. Conversation gets a little better, but surprisingly, only a little better. We have a lot of wine, and we talk about the wine. I have a hard time articulating what it is I taste, but I'm working on it. We open a bottle of Pinotage. This is a red wine unique to South Africa. I'm smoking a cigarette and drinking the wine. Somebody asks what I think, and I say I like it. Bertus asks, because I'm smoking, "Can you even taste anything?"
I say, "Yeah, I can taste just fine." Then I take a sip and say, "And speaking of, this is the best fucking Chardonnay I've ever had!" Nobody seems to get the joke.

In the morning I wake up on the top bunk of the bunk bed, hot and sweaty with a dry mouth, bladder full, the ceiling a foot from my face. I climb down, go to the bathroom, put on my shorts and walk out the door. I'm happy to be alone. I walk barefooted down the road and to the beach. I spot a rare bird. I take some photographs. It's a beautiful morning. Rugged mountains are pressed right up against the sea shore. I go body surfing. I run back and forth down the beach. I do ten push-ups. It's six in the morning. I'm still very drunk.

9.
I read an article in Men's Health about cigarette smoking. It says that something like 80% of smokers don't want to smoke, that they wish they wouldn't, but do anyways. I can't remember the science, but it went something like this. When you smoke, all that stuff in the cigarette, you crave it because it releases something in your brain, dopamine, I think. Because you're always releasing the dopamine, your brain grows more and more of these, let's call them, dopamine-receptors. Like, thousands and thousands of them. And the more dopamine-receptors you have, the more you want the dopamine.
I imagine my brain, like a Ren & Stimpy closeup, covered in thousands of these unnecessary things. It's gross. My brain is over-populated with this junk. I picture my brain covered in zits, zits that control my desires. And this image is exactly what I need to quit smoking.
I tell Bertus that it's actually easy to quit smoking, that I've done it ten times already.

10.
I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not on vacation. I'm here to work, and the vacation part won't come until afterwards. For now it's more like a home stay. I'm immersed in someone else's way of living, and that someone is Bertus.
Without a car I am very much in the hands of Bertus. And because I live in the middle of a farm, within walking distance of nothing, I am even more in the hands of Bertus. Luckily, Bertus is happy to show me around. We keep very busy. But this is quite challenging for me, for it leaves me with hardly anytime to just relax, to sit and do nothing, and absolutely no time to myself, to be away from Bertus. I'm having a hard time with this.
But I tell myself that it's good for me. I tell myself that it's Zen. Anything that challenges me, that bothers me, that I have to put up with, is Zen. I decide that I'll hold my breath, figuratively, that "this too shall pass." I know that I'll come out of this alive, that I'll be all the more grateful for my freedom, and my independence, and that maybe because of it all I'll be able to handle people for longer periods of time, which would be good. I decide I'll be a "Yes-Man," that I'll say yes to anything. I'll do it all. I might go a little crazy in the process, but I'll do it all. I go to the mall, to the movies, the parents house, to the cricket, to the rugby, the car show, the horse races. It's good. I see a lot this way. Maybe not the things I would choose to seek out, but it's interesting. I do, however, worry that in trying to be a "Yes-Man," all I'm really doing is being a push-over.

11.
I buy a pair of neon orange Nikes and I start jogging. I run a two-mile loop in the evenings, on a dirt road around the farm. This is my time to myself. I return home elated. I am proud of myself. I'm proud that I'm not smoking, and that I'm jogging. I feel like the guy who makes going to prison a good thing. He goes to prison and does push-ups all day and reads philosophy all night and when he gets out he's the Count of Monte Cristo. And I want blood.

i like my women how i like my shirts

2009-12-31T10:53:00.000-08:00

double breasted and transparent

at home

2009-12-25T20:57:00.000-08:00

filmed last winter by trot.

nederland, co

happy holidays

my turf

2009-11-23T17:43:00.000-08:00

wow, this is my 100th blog post! but in dork-years i'm still only 6 months old, so that's good news.

i thought for a second about saving the 100th post and coming up with something really great, but i lack both self-control and something really great. so, i just got this film back and thought i'd put it up. these are from the winery's crushpad, where i spent all my october.

this post also works to mark the end of my time working at Starmont, as yesterday was my last day. looks like i might be headed to Argentina pretty soon here.

the southern crossing

2009-11-19T18:07:00.000-08:00

under a bridge in napa, 5:45am

installment 2.5

2009-11-15T19:04:00.000-08:00

When I read things, my writing especially, I read in my coolest voice. Now you read in yours.

CHAPTER 3

I arrive at a building with a sign in front that reads Zoologisches. I go up the steps and through two sets of glass doors and standing there in the foyer is a Polar Bear, arms up overhead, his mouth wide open. I look up, thumbs at my chest tucked beneath the straps of my backpack, my mouth open too, just a little. He’s at least twelve feet tall. I approach for a closer look. Really just a skin stretched over a foam mannequin, glass eyes glued in place, he poses no threat to me. But I imagine otherwise. Of course, in the wild, it would be different.

