...avoiding Wipeouts
Feathered lips...
I did not believe the information | Just had to trust imagination | My heart was going boom boom, boom | Son, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.
The wait is on for Big Wave Africa 2004. And, nope, I never amounted to a surfer's dogleash. Still, surfing's held me in thrall for around thirty years. I'm not alone. Come winter, the north and a good swell, Big Wave Africa relegates all but those able to ride the monsters to the boats, shore and sidelines. We're all spectators now.
And so it is with blogging. Sometimes it proves itself a sport throwing up sets well worth admiring. A knowledge of the winds, tides, waves, surfers and some experience enhances the experience. Reading the tit-for-tat between Father Christopher and Mother Superior this morning, I once again felt better about riding the shorebreak off the Jesus Bunker. Sometimes, really good shit happens and a war breaks out. Only it's never a war. You know...
In response to my Spiritual Guide and Mentor publishing this entry (don't trust the permalink; scroll down the page and read 12 Words and the two years preceding it), Mother Superior filed the following e-mail:
I am probably getting old, and losing whatever I once had of any delicate sensibilities, but I can’t help thinking that dreams are wonderful when walking quietly by yourself in the woods; keeping you company as you reflect on what once was. They suit the drip of the water from the leaves, and the smell of rich, old dirt and the song of birds not quite seen.Nice, eh? Of course, you'll need to read around two years' of the Mother Superior's writing to really appreciate the warm wisdom of her words. But what does Father Christopher do? With an eagle's eye (and Coyote's nose), he espies (and scents) heresy.
But then I think I would rather get in my car and go home and be met with something real and tangible–someone I can wrap arms around and exchange garlicky kisses with after a nice dinner.
True, dreams never fade or get older; there are no shadows or harsh lines, and the light doesn’t glare, but instead glows with a lovely, inner light. Dreams don’t sag or get lumpy or wrinkly, or cranky. But you can’t reach out and touch a dream. You can’t move your finger down a dream’s face, or hold a dream’s hand. When you sneeze, it doesn’t go bless you, or bring you broth when you’re in bed, sick. It doesn’t laugh at a dumb joke, because though you might see your dream, it doesn’t see you.
Imperfect reality. I think I would rather have imperfect reality.
Never one to shirk his duties to his charges and other sundry 'standard nethead whackjobs', he fires off Shelley Powers—Her Secret Life, a blistering expose of Mother Superior's secret life as Sheena, a dominatrix of renown. Sheena immediately responds with Living this Moment (containing the above copied e-mail), and blogging shows surfing to be a sedentary occupation for salt-encrusted dribbleheads.
...avoiding wipeouts.
I was feeling part of the scenery | I walked right out of the machinery | My heart was going boom boom boom | Hey, he said, grab your things, I’ve come to take you home. | Yeah back home
Style, finesse, élan... such words leap to mind reading such exchanges. Actually, they don't, but I tell you, the first sets drifting in from Boulder on a cold winter's morning really set me up for the day. How one rides them—something that could be ever so easily misconstrued, makes all the difference. Later, the sun sets in the South on essays such as this, Divided we Stand, wherein Shelley brings it all back home.
As Cheyne Horan puts it: "When the waves are big you don’t need a light board."
Today I don’t need a replacement | I’ll tell them what the smile on my face meant | My heart was going boom boom boom | Hey, I said, you can keep my things, they’ve come to take me home.
Peter Gabriel | Solsbury Hill
