Category: Uncategorized

1000 words

to my camp…

if only they were each worth the 10’s of 1000’s needed to explain the circumstance, the scenario, the situation underwhich they were snapped.

a big bolt of gratitude to the treehugger massive for allowing me to lose my virginity in such good company. and special thanks to those of you who took care of my body in times of need, or showing me things in terms of mentorship. you know who you are.

its been a long & strange week. its at once both strange and perfectly natural for me to say that i thoroughly miss each of you.  i’ve known some of you for only the truncated calendar week we spent together out there. yet it feels as though i’m writing to my dear roommates from university.

i’m doing a lot of routine actions as if they’re for the first time.  i feel an overwhelming sense of pride in the accomplishment, after looking at it on a shelf for 10 years. and i’m not even sure i know what it is that i’ve done.

i understand & respect that some of these words, while familiar to your experience, may sound quaint and perhaps a little bit trite given your feelings about previous years’ trajectories in counterpoint to next years direction for the whole construct.

i found myself involuntarily giggling my disbelief & roaring my approval alone in open playa.

i repeatedly wept openly amongst strangers in my daily attempt to digest the temple offerings.

i held silent council with parts of my psyche i’d never before met, and may not hear from again until all these other voices become silenced.

i felt, in some ways, at some times, more mature and more of an aware adult then i ever have before (in stark contrast with the ubiquitous peter pannish reverie)

i listened attentively to the acrid bile of veteran burners performing their obligitory bashing of the institution that continues to define whole quadrants of their adult lives.

i rode an average of 15 miles per day and would argue i didnt experience but half the installations or a tenth of the camps.

and at the risk of waxing rutger hauer, i’ve seen things you people wouldnt believe.

but then again, you guys, of anyone else, dont have to take my word for any of this.

i love you more than words.

jump to a set of all my photographs from black rock city 2007

coffee table book containing choice selection of said photographs

is cloverfield godzilla?

from kevin:
Godzilla was released in 1998 starring Mathew Broderick. 
Could this be a remake (already)?

Whether there is still wind in the sails of the Godzilla franchise is certainly debatable.  Audiences love these films despite their predictable endings.  We flock to watch monstrosities go to town on large cities – where there is a clear unambiguous villain, but where Man is ultimately to blame.

However, JJ Abrams has a tendency to leapfrog the next level an instead take convention and formula to a place viewers have never been.  And once there, his viewers are never quite sure where they are let alone where this thing is going.  His craft is one of directing viewer attention inward, plunging them onto incredibly intricate plotlines.  We end up distracted away from our normal cinematic instincts towards predictability (of endings) and technique (visual effects).

In doing so, he may just re-invent the almighty monster picture, much the same way he’s re-invented science fiction episodic television.

Lots of people not talking.  Only thing people know for sure is that nothing – NOTHING – this big in that town has ever been kept so well under wraps.  There are big production shoots uncovered on both coasts confirmed to be JJ Abrams’ doing this film.  Across the board, each member if the crew, when asked, mentioned it was a production for a cheese commercial.  Nothing makes sense.  No clue ties in with any other clue.  I’ve stopped monitoring the blogs because of how far-fetched the clue analysis has gotten.  Its impossible to suss-out salient points due to this signal-to-noise ratio.

But if you’re interested, I have found SLASHFILM to be about the best repository of creditable rumor, non-news and leaks about the film.

http://www.slashfilm.com/tag/cloverfield/

regarding hells kitchen

This show is the lowest form yet.  A whole generation of impressionable viewers will be conditioned to think that in order to be a top anything, you must expect & tolerate abuse from those in a position to mentor.  Its sick.  Its perpetuating a Reign of Assholes.  That aggression & abuse is an acceptable means to an end.  

And viewers file it as entertainment.  

I never thought I’d miss American Idol.

good deed

On any given day, my faith in karma will either be high or near immeasurable. I suppose it depends on mood, time of day, how kind the shuffle on the ipod. But for the most part, I believe that things we do that are deemed to garner good karma are nothing more then good decisions. That, when faced with an either-or decision, doing the right thing can set off a gentle chain reaction of good vibes. I feel these good vibes (what Kevin calls energy) are mildly contagious. Contagious insomuch as they act as grease for paying shit forward. While the moments immediately preceding these decisions can be felt coming, there is rarely time to dwell upon them once they hit. They are immediate snap judgments that occur as if on auto-pilot. Which is why riding the aftershock is so pleasurable.