The polar bear, I discover, is the most carnivorous of all bears, and the largest carnivore on land. They feed mostly on seals. I learn that despite spending months of the year in the open waters, polar bears make the majority of their kills elsewhere – where water, ice, and air converge. Scientists call it still-hunting. The white bear keeps motionless beside a black hole in the ice. He waits patiently. He knows that eventually a seal will come up for air, and after a little while one does. The bear bites it by the head, flips it onto land. He drags the seal, its gleaming flesh against ice crust - drags it away from the water’s edge to where nothing else can get at it, and with his massive jaws he crushes its skull and feeds.

I slow-walk loops around all the rooms of the museum, across the animal kingdom, through varying levels of complexity, and past points in evolution. The bones of a woolly mammoth, a creature now long extinct, have been put back together again, and it stands alone roped off in a room’s center. There are birds arranged in glass boxes on branches, with pink heads and black wings and green backs and blue bellies. A fox looks alert against a wall painted to resemble the sky, and tufts of grass come up from the floor. Dozens of butterflies are pinned to a board and still absolutely brilliant in their symmetry and coloration.

After an hour I’ve had my fill and leave.

Outside the museum I see a staircase that climbs the building’s exterior clear to the roof. I take the stairs up and at the top I find all grass, a well-manicured lawn for a roof. I walk to its edge and from there I look out over Zurich, the city no longer all gray, down upon the park with people roaming, and out across the lake back toward Italy. I feel energized in a way. It’s a beautiful collection they have in there. Maybe, “a concentrated expression of life on earth.” But I can’t get over this feeling that, despite being as comprehensive as it is, it lacks something. I don’t know what exactly. But a vague sadness lingers there.

idiotz

2009-11-09T20:09:00.000-08:00

wow, scott cooper made this little video and it made my little day

chapter deux

2009-11-09T18:30:00.001-08:00

Where do I go now? Without even a hint of any plan, I walk in the direction I’m already pointed. Out the bottom of the staircase I connect with another street, and I walk a stone path, and a few blocks down there’s a canal, the Limmat River. Inside the city it comes to me as a great relief. It’s something to which I can direct my attention. I can hold onto the Limmat. Surely it will take me somewhere.

I follow the river and observe swans swimming in circles, and I stop to take pictures. After that I find a smoke shop and go in for a look. But really, what I want is to find out is whether marijuana is legal, but I chicken out and don’t ask. Instead I look at all the pipes, don’t say a word, make eye contact with the shop-owner and then suddenly break it, and then leave. He probably thought I was planning on robbing him.

A few blocks down I meet the river’s source where it opens wide to Lake Zurich. The lake is massive and calm. Along its shore there runs an arboretum, what any normal person would call a park. There are a few vendors there. I have a beer and a hot dog and go to the end of a pier and let my feet hang out over the water. As I sit there the day thaws. The clouds break. I go for another beer, and then onto the grass where I take my shoes and shirt off and from my backpack I take my hacky-sack and I kick it around for a while. The air warms up. After a while I sit and pull at the grass. From the middle of that field I look around.

I need a place to sleep tonight, and this park must have something to offer. I take a look around. Small dirt paths meander like game trails through bushes and trees along the lakeshore. I find areas where I can spread out on the ground, recesses behind sculpted hedges and hideouts beneath low-lying branches. And then I see it, tucked back behind tall and wispy trees, hardly visible at all, a small concrete structure. I approach it for a closer look. It’s seven or eight feet tall, with a flat roof, probably storage space for parks maintenance. I go through the trees and stand beside the building. I pull myself on top of it, and immediately I can tell that this is where I will spend tonight. It’s hidden from sight and elevated, up and away from critters. And it isn’t far from the lake, from the sound of the water lapping at the shore.

I stow my sleeping bag in a nearby bush and set off to wander aimlessly.

For a few hours I zig-zag my way through tall buildings downtown, through an area of cafes and fancy shoe stores. There are vintage clothing shops and new-agey knick knacks for sale. I walk through the red light district. On the side of one building there are large legs crossed in fishnet stockings and stilettos, and everywhere, “X-X-X” across marquees. For lunch I have a mediocre sandwich in a ritzy part of town, and later I stop for a cup of ice cream. In the time I eat my ice cream I watch a kid in big pants and a cockeyed hat covertly sell dime bags of weed. I finish my dessert and approach him and ask if he’s got any for me. He’s just sold his last, he tells me, but I can go around the corner and buy some at the store.

Inside the store it’s dark, all brown and saffron colored. The walls are covered in Buddhist things, hanging medallions and beads. Incense burns and the smoke fills the air. There are shelves of jars filled with various roots and powders and herbs. I ask the girl at the counter, “Can I buy some weed?”

