Finally read, “The Shore Break Art of Clark Little”.   Couldn’t sleep after the dream of the riverbed.  Asleep, awake, tried to fall asleep again and here I am.

Crystal…the dream was crystal.  Crystal clear, impossible, under the water with the sunlight at the surface reflecting the smooth stones below…grey, brown, green…imperfect, translucent, escape.  In the dream I could breathe the water – like you can in a dream if you believe  you can.  Breathe deep, as time and the river’s current stand still.  Breathe deep, like Jeff Buckley, like Gambler Man, like Mark Foo, like my friend Denis Fontaine…and all the others lost in the waves and the snow and the currents, in oceanless, tideless, timeless deaths so far from warm sandy beaches.  Breathe, breathe the last breath and (tell us) see what they saw…awake.

Awake, cold, squint to the light of the bathroom, turn off the light and wonder to my waking self if I can see with my eyes closed like in the dream…down the hall, dim the lights, pick up some toys, put the DVD’s back in my little Kate’s favorite new toy the DVD rack she loves to empty while looking back making a very serious face turning her little head side to side mimicking Dada saying, “no, no, no, no…”, pick up Clark’s book and an apple juice and two hours later here I am.

I looked outside between the blinds for fresh snow and saw the windswept drifts on the back of the Silverado.  Morning will break soon to the sounds of bombs and 53cm in 3 days.  I rode my bike to work in the sunshine just days ago and found myself caught in summer dreams unpacking boxes: short shorts and tank tops and how cool is it that cut-off’s are back? (only longer this time…phew!)  I unpacked to keep winter from returning but two days and two feet later the short shorts, the spring, the boards, the dream, they will have to wait for now.  Breathe…

Into the white…I wonder where the shorebreak photo is in the snow? Where do you go to capture the Clark Little view of winter, of the mountain, of the white room? Does it exist? Maybe there isn’t one (even though I’ve been there I’m not sure it exists like the view of surfing a barrel – not that I ever have).  Snow is fluid and alive like the waves but unlike the north shore prisms bending light through water the snow isn’t something that you otherwise don’t see…it is white, colorless, the white room is just that, white.  Where do you go?  Breathe…

More on Clark Little…


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