Shark Dream

A couple nights ago I had one of those dreams . . . . Keith was still alive, and we were free diving somewhere down south, for we had thin wetsuits and no hoods nor gloves. We were swimming about a quarter mile off-shore near a rocky reef that reached up to the surface in places, but not enough to count as an island. At some point, I realize a great white shark is swimming beside me, just appearing, as it were, not bent on attacking or feeding . . . yet. The shark swam beside me, or rather I swam beside the shark, kicking hard yet smoothly to maintain equal speed, not wanting to draw attention to myself by jerking or halting or anything, really. I wanted to warn Keith, to tell him to climb up onto the reef or something, to take care, but I was busy swimming and breathing, for I was using a snorkel, not a tank, and I was trying to keep my eye on the shark the whole time.

The shark leaned closer, swam closer, so I put my left hand out and touched the shark, holding it off, or attempting to, by pressing firmly and smoothly against the creature's side, though I ended up with my hand firmly against the creature's jaw just behind the teeth, the mouth. We swam like that, the shark effortlessly, me straining to maintain smoothness and speed, afraid to pull away, to make any sudden movements. This swimming, my hand against the shark, went on for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a minute or two. I wanted to warn Keith; I wanted to break away and climb up onto any protection I could; I wanted to kick and swim forever, for this shark was the most powerful creature I'd ever been so close to. Kicking and breathing, now holding my breath as the shark leaned in even further, pushing against my hand, bending my arm, and then my hand slid into the mouth of the shark, and I could feel the teeth tearing into my skin, the shark not yet even biting . . . .

And I woke up, lurching upright, dragging in that lungful of air as if I'd been holding my breath for too long, fully alert, fully freaked, happy to be alive, and unhappy in that dream-way that the long moment with that shark was over already.

A dream, as I said. Anxiety-expression? Longing? Power -- in part?

Zevon: Mutineer

MUTINEER

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Hoist the mainsail - here I come
Ain't no room on board for the insincere
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer

I was born to rock the boat
Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat - let's get out of here
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer

Long ago we laughed at shadows
Lightning flashed and thunder followed us
It could never find us here
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer

Long ago we laughed at shadows
Lightning flashed and thunder followed us
It could never find us here
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer

I was born to rock the boat
Some may sink but we will float
Grab your coat - let's get out of here
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer
You're my witness
I'm your mutineer
I'm your mutineer......

--Warren Zevon

from his album Mutineer
c. 1995 Zevon Music BMI

Louise Gluck's "The Mountain"

THE MOUNTAIN

My students look at me expectantly.
I explain to them that the life of art is a life
of endless labor. Their expressions
hardly change; they need to know
a little more about endless labor.
So I tell them the story of Sisyphus,
how he was doomed to push
a rock up a mountain, knowing nothing
would come of this effort
but that he would repeat it
indefinitely. I tell them
there is joy in this, in the artist’s life,
that one eludes
judgment, and as I speak
I am secretly pushing a rock myself,
slyly pushing it up the steep
face of a mountain. Why do I lie
to these children? They aren’t listening,
they aren’t deceived, their fingers
tapping at the wooden desks—
So I retract
the myth; I tell them it occurs
in hell, and that the artist lies
because he is obsessed with attainment,
that he perceives the summit
as that place where he will live forever,
a place about to be
transformed by his burden: with every breath,
I am standing at the top of the mountain.
Both my hands are free. And the rock has added
height to the mountain.

--Louise Gluck


Thank you, AB, for the gift.

William Finnegan: Learning Curves

Here's a paragraph from Finnegan's excellent memoir Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life:

The ocean itself was another story.  I waded into the waves at Will Rogers, diving under pummeling lines of foam, thrashing toward the main sandbar, where the brown walls of the big waves stood and broke.  I couldn't get enough of their rhythmic violence.  They pulled you toward them like hungry giants.  They drained the water off the bar as they drew to their full, awful height, then pitched forward and exploded.  From underwater, the concussion was deeply satisfying.  Waves were better than anything in books, better than movies, better even than a ride at Disneyland, because with them the charge of danger was uncontrived.  It was real.  And you could learn how to maneuver around it, how long to wait on the bottom, how to swim outside, beyond the break, and, eventually how to bodysurf.  I learned actual bodysurfing technique in Newport, watching and imitating Becket and his friends, but I got comfortable in waves at Will Rogers.

--Barbarian Days -- page 71

Penguin Press, New York: 2015

Whiskey Friday

Or, The Devil Is In The Details

Body English:
sculpture mix; transparent brown and shino glazing.
20-minute exercise.

Swimming Around In My Head

Images from a June 2015 excursion out from Timber Cove.

Swell: Captive in Clay

The Captive, Unbound (Nisus):
sculpture mix; shino and transparent brown glazing;
copper wire, beaten.

Looking back: 07/18/13

Here's a link you may like if you like this shot--the full graphic-visual scenario--
"Surviving the Shipwreck".