She puts a finger to her lips and goes “Shhhhhhh!!!” She whispers, “Call it tea.”

“Sorry,” I whisper back. “Can I buy some tea?”

From there I go into the hills in search of a place to smoke. I find a set of benches behind a church and roll a joint. I get super high. My mind drifts from one place to the next, to Italy, to Massachusetts, to California, and back to Switzerland.

I take to the streets again, almost always choosing to walk uphill, up and away from the city below.

i worrry

2009-11-03T18:45:00.000-08:00

..jesus christ.

I have some stories that I've been poking at for the last few years. I think that if I use this blog as a tool - a source for pressure, like keeping everyone tuned in - I can chip away at stories one "chapter" at a time, thus not allowing myself to revise, thus... finishing something.
And it's like what a lot of authors have done in the past, releasing pieces one section at a time, a one-part-per-publication sort of thing.

This story goes back furthest. If you've ever been around a campfire with me you've probably heard it. I've written it on five or six occasions, all of which have been really terrible. I want to finish it, and put it behind me.

My writing makes me think of two things:

1) How self-involved I am,

and,

2) This article from the Onion, headline: "Commas, Turning Up, Everywhere."

So goes...

CHAPTER 1

I think Zurich, but really, I have no idea where I am headed. I just haven’t realized this yet.

Just a couple of weeks ago I arrived in Italy to live for three months, to attend an art school of almost all Americans, to have some experiences, to see the world, find some direction, put college off.

Not long ago – only four months ago – I was at an east coast prep school. It was a good school out in the cuts of Massachusetts, where the winters were long, the hills piled high with snow and the trees tall and thin and sad looking. My friends and I, we frequently hid in those trees, knee-deep in the snow, and we smoked joints and cigarettes, and the tree limbs were encased in a flawless ice covering. Back at the dorm I applied Visine and in bed slogged through Kerouac, enamored.

I am on a train to Switzerland. I just woke up after an all-night ride. It’s dark in the room. It’s quiet enough that I think the strange silent lady I share the cabin with is still asleep. On my back, from my bunk, I lift an arm up over my head to the window and pull the shade back. The cabin is lit up. I perk up, roll over to my stomach, and see that the train is moving fast through a steep green canyon, and then there are blue waterfalls falls cascading down one after another, and then the walls fall backwards into rolling hills that stretch far, far off into the distance. I have arrived, I think.

Two days ago I decided I wanted to go to Switzerland. I don’t know much of anything about Switzerland. I’ve always imagined blonde-haired, fair-skinned women, lush green hills, and deep blue waterfalls. That’s enough. So I got on the internet, pulled up a map of Switzerland, and it couldn’t have been anymore rudimentary. It was marked with the names of only four, maybe five places. I saw Zurich, had heard of it, and decided that was where I’d go. I’d go alone. I’d travel light, like a beatnik, a vagabond with a rucksack. I went and got the ticket.

The night of my departure I showed up to the train station drunk. I looked to the rotary schedule up high on a wall and couldn’t figure the thing out. I didn’t see Zurich anywhere on it. Wafting over the crowd, over all the muddled noise, I heard women singing “California Dreamin’.” I went to watch and listen. There were about fifteen of them, all with blonde hair and milky-white skin and absolutely beautiful, and they sang the song in rounds, very well, and when they finished the crowd applauded and dispersed, and I approached and explained that I was from California. They seemed only mildly interested in this. But I told them that I was looking for a train to Zurich, and asked if they knew where it was. They told me that they were going to Zurich too, back home, and that it was time to go.

But the train doesn’t stop. It keeps galloping through the countryside, and it hits me, that Zurich, as one of four places on that map, is sure to be a city, and a large one at that. For a moment I consider deboarding at a small nameless village in the hills, but it’s raining and it all looks so inhospitable, and in the end I decide against it. We roll through wooded hills, and not long after, arrive.

As one of the world’s largest centers for offshore banking, and as home to the Swiss Stock Exchange, Zurich is Switzerland’s commercial center. Zurich is the largest city in Switzerland. Zurich is the wealthiest city in Europe. Zurich is a far cry from the hippy-dippy wilderness retreat I’d just barely aimed for.

