french toast.

a study of aloneness.

So far way I am from the land where I was born.

Oh land of the sun I am sighing to see you. Immense nostalgia invades my mind. 

 Aloneness comes like a leaf in the wind and from time to time. You must catch it out of the air and hold on to it like the breast of a bird or the belly of a frog. Hold it and protect it. Shelter it and let you knuckles keep it safe from the Indian Ocean wind. Say “you’re safe now” — make friends. Take it out into the evening for a can of beer and paper plate too small to fit all the spring rolls. Then tell it to look up and squint at the stars until they become fuzzy. Then reach out your hand and rub your thumb in between the eyes of the moon. Touch it, flirt with it. Smoke a cigar with your aloneness. Play with it. Take it on an eastbound train. Make the woman with the green eyes breakfast. She likes French toast, you like French toast. Your aloneness likes French toast.  


last copies of cha cha cha.

This a bit reflective but while in Western Australia, gearing up for some heavy travel, I’ve been thinking of what I left at home. My dog is currently staying with family and I miss him dearly. I think I’ll dedicate some writing to him soon. He won’t care about the post cards I’ll send. More with him later. I also left some books at home at both Mollusk Surf Shop and Day Dream Surf Shop. These are the last few left out of 100 first edition copies. I do not have any plans on printing more so I’d be happy to find out if anyone is able to track down any of them. It was such a special project for me, traveling through Mexico City and writing in my journal and taking photos with my film camera. Felt light and graceful and reckless all at once. Stumbling down the street from the Mezcal nearly getting ran over by a bus and trying to do laundry in the largest city in Latin America. Locals laughed at my handle bar mustache and the bowl cut that were barbered by some of my closest friends after exploring some peninsula in Baja. If you can find a copy at either of those store locations let me know. It would be lovely to know when they land in good reading hands. Flying domestic from Tijuana is also highly recommended. I guess speaking Spanish is too.

Thank you Colin and Schuyler for taking photos of the book at Mollusk. I also miss my friends.


this very small van.

A few pages ago, before writing on this page, I spoke confidently about my wildest motorcycle dreams. A few pages later, I can tell you that I bought something with four wheels.

Giuseppe, a Sicilian painter, sold it to me for a thousand US dollars. His reason for selling made sense. Recently he had a stroke and a heart attack and was currently recovering. I asked him how he was feeling and if he had changed the oil recently. His honest and light blue eyes were full of hours of labor and wrinkles of youthful sea. He had steel grey hair and his pants wrapped sideways around his hip, causing an illusion of the asymmetrical lower half. His butt looked sideways. He said yes that he’d changed the oil recently and that he was planning to use the money I gave him to travel back to Sicily to be with family. To drink wine beside the brick oven his friends made for him so long ago. To see the flowers of his childhood lean into his island’s sun. He handed over the keys. We shook hands. The grip confirmed our endearing friendship. His hands covered in dry paint, mine in cash. In gear now, I reversed out from his home. I looked in the rear-view mirror into his driveway and saw Giuseppe standing there with his face, wearing a somber squint. Maybe it was the stroke, but his cheeks were saying goodbye. The back of the van is splattered with paint. Smears and spots rubbed on panels from the pants of those inside. Twenty years of swishing buckets, holding the handle while it drips over the edge. Dropping the roller on the wheel-well. Swerving the van, driving into the curb, spattering little white fireworks across the glass. This very small van, with the interior of a Sicilian working painter and the exterior of the thorough and simply dressed family man from Japan. I roll down the window. This region of Australia is blistering around noon and the sun can pause any great thing from taking place. Not today, not in this roundabout or with these hands or with this one out of five star safety rating. I strap on the seatbelt.


#3 from Hyde Park

And it is so,

That the well travelled man who is still; will watch the callused memories fall from his feet.

He may only travel again when the bottom of his feet are bare.

For bare feet hold this new mind.

It is with this new mind that will guide him, pressing forward into the earth.

And he must go to the highest rocks of his memory.

Until his feet become still, again.

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