I had just gotten off the #45 one stop too early: on the corner of Baker & Filbert. I needed to head towards Chestnut & Lyon gates of the Presidio, and inwards to dinner at Pres a Vie. But I didn’t know the #45 would hook a left onto Filbert and take me even closer. But so what? I had Peace Orchestra thumping in my ears and it was a gorgeous fucking day to walk the remaining 3 blocks.

No sooner after heading up Filbert towards the late afternoon golden, did I see a familiar-shaped piece of paper on the ground, half-wedged under a garage door. Leaning down to pick it up confirmed it as a personal check. Turning it over confirmed the arrival of those moments just prior to making one of those great decisions. Here I was holding a personal check hand-written out to one Victoria Ford Greeley, in the amount of $4000.

As if on cruise control, I began to go thru the motions of inspecting the check, inspecting the ground from where it came, again inspecting the check, looking around for anyone either watching me pick it up or looking like its owner. I’ll admit that for a split second, my mind danced at the notion of starting the month of July $4000 wealthier. But this wasn’t cash. This wasn’t supposed to be here. And most importantly, this wasn’t mine.

The check lacked a Payor name, but there was the address of 2900 Baker Street, San Francisco. Looking up at the corner street sign, I was 2 doors away. The right thing suddenly because as easy as alerting someone that they’d just dropped their hat. Now, I actually wished someone saw what was going on.

So here’s 2900 Baker Street, this rather large mansion on the corner of Baker & Filbert. Sweeping the wrought-iron gate & walking up the steps, I am wondering how this is going to appear to whoever opens that door. Do I leave it in their mailbox? Do I just stick it in the door sash? What if it blows away? What if the check doesn’t want to go home? Just ring the bell & knock the door.

Wait. Those old-school bass-chimes for a doorbell: bing-bing-bing-bong, bong-bong-bing-bing. Shadows & movement thru the heavy glass on the front door reveals an older woman in pearls. This is her home, and this is a strange sweaty man at her door. But she opens the door and in a suspicion tone, imparts that half-answer, half-question universal to strangers meeting strangers: “Yes?”

“Is this 2900 Baker Street?”

“Yes…?”

“I found this floating up the street” I said, holding up and handing the check to her,

And just like that, it registers between us what has just taken place. Her guard shoots down in a wash of wide eyes and a half-gasped “Thank YOU!” I know in the pit of my stomach that i’ve done the right thing.

And before I can telegraph what my mind & body are going to do next, I swivel around and slowly walk back down the steps, fishing for my earbuds.

“That was SO very nice of you!” she said quite louder then any of her past 4 syllables.

“YOU are VERY welcome” I replied as the cool groove of Peace Orchestra came back up & over me.

gods shown from behind so much cumulous

 

this video was shot as it all happened: on our way to a vinyard resort in the hunter valley, north of sydney australia.

we’d taken our damn sweet time noodling up roads of varying thickness, thru little towns and farmlands of staggering breadth.

but here we were, on an earthen road having long since left the smooth of tarmac.  winding our way through a hinterland that our maps continued to confirm was the correct way.

i look at these shots now, seven plus years on, and i wonder how i kept myself calm amidst the convergence of so much beauty.

this was our honeymoon… the sky was doing… this fracking THING with the clouds & sunrays… and then thomas newman (sisters) comes on and its just all too much for me to bear. seven years on.

egypt saved my life

there was at least a dozen of us on our knees in about 20 feet of water.  we formed a circle all facing each other waiting our turn.  when it was our turn, the dive master would face us & point at us to start the exercise.  each of us had to ditch our mask & hand it to the buddy next to us.  then, after taking a full deep breath, we completely striped out of our BC & tank, let it fall to the sand behind us, then remove the regulator.  fish out of water.

more about practicing calm in awkward situations, the exercise had to all go as i had practiced in class most of that week.  and all within that one last breath.  this all had to happen smoothly and calmly:

get handed back the mask.  put it on.  replace the water within it using precious air out your nose.  remain calm.  turn around.  pray tank hadnt drifted too far.  scramble to grab tank straps.  thread arms into the BC.  remain calm.  complete the fastening of the buckles.  do wide slow flails of your right arm for the regulator.  reg back into mouth as you sign OK to the dive master.