I step off the train in a t-shirt and shorts and it is cold. Like, really cold. Should have packed a sweater. I exchange currency and exit the station, and the sky is a mat of gray. It seems that everything in this city is gray. I cross the gray street and there is a gray staircase and I go down it for a place to put some pants on. Halfway down I stop and scramble to get the pants out from my backpack and onto my body. For a moment I am naked from the waist down in the elbow of a twisted cement stairwell in Switzerland. I am in Zurich, but really – and this is when I realize – I have no idea where I am.

to be continued...

ricky raccoon

2009-10-19T19:22:00.001-07:00

and so it goes. harvest continues. i'm tired.

but we've had rain, and this means that the season is winding down. the grape influx begins to peter out.

in the past i've compared the wine job to sailing - instead of ropes and sails and pulleys we have cords, hoses, and clamps. we have pumps and buckets and fans. we have to be fast and efficient and keep from becoming entangled.

in the rain it's like deadliest catch. it's pretty fun.

this morning, in the vines in the rain

and yesterday i bought a collection of poems by pablo neruda. one poem that got me excited, as it coincides with this stage in my life, is Ode to Wine. here's the part i like, the very end:

I love to have on the table,

while people are talking,

the light of a bottle

of intelligent wine,

and let the simple man learn,

in the rituals of his trade,

to remember the earth and his duties,

to propagate the canticle of the fruit.

i'm feeling angsty

2009-09-21T18:39:00.001-07:00

i got home from work today and popped a bottle of pink wine with bubbles in it. and then i worked on the image down below. all small like that, it's hard to really see it. a photo, with some texture, with some line drawings, with some gaussian blur.

and i was just looking through a book that has kept me company for a few years now: Notebooks 1935-1942. These notebooks belonged to Albert Camus, writer and philosopher. I have never read a book by Camus, but for several summers in a row, during college, I picked the notebooks up wherever I'd left off the summer before. And it always seemed that wherever I was in the book, what Camus had to say always jived so well with where I was in life. The notebooks are full of quotations that make one feel, how do i say...bummed, or lost, or, no... inspired. in my mind, Camus points out how unaware we can be, how off-kilter we can be, what shallow fucks we can be, what little retards we can be - that i can rise higher and maybe one day meet my potential. on the other hand, camus seems to suggest we not think too hard about what we're doing, that we just go with it.

5 QUOTES from CAMUS

1.) "The peculiar vanity of man, who wants to believe and who wants other people to believe that he is seeking after truth, when in fact it is love that he is seeking this world to give him."

2.) "We haven't the time to be ourselves. All we have time for is happiness."

3.) "We do not have feelings which change us, but feelings that suggest to us the idea of change. Thus love does not purge us of selfishness, but makes us aware of it and gives us the idea of a distant country where this selfishness will disappear."

4.) "The most dangerous temptation: to be like nothing at all."

5.) "The demand for happiness and the patient quest for it. We need not banish our melancholy, but we must destroy our taste for difficult and fatal things. Be happy with our friends, in harmony with the world, and earn our happiness by following a path which nevertheless leads to death.
'You will tremble before death.'
'Yes, but I shall leave nothing unfulfilled in my mission, which is to live.' Don't give way to conformity and to office hours. Don't give up. Never give up - always demand more. But stay lucid, even during office hours. As soon as we are alone in its presence, strive after the nakedness into which the world rejects us. But above all, in order to be, never try to seem."

Albert Camus (1913-1960)

2009-08-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

another picture from the last thing

scott noticed a swastika carving

merced

2009-08-09T12:40:00.001-07:00

over the years i've shot lots of photos of swimming holes. swimming at a nice spot with good friends is hard to beat. one day i'll have to publish a book of these. here's the most recent, from just a few weeks ago.

merced river, yosemite, july 09

my cat died

2009-08-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

dume got a solid nine under his belt

2000-2009

for kids

2009-07-24T23:02:00.000-07:00

guess what

2009-07-19T19:20:00.000-07:00

glennskin

2009-07-13T20:12:00.000-07:00

glenn says he's immune to his ego. i don't buy it.

napa, week one: two story fragments

2009-07-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

Four days ago I started as an intern at a winery in Napa. I'm working with twenty Mexicans. They're all very nice people, almost always smiling and joking around. They package and bottle and clean and drive forklifts. They work hard and don't complain. Some speak English, but most don't, and for that reason I'm sort of isolated, unable to say much.

So far I've had one major task. There are all these big silver tanks that sit atop steel stands. I work with this guy Juan, and all day we sand the rust and old, flaky paint off of the stands, then we give them two coats of blue paint. In the time I've been working there (forty hours) Juan and I have completed seven or eight tanks. It's hard.

A week and a half ago I wrote this in a notebook:

"I look forward to Napa - to be put to work & make some money, to be broken in."

Today I kept thinking about how in six months I'm not going to be the same as I am now. I will be different. In my life I've worked hard, and I've worked long, but this will be, by far, the first time that I've worked so hard, for so long. Right now I'm at forty hours a week. Not bad. But before long it will be seventy-two and up.

I go home at the end of the day and look in the mirror, and I'm so dirty that it looks as if I've been doing all the shoveling on a coal train. I have paint all down my arms and on my clothes and in my hair. I take a cold shower and have to scrub to get it all off my body. My hands are dry and rough from the sanding, and out in the country it's slow and I'm sort of lonely. Yesterday I had a piece of scrap paper and a pen and I wrote, "I can't help but wonder what it would feel like, for a beautiful girl, to have her bare ass grabbed by these hands."

