My brother's bus, gonna be one mean surf wagon

In one week, the International Whaling Commission will hold its final vote on a proposal to legalize commercial whale hunting for the first time in a generation.

The outcome rests on whose voices are heard most clearly in the final hours: the pro-whaling lobby -- or the world's people?

48 HOURS left to spend a few minutes making a difference

I guess the maze of life is there to be threaded. It feels pretty dense sometimes. Remember - you grew this.

A find

Mark buries a rail

Passion beyond capacity; surfing one aspect of a uniquely powerful relationship with water and wildland. One of surfing's (by which I mean surfing, not our peculiar nexus of mimicry) few genuine individuals.

True in a false world.

http://plancksurfboards.wordpress.com/

Every van needs a mascot. Surprise shoreline find.












The Surfing Museum exhibition in Northumberland is well worth a visit...





Bookworm paradise...

Not quite home, but welcome nonetheless. Some great waves, undocumented but by the 12d of the frontal lobe, as all the best days are.

One for the road. Thankyou for the hospitality America.

PC

I never put this up here before, but with the BP catastrophe it feels somehow relevant.





Black Tide



Poem for Mänfred Gnadinger aka 'O Alemán' aka Man


Man was a hermit and sculptor who lived in a small hut on the beach in Camelle on the Costa Del Morte, Galicia. He was German, hence his nickname – 'O Alemán', shortened to simply Man. With the shipwreck of The Prestige in 2002 and the environmental disaster that followed, a black tide of oil overwhelmed his home and the sculptures of his open-air museum. He died shortly afterwards, it is thought from melancholy.




Hull cracked

A flowing black

Message

Man waits, unknowing

In the fixity of

Stone - his safety belt

Appreciable

Stillness of time

To wander alone

Sand and air

His home


Closer it comes





At dawn he finds a bird

A struggling

Messenger

Obsidian dragmarks

Are you sick?

He asks

He stoops to help

Withdraws his

Coated fingers

What is this?

I have no need for

This sand-staining

Bird-hobbling

Blackness






He carries the

Cormorant

Bathes it

Strokes its feathers

clean

Plumage de-oiled

It sits

Serene

The portent bird

Lungs blocked

Then dies

Man cries

Amongst his art

The silent

Smashing

Of a heart





That day dissolves


Morning next

The slick spreads

And hits

Headlong

The earth is vexed

The tide is death

Then sunrise

At the shoreline

Man regards

His changeling view

Purity recast anew

Sullied sea

Licking a blighted

Beach

At the tidemark

Halfdead

Harbingers

Flop and flutter

In the ooze

Toxic matter

Yellow suits appear

And chatter

Man takes uneasy

Footsteps through the surf

Little body

At his heart

His precious stone

Covered

World apart

He kneels in the oil

Invokes a prayer

A saline song

To implore

respite

There is no

answer

Only poisonous

Chemical

Night

After spending some time at diy central down south, this little slice of Aristotle holds greater relevance:

It is by doing things that need to be learned to be done, that you learn them

La petite ferme