medium scratchings

my sensitive is tickled by the delicious of influence. it all and surround. it is me and else. and, well.. words and articulations fly away to join the vague gatherings. the present nothings full of sensation saturate and resonant change. the quieter, the louder. the calmer, the more intense. subtle is integrity. simplicity is foundation. repeating patterns equal one, and solids become many.

this is what culture is a part of; this immensity, this happening that i find awareness to. the process and culture of anything is continuous and abundant. i sleep with it, i wake up to it, i enjoy it with moon or sun. and furthered time that filters through makes acute this awareness.

the street.
the “street” represents a more isolated abstract from the whole of cultures abound. the street is the breath of concrete, the nudgings of alley, the tenet of building. It is the sound of shoe on toothy grounds, it is the choice of path and treescape found. It is random and distinct. It is expanse and succinct. It is the workings and movings, the action and process. wheels turning... imaginative blankets of sky roll past into canisters of perceiverie. an exponential net working and living; existing, sound.
foundation of organic dynamic. hard and soft. earth to ore, iron to cloud. reciprocal softness cradling cerebralism that inspires a mechanism to manipulate and grasp, that reflects the activity of elemental cousins.

skateboarding.
the culture of skateboarding was initially introduced to me by my dad and, around the same time, random skaters crusin’ down the sidewalk with the tell-tale bip-bop sound of the wheels rolling over concrete seams. later on the culture was shared through the mid-80’s popularity. transworld skateboard and thrasher magazines and places like “the bare cover.” i had my share of powell and peralta gear, skate rags, rector, and my long lost tommy guerrero pro model in metallic blue. to fondly remember my first board for a second: it had not just a nose grab but a nose bone, ribs/rails, skid pad, copers, and a truck skid. eventually i had to rip all that crap off of there. it is my belief that the store took me (and my mom’s wallet) for a ride at the time. not only that but they tightened my wheels so tight that I couldn’t even ride the thing initially. i eventually got an elephant key, loosened the wheels, and then proceeded to knock the first wind out of me as well as bite my first bit of concrete. It was a nice little patch of grass that sent me flying. All these years later, however, I have not lost my love of skateboarding. i still only weakly Ollie and my pop-shuvs always make my ankles cry a little, but i love cruisin’ on a board. Finding hills or taking flats and gliding about. stop-rocks? Yeah, who doesn’t dread them, but scared of them? no. they are reminders to live fully, maybe learn to identify and heed certain dangers but then to let it all ride out. the only magazine i seriously and continuously will contemplate subscribing to is a skateboard mag. and i find it’s not really about the skateboarders, tricks, equipment, or writing, it’s mainly the street- the urban culture i like. “urban.” i shouldn’t isolate the feeling of culture i love to a word like “urban.” It’s more like “environment in the human influence.” though i do like nonhuman influenced settings as well. there would not be a magazine produced that highlights “street.” books, yes. but a magazine, no. but skateboard rags do that well, and altogether with the writing, the equipment, tricks, it makes for a great saturation of culture. an experience.

writing (graffiti).
writing or graffiti was introduced to me after skateboarding. it existed in the neighborhood and surround that i lived in. by the time i was in middle school and got my first big surge of energy for this culture, the graffiti in my neighborhood was already 4+ years faded. though, back then people didn’t go over each other and/or clean the graffiti up. most of the graffiti that surrounded me back then was up in places that weren’t so obnoxious yet still visible. it wasn’t until i was shelving a new book that my highschool library had just acquired did i really get the sickness for writing culture. i was a teacher’s assistant and the book was subway art.
the book immediately took hold of my imagination (or probably the other way around) and flew away into ideals and adventure and fantasy.
it is still this way for me today.. but then that is how many things are and have been for me.

underground.culture is the center for me. generally a rich culture is one i have found, stays underground. It can be cultivated but it cannot be pulled up above ground without hastened oxidation. the roots remain underground. street and especially pool skating as well as writing (graffiti) are fine examples of this.