The next six months will do something to me. They might sharpen me, or they could dull me to a block of wood. Whatever happens, it should be good.

Juan and I sit in the shade on pieces of cardboard beneath a tank. We wear goggles and respirators and sand the rust and old paint from the legs of a steel support. This fills the air with dust. Time passes slowly, but I try to think only about the task at hand, instead of counting down until the next break, or until lunch, or to the time when I can go to my car and leave.

Fortunately for me, Juan speaks more English than I do Spanish. Still, our conversations are strained and disjointed, and sometimes we just have to accept that we don't know what we're talking about, and drop it and move on to the next thing. But at the same time, it's as if this challenge in communicating grants us the freedom to talk about whatever the hell comes to mind. Rather than talking in depth on certain topics, we touch only the surface of ten times as many.

We sit beside each other and work on this thing and try not to splatter paint, and we work to better know each other's language. I tell him that I want to learn Spanish, and he asks why. I say, Me gusta Mexico, y me gusta la comida de Mexico, y me gusta chicas Mexicanas.

Juan is thirty-two, and has spent most his life in a small town in Mexico. He's a very curious guy, and although he's been in America for eight years now it's as if he's hardly ever spoken to an American, and that might just be the case.

Juan asks if I have ever been in a boat, and I say yes, and then I ask if he ever has. He hasn't. He doesn't know how to swim. He asks where the Titanic sank and I say I'm not sure, Europa, somewhere, I think.

He asks if I ride horses, and I say I haven't since I was poquito, and he corrects me, chiquito. He asks why, and I say that I don't have a horse. He saw a big horse dance once. It's hard to train a horse, he tells me. You need - he can't think of the word - patience, I tell him.

I ask if he has a wife, and he says no. He asks if I do, and I say no. He asks how old I am and I say twenty-four. He laughs and says that I'm too young to be married. He asks if I have a novia, and I say no, and he laughs and asks why not, and I say that I'm not sure.

Juan asks what kind of car I have and if I know how to fix it, and I say that I drive a Volvo and that I don't know anything about it. He asks how many miles I have on it and I say I can't remember, but I tell him that there was once a Volvo that drove a million miles, and he can hardly believe it.

He has a girlfriend, but she lives in Reno. He goes there every two weeks to see her. He asks if I've been to Reno and I say I've driven through once or twice. He asks if I've been to Las Vegas and I say no. I ask if he gambles, and he says that he doesn't have the money. And he likes the discos, but he doesn't have the money.

When Juan was younger and living in Mexico he used to break horses. He says that he looked into buying a horse in America but was surprised to find out it cost 35,000 dollars. I tell him they sometimes cost a million.

He tells me that Napa is sort of boring, that there aren't many women. I tell him I thought that might be the case. He says that there are many women in Mexico, more women than men, and that if you have a nice car the women will like you. And I get excited about this. He's quick to remind that if you don't have a nice car the women don't care about you.

He asks me, Do you like Michael Yackson? Sí, sí, I tell him. And the Yackson Five? Sí, sí. And Carlos Santana? Sí.

Juan wants to know if I like milk, and I say sure, I like milk. But I like it more with chocolate. He tells me there's a tradition in Mexico where you squeeze milk straight from a cow's utter and into a glass, then mix in some chocolate and some alcohol. Sounds good, I tell him.

Juan turns to me all of a sudden with a big smile and says, Carlos, let's go to the rodeo!

Yeah? I ask, excited that he's just said this.

No, he says. Juan doesn't know of any rodeo, but he's been to one in San Jose.

Juan asks if I heard the news. No, I haven't. He tells me that his cousin lived twenty five miles north, in Calistoga, and that someone died, was shot, and for a while it's unclear who did the shooting and who was killed. At first it sounded like Juan's twenty-six-year-old cousin killed someone. But it turns out that it was his cousin who died. It happened a week and a half ago. It was over a girl. The killer fled.

It was eight days before his cousin's body was sent to Mexico for burial, and it cost 8,000 dollars.

As best as he can, Juan asks me how long Americans wait before burying the dead, and as best as I can I answer him. Two days, maybe.

Dos Días? he asks.

Sí. And in Mexico? I ask.

Two days, he says, and he looks at the ground.

Some time goes by. It's quiet.

Later, Juan turns to me and says, Carlos, let's go to Reno!