except on this run, the one counting towards my Advanced Open Water, as i was fastening my BC & reaching for my reg, i gave the OK sign a bit too early.  the dive master moved clear to the other side of the group circle as i realised the reg wasnt there.  remain calm.  reach behind and locate the hose from the tank.  its caught.  cant see it.  pull.  no joy.  pull harder.  no joy.  remain calm my ass.  the high pressure seal of panic begins its bleed.  

the rational thought patterns that exist were i to reamin calm are swiftly dissipating.  had i exercised then what i know now sitting here 20 years later, it all would have been ok.  i would have scrambled to the center of the circle instead of remaining far outside it where my tank & BC drifted to.  i would have reached for the octopus.  i would have tapped my buddy for his octopus.  i would have done some fucking thing other than continue to tug a high pressure hose wrapped around my belt.

as i wonder why i didnt do more to help myself, the same steam fuels questions as to why the dive master didnt personally confirm i had completed the exercise completely.  why he acknowledged a 15 years old kids OK-sign over the visual confirmation that the child was safe.  but fuck that.  it was my excercise.  it was my life.  i was my own ward.

either way, either over the course of the exercise without air or during the struggle that consumed the end of it, my lungs were empty & all i could do was scream, exhausting anything i had left.  the last remaining impulses i recall were simply to pull harder & harder on the regulator.  time began to move extremely rapidly as panic increased and unconsciousness approached.

and then the searing pain in my mouth as a regulator is rammed in full-force.  egypt.  his familiar face is right there.  6-inches in front of mine.  eyes as wide as saucers.  he’s more or less screaming both with as well as at me in a storm of bubbles.  i am a ragdoll.  we rise.  his face never leaves my personal space.  as we reach the surface, the child in me washes over and begins to sob, competeing with the young man who doesnt want the mistake to flunk my certification.

people surfaced for all sorts of reasons during any of the dives.  for whatever reason, this severe incident didnt seem to garner any appropriate reaction from the dive master or camp officials.  it simply happened.  it was in the past and a camp-wide non-issue before i had time to think critically about what occurred.  it was as if it took place only between the two of us.

this distant recollection, for reasons i cannot describe, are all of a sudden fresh in my mind.  so much so, it has prompted the creation of this single-page internet dragnet for the man i honestly believe saved my life that afternoon in 20 feet of california coastal waters.

these were the early teens, when i attended a scuba camp on catalina island called CIMI (catalina island marine institute).  this dive camp was located a short boat ride north of avalon, in a little bay called toyon bay.  the camp wasnt too big, prolly about 100 to 150 kids whose age ranged from about 12 to 16.  16 was the oldest age for campers, with counsellors were only slightly older than that.

here at CIMI & around toyon bay, they would teach all sorts of activities relating to the sea.  icthiology class with subjects & specimens pulled straight from the waters 40 feet from the classroom.  basic and advanced seamanship classes, complete with state of california certifications. underwater photography.  sailing.  marine biology.  almost everything under the summer camp sun.

but the main draw of this camp for me & most of the others was the scuba diving.  CIMI would take you as young as could be certified, and train them in the ways of scuba diving.  the training was so extensive, that one could only hope for one level of certification per summer.  you began with your basic open water.  and next summer, you got your advance open water.  all the way up to divemaster and all the specific training sessions inbetween (uw navigation, uw photography, rescue, night diving, etc).

so, i went to this camp for at least 3 summers, starting when i was 12 in 1983.  i may have gone 4 summers, but am not sure. this feels like it occurred on the last year I attended.

anyway, on that last year, there as a counsellor named EGYPT.  he was about 6-foot with dark hair and a dark mustache.  i always thought he looked like a young Bruce McGill, the actor who played D-DAY from the movie Animal House.  as i was only 15 or so, egypt seemed much older than i was.  which meant he was prolly only around his early to mid 20s.

i remember desperately wanting to bond with this guy after the incident.  he was so cool all by himself.  so to have him save my life in so clear yet so subtle a way was mind blowing.  i cannot recall if we ever spoke about it afterwards.  time has a funny way of obscurring the details of even the most traumatic events.  the prelude and follow-thru to those events become even more foggy.

but here i am, a good 7-days deep into an almost obsessive bout of recollection about the event.  much of what i remember i trust to be true.  however, 20 years on, i am compelled to get in touch with egypt and plumb the uncharted course of reconnecting with such a person.  was egypt his real name?  would he recall the event with the same gravity as i remember it?  

i have exhausted all the forward-thinking googling techniques i have in my arsenal in trying to find him.  hopefully, the keywords indexed above will provide a conduit for a long overdue handshake and heartfelt thanks.  

