My main system fried on me, temporary interruption. FFFFck. photo by Dan Ryan, the way summer should be

I am reading fiction and poetry this weekend at Port Eliot, as part of TellTales. The theme is dusk til dawn and I am reading from a novel in progress, 'Kreuzberg' and assorted poems written for the occasion. Now grant us sunshine.

my ideals
have got me on the run
towards my connection
with everyone

This album basically pulled me through one summer. Crank it up loud. Very British sort of magic, a massively under-rated band.


When the vessels of the day break

and the scent of night pervades the dusk

we’ll gather in the glade and dance

amongst the shade, the stones, the musk

Dark’s soft blanket, in spreading we will greet

the march of time with onslaught swift

make shadows thick, the flower to dust

and in joy comes glory; an embrace, replete

Dawn’s arrival reveals fragile, silent grace

dark dismissed again to rest awhile

in briar-strewn thickets, a smile

like light itself, plays wild upon your face

We go gently back, through valleys of the morn

dual footfalls in the dust we tread

amidst chords of chaos, a single thread

unbeckoned swiftly, forward, born

The Wax Depository An experiment in recyling wax balls.
Filthy lumps of discoloured surfwax. The wax depository was an idea I had over a cup of tea with Seamouse. The plan would be for surfers holding wax balls to send them in en masse to one place. The wax balls would be melted down in a bubbling cauldron and re cast. If the wax ball sent weighed over a set amount, they would get a free cake of recycled second-hand wax back in the post using the same envelope. Would it work?

Whilst wading through Australian memories - talking rails with DT. Photo by Cus (2004)

I was reading through a diary I kept whilst living in Australia. Having seen a pretty healthy shark in Cornwall a few weeks ago this entry caught my eye:


A tough call this one. The waves are late afternoon perfect and breaking on the outside banks. The reef is contorting and twisting. Exploding jets of pluming spray. A bank down from the reef is creating smooth righthanders. No one out. No one on the beach. No one in any of the car parks. Light rain and an unusual slight sea mist. Glass. If this were England, it would be ON.

Paddle across the gutter, and start scratching. Get caught badly inside by a set. There is an odd aroma heavy on the water, acrid. Keep ducking and paddling, and just make it out. Let a set go past and gather bearings. Glance across at the reef and watch it drain and throw, tide way too low.

Look back at the beach, and just as the eyes swivel back around to the horizon something BIG comes out of the water. As it lazily breaks the surface, it twists over onto its side, before neatly disappearing. Twenty metres inside of me and over two hundred metres out from the sand, I scream like a little girl. Adrenalin courses like never, ever before in any situation. Scramble for a little one, clutching at straws. Ride in and prone out, arms flailing like windchimes in a storm.

The water takes on a nightmarish black hue, and the wave peters out. Forty metres of gutter, deep gutter, and now the fear really starts. Convulsions sweep my body, almost bucking me off my board. Gibbering like a child, a petrified child. I hit the beach and don’t stop running until I’m by my car. I know the meaning of fear.