The man who killed Juan's cousin was arrested yesterday in Los Angeles. Juan asked me how long he'd be in jail and I told him 'forever.'

deer leg

2009-07-05T20:16:00.001-07:00

suckin it

2009-07-05T19:40:00.000-07:00

after a substantial absence from the blogosphere i am living alone in a rural setting. the chronicles are back and stout as fuck.

john gold inside the tantra pool, 2008

oakland psychedelia

2009-06-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

recent foolings-around

take your spectacles off

since i've been back in CA: lost in the wood: a cell phone photo barrage

2009-06-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

first thing i did when i got home was i picked up a salamander.

first thing the salamander did was pee down my wrist.

then i went to los angeles with my family. seen here is a photo of my mom and dad. then a photo of my mom.

but i was really just sneaking a shot of larry david sitting in the background.

then i got a job working for a woodworker named hank (this is not his real name, but this is what I'll call him). hank is an interesting guy. he makes really crazy ornate stuff, and this job that we were working together is one of epic proportions. hank's been working it for a year already and says he has at least another year to go.

the owner of the house is this really wealthy bachelor dork. he owns several houses around the world and will occasionally take off to africa for months at a time. this house of his has an african theme throughout, and in my opinion is totally over the top. over the top, like, life-sized giraffe heads made form copper coming out of the wall just above the toilet. over the top, like, rhino tusks attached to the walls, carved from old-growth redwood, for the purpose of hanging cook books from.

the other day i went upstairs to work on a set of book shelves. the shelves are in the same room as the tv. on the ground there was an empty box of cracker jacks. on top of the tv, a box set of sailor moon dvd's.

so the owner of the house is pretty odd, as is hank, but hanky is odd in a cool way. more eccentric than odd, i guess.

a friend's mom got me the job. she instructed me to not engage in any arguments with hank over political matters. i typically avoid political arguments at all costs, so i didn't make much of this advice.

hank and i didn't talk much at first. he went about his business and i went about mine. it wasn't until we discovered our mutual love for NPR that we began to talk more and get to know each other.

it was a great job. i was finishing all his projects. sanding, staining, and varnishing, all day long. boring? sometimes. tedious? yes, sometimes. incredibly laid back? yes. chock-full of zen teachings? yes!

i could work outside, and i would do so in nothing but a pair of shorts, and i would have my headphones on, and i could borrow hank's bike to go get a cup of coffee whenever i felt like it.

hank took to calling me Sir Charles, and he referred to himself as Sir Lancelot.

masking tape coat

well, i know the guy who had my job before i did. his name is jamie and i'm currently subletting his room in oakland. jamie and i talked about hank a few times and he didn't seem to like hank much. i didn't get it. well, it turns out that one day jamie and hank got into a heated debate over gay rights, and hank was not on the gay side of things.

jamie was fired the next day.

jamie told me that hank was not only a homophobe, but a racist too. this really threw me for a loop.

but jamie pointed out that if i ever decided i couldn't or didn't want to work for hank anymore, all i had to do was casually mention my mexican boyfriend.

for a while after this realization i was a little uncomfortable with things. it didn't help that hank and i spent 99% our time working together, and in that time the radio was always tuned to NPR, and prop 8 had just gone back to the courts for another vote. i was feeling like i was walking on egg shells. it wasn't that i was nervous that we'd argue, and that i'd be fired. the problem was this: i knew that if hank were to go off on a tirade in front of me, about those fuckin' fags, or whatever, i would instantly lose my respect for him. and i didn't want to lose my respect for him, because i really liked the guy.

well, it never came up. last friday was my last day. it was 5:30 in the afternoon. hank and i moved this big, heavy shelf back inside and set it down. we shook hands and he said, "Thank you, Sir Charles." and I said, "Thank you, Hank."

and i never even had to mention my mexican boyfriend.

one time i asked hank about what he did before he started working with wood. he scratched at his chin and gave it a thought, "Well... I was in the military... and then I was planning on going to school for journalism, in San Jose. I was in my front yard, and I had just finished building a desk that I would keep my books on. A girl walked by and she bought the desk from me. True story," he said.

This morning I looked Hank up on the internet, to see if I could find any pictures of his woodworking. I found no pictures of his work, but to my delight, I did find this picture of him in the military, back in 1952.

maybe hank has a problem with people of different skin colors, and maybe the thought of people of the same sex having sex and getting married doesn't sit so comfortably with him, but when i look at hank i don't see a homophobe or a racist. instead, i see someone who grew up in another time, and i don't doubt that in my life i'll come up against change that i'm not so comfortable with.

there was this one time when i had just started working for hank that i asked him where he lived, and he kind of hesitated and then said "Santa Cruz." I came to learn that he lives in his van, and while I don't doubt that he's pretty much totally content in that, I think it's safe to say he's somewhat self-conscious about the fact, that maybe he sometimes feels that someone his age who's been working for as long as he has should have a house like everybody else, and when he's lying down in there at night trying to fall asleep, maybe there's a slight sensation of hiding out, of hoping that the neighbors don't realize he's living in there.

i read a quote once, not sure where, but it went something like this: "take it easy on others, because everyone's fighting their own battle."

rawdog on the river

2009-06-01T14:51:00.000-07:00

I took a canoe trip this weekend with some folks. Good times on the Russian River. Got a lot of sun. Too much sun.

black dove moan

2009-05-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

my buddy rob's band is recording a new album. i went to the studio to take some pictures. i wish i'd shot more, but i was nervous and wanted to keep out of the way. however, i'm pleased with the dozen or so shots that i did get.

they're called the moanin' dove, and their album is going to be super rad.

moving pictures

2009-04-25T00:14:00.000-07:00

I decided to put this up. It's two rolls of film from my super 8. Didn't really edit anything. I think of it as a series of moving snap shots, which it is. Super lonesome music by Colleen.

a great name tag

2009-04-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

This is a photo Kyle took of me in San Francisco yesterday. Then he did some stuff to the texture on the wall, and the sidewalk I think, and I really like the look of it. Then Scott added the artsy cubes and put my name up there.