COMMENTS

2008_0101

I remember Egypt. His real name was Robert Scully or Sculley. I was a camper there 84-88 or so … We probably knew each other but my memory isn’t so great.

When I was looking for colleges to go to, I stayed at Egypt’s frat house for 2 nights in Long Beach – he was a student there at the time, this was 1988 some time. He was a really nice guy and while he never saved my life he certainly gave me a lot of good advice at an age that can be difficult for many of us.

If you get ahold of him let me know. I wouldn’t mind writing to him either.

Yours
Joshua Lurie-Terrell

holy fracking shit!

from moment to moment, i brush it off as just another one down in that long list of fifty-something rockers who decide to bury whatever hatchets and go back out on tour. but then, i am reminded of the nostalgia surrounding this bands internal feuds.

i recall how at the height of stings 1990s popularity, that it was stewart copeland that was the bad seed and couldnt get along. but then, time went on, and simple resurgance of interest in the back-catalogue feuled interest in why men of such synergystic genius werent still banging out anthems.  why?

consider how well U2 brought a very large and alienating ZOO vessel back on course to produce their best studio album since Unforgetable FIre. their VERTIGO tour, for its size, was fucking breathtakingly effective. almost surgical in its ability to carve life into musical reminders that, amidst two towers down, and two wars, and the poverty their pricetag could erase, and ubiquitous shallow self-promotion, amongst all that craaap…. that CARPE DEUM is never more than an arms length away.

its called song-writing.

its called inspirational music.

anyone can get out there and be passionate and emotional. problem is, we’ve grown to confuse enthusiasm with talent.  we almost crave those without talent for the sheer entertainment value of creulty.

the police were not just at the right place in the right time.  they spun a top in the 80s that never stopped spinning.   those who can listen can hear their influence in well over half of what passes for cutting edge music these days. 

sting more or less proved his acumen at crafting epic sonic tales for generations to come.  the police reunion, though, seemed doomed in my mind. a feeble wet dream adrift in a sea of musical mediocrity.  i distinctly remember having conversations where i was willing to bet my pinky toe that i’d get to see a SMITHS reunion before i saw THE POLICE.

well, here we are. Morrissey has a thriving career, which no one can doubt will come first over that sake & sushi dinner with Marr or Rourke or Joyce.

but what both frightens me and emboldens me is the prospect of a fresh POLICE studio release. i sincerely want to doubt that these old gits are more motivated by the seven-zeros at the end of the contract then they are by what musical journey might lie ahead. and for that, they might tolerate whoever the other bandmate has become after all these years. (are the wives friends?)  we’re not talking seperate tourbuses. we’re talking wholly seperate entourages on different air carriers.

but if it works out. if whatever fucking magic of music-making they shared back then is still arcing and able to be kindled into flame after all this time. man, i’m hoping there might be something on the other side that’ll make sense & get me some Hope.

san francisco ferry building

ever since i began to shoot digitally, i have been fascinated with the rapid feedback & rewards from a long exposure with night lights. but i can show you film negs from the 80’s where i was doing the same in 6th grade photography class.

i began to get better at it. an ability to determine which lights would work better than others. wether there was too much ambient light so as to produce less-than-blacks. i was inspired by clickybd and the terrifying crazy camera tossers.

but i came to learn that my style, to coin a terms from clickybd, was called “kinetic photography”

jump to my set of kinetic photography

this is far & away one of the better shots from the study.

thanks bruce!

 

bruce, out of frame camera left, kept buying these blue suger shots for the entire bar all night long.  while it wasnt packed, there were a cool bakers dozen in there.  and he bought about 7 to 10 rounds.  nice guy.  big guy.  someone mentioned me might have played pro ball.

and while the video doesnt go there…
funniest. bartender. ever.

jump to a set of photographs from this weekend