A great name tag.

miller ramp

2009-04-22T10:25:00.001-07:00

OZ

2009-04-16T19:32:00.000-07:00

tail end of lizard life ballet

2009-04-16T09:12:00.001-07:00

long, long ago, i regularly made short movies on my bright orange iMac. this is one of my best, if not the best short film i ever made.

my cat had just put a lizard in two. i jumped at the chance to capture a few seconds of the not-yet-lifeless tail.

Kika (2000 - ?)

no more toy cameras

2009-04-15T22:12:00.001-07:00

I've got some more work to do on this but couldn't help putting it up. I have hundreds of negatives from 2003 and 04 that I never printed. Instead, I processed the film and held off on the prints because, "one day I'll print them myself!" Six years later and I'm taking my first real glance at them, and... it's some of the best stuff I've ever shot.

kettles with succulents, Santa Fe (2003)

Channeling Jim Morrison

2009-04-09T19:33:00.000-07:00

Here's a Super 8 video I shot with friends at the Sand Dunes. The music is by Death Vessel.

prom

2009-04-08T12:20:00.001-07:00

my date packed some heat

dear deer

2009-03-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

2009-03-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

this is neat.

Ride the Snake

2009-03-24T11:22:00.000-07:00

This last weekend we took a trip to the dunes. It was a surreal place. The wind was a'whippin' and the sand a'blowin'.

Upon arrival we headed to the flats for a round of Bocce Ball. Real good time.

The next morning we set out to summit the dunes. No small task.

Played Bocce Ball all the way up and down those things.

Made it to the top and celebrated with a cold beverage. Rode the snake back down.

Mad Love from Back East

2009-03-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

The Chronicles on Reason Clothing. Word. Check the rest of their site out here.

Pools & Dragging: The Life Cycle Trip

2009-03-17T10:55:00.000-07:00

When I was last in California, I took a look through some of my parent's old stuff, like scrap books, photo albums, and boxes of slides. That set me off on this week-long existential crisis on aging, life and death, perspectivism, the mechanization of art, the digital takeover, and the dying out of physical-personal-artifacts. In my little black book I scribbled, "Now, kids have files. And with one crash of the hard drive (an event far more likely than the house fire) it's all gone." I worry that one day, not long from now, kids will look at the disposable camera with the same sense of nostalgia I have for the Polaroid Instamatic, or look at a CD the way I do a record. It's already going on, I guess.

Homie Abroad

2009-03-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

I just got this Facebook message today from a good friend. I'll leave him anonymous:

dude, i was sitting on the main plaza minding my own business and this columbian sits down and we start chatting and he asks me if i want to go for a cerveza so we go.
dude´s older with a family and a drugdealer, found it wayyyy tooo intriguing apparently-.
went to some bar in the middle of nowhere, afternoon, had a drink and the guy gave me a half a joint to smoke. the beers were expensive, and he said it is because you can smoke there without a problem.
he offered me some columbian coke and it was rediculous, apparently completely pure.
he left because he wanted to give me a weed sack and when he came back, he gave it to me and i put it in my pocket.
moments later, police man walks in.
shit´s way tense, searches us, columbian has coke and hash and i just put a bunch of pot in my pocket.
shows us a document saying: you are fucked for at least 4 years in prison.
offers us a bribe and i was nervous as hell as bribing is illegal here.
we take a taxi with the cop to my hostal, i have 2 minutes to grab my credit card, all the cash i have and my passport.
go to the bank, can only get 320 dollars out, he wanted a g.
columbian says he´ll cover me the rest of the way, thank god, the cop hands me my shit and lets me get out of the car.
im currently nervous as hell, seeing as the cop knows where im staying and my name, and the columbian does as well and i sure as hell dont want to pay him back 7 hundo for spotting me.
too bad i maxed my card out and policeman took all my cash.
i cant stop looking over my shoulder and i feel like absolute shit physically and mentally. im such an asshole, but i learned the most intense lesson ever.
by far the most intense experience ever. ever.

i´m sticking it out in the hostal, fuck it. shits crazy.l i´ll let you know when i get out of cuzco

Stay safe, homie!

The OFFICIAL Tenderloin Post

2009-03-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

Danny was put in charge of Tyler's apartment for the weekend and instructed to care for the cats. There was poop everywhere.

We sat around and had some drinks then went out for the night. This was on New Year's eve.

time in yosemite

2009-03-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

2009-03-08T22:58:00.001-07:00

Big props to young Scott Cooper for lining it up with a sweet header for my site. Said header has refurbished my blog-life with a fresh breath of air. I'd been having dark thoughts concerning my blog, but I'm getting over them.

Here is a piece of art I did. It wasn't until after the fact that I recognized the surfacing of subconscious desires.

2009-03-01T22:15:00.001-08:00

ugly, ugly man

2009-02-23T16:21:00.000-08:00

Where The Folks Get Their Yolks

2009-02-23T10:07:00.000-08:00

Dot's Diner. There are 4 people in this picture. Can you find them all?

2009-02-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

a peaceful picture from cataract canyon in 2007

2009-02-03T11:11:00.000-08:00

2009-02-03T10:44:00.000-08:00

two summers ago, me and a few other guys took a road trip to asheville, nc. just as we left boulder there was a heavy downpour, and then came much more serious weather in kansas. tornado warnings kept us off the road for some time.

stalled at a rest stop and thinking that we'd be there for a while, we just hung out in the company van. willy went to use the bathroom and came back with some news. a few truckers said that the storm was coming right for us, but there was a small window, and if we hurried we might just make it.

so we buckled up and hit the road.

tornado alley (2007)

at the end of the road, safe in asheville (2007)

2009-01-31T09:57:00.000-08:00

banana peels (2008)

2009-01-28T23:50:00.000-08:00

haircut central (2008)

before the menlo park park was the menlo park park

2009-01-27T10:06:00.000-08:00

medium and large bowls

from an old album

2009-01-26T22:14:00.000-08:00

rob and i took a road trip after i finished high school. we pulled to the side of the road and found this guy poking a rattlesnake with a stick. his name is patrick pape and he makes his own didgeridoos.

pape with didgeridoo (2003)

2009-01-24T10:42:00.000-08:00

jason adams goes boneless in san jose.

2009-01-12T14:56:00.000-08:00

jane

2009-01-10T12:42:00.000-08:00

pb&j

2009-01-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

i'm stoked because i just got photoshop. it's confusing as all hell, but i've just been fartin around. and so far so good.

the picture below looks like a simple double-exposure, but it was shot with a polaroid instamatic. those cameras can't shoot double-exposures because as soon as you take the photo it pops out of the camera. so i did the layering in photoshop.

shooting a double-exposure with a camera is great because you never know what you're going to get.

doing it on photoshop is great because you have all the control. you know exactly what you're getting.

riley on the beach with succulent sky

2009-01-02T19:43:00.001-08:00

yay, 2009. these here are a few pictures I snapped in california.

2008-12-21T13:14:00.000-08:00

This guy rules.

I made a print based on that image.

2008-12-18T08:07:00.001-08:00

yesterday, nick's car got the boot.

in other news, last night i got super fucking drunk. this morning i wrote a poem.

'tis the season

2008-12-15T16:39:00.000-08:00

my youngest brother gave me this last year for christmas. "THE CAT IN THE HAT COMES BACK," REEEEEMIIIIIIIXXXX!!!!!

2008-12-09T15:54:00.000-08:00

nick at the tantra bowl

2008-12-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

I got inspired to finish a song from a while back. It's pretty dorky, but that is the nature of me recording rap songs in my bedroom. Another heartfelt love song, but this time dedicated to all those artsy beezys. Words by me, beat by DJ Jazzy Jeff.

2008-12-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I woke up with a missed call from a friend, from 3:30 AM. Turns out that he and some other friends, after having left the bars, tried for a while to find my latest rap song on the internet. They called to find out where it was at.

That was quite flattering, knowing that after a long night of drinking, rather than catching a cab to Taco Bell, they just wanted some hippy dippy lil' chick. The words are me, the beat is DJ Jazzy Jeff.

way back when

2008-11-30T11:38:00.000-08:00

my dad brad

2008-11-30T10:44:00.000-08:00

Dream Canyon (2006)

Will Otte (2006)

2008-11-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

day of mankillers (2006)

2008-11-18T20:29:00.000-08:00

suppose i've been drawing lots of naked ladies lately

2008-11-18T19:04:00.000-08:00

I've started work on a new project. Or maybe I've started and finished. Depends on whether I come up with new material anytime soon.

I'm writing a standup comedy act and recording it before a live studio audience in my bedroom by myself. So far I have three jokes.

2008-11-16T15:45:00.000-08:00

an area off 17, approaching santa cruz. (a few years back)

2008-11-15T10:16:00.000-08:00

naked snorkeler & cubes. collabo piece with nicholas berling.

now available in two striking color combinations!

2008-11-14T22:06:00.000-08:00

james catts (2007)