rewindstuff - Tumblr blog

[rewindstuff]

I’m trying to smash this notion I have that art and business are opposite... 

...that true genius is only found in art, and that cheap genius is found in rich business. Like yin and yang, there has to be a balance for both to thrive. Right? I mean, there are people who never let business matters rule the course of their lives while strictly adhering to the production of art. They live wonderfully productive and happy lives without the motivation of financial gain. Often, rather, it is the prospect of the enrichment of the world (or just sex?) that motivates the true artist...

But the businessman...the entrepreneur...I have rarely had a good encounter with someone who fiercely attempts to maximize profit. Because I’ve found in my experience, that it usually happens at the expense of others. The production of art (not necessarily the distribution or display of it) is usually a personal and private practice that is left to the “audience” to define. Perhaps it is indicative of a higher level of evolution or consciousness to escape the human tendency of using someone and/or being used by someone else to make money. 

The most fiercely independent “entrepreneurs” in my current orbit, are almost reckless in their commitment to not work for anyone else. Maybe thats the common thread between the two...a fiercely independent attitude.

Is the wealthy artist a true artist? 

Is the poor businessman a true entrepreneur? 

It plagues my thought. This kind of dichotomy. Or am I merely categorizing things that aren’t mutually exclusive at all? OR should I even waste neurons on categorizing things that you JUST DO. 

 #art #artist #business #entrepreneur #designer

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Moneyed Blankness

“a sensory reality that comes from pushing into the margins of this teeming urban morass and looking for a place between the cracks where if you’re lucky the pressure erupts into something magical. these days its harder to find the cracks. the city is in one of its moments of moneyed blankness.”

-lizzy goodman

nashville is a city rife with allure. its that allure that brought me to the city in the first place. but its not the same city now as it once was. the draw for me was the opportunity to be surrounded by other ambitious, eager, zealous, poor, and equally as creative weirdos like me. i feel as though that wave of people along with myself, created an underground that shined brightly in the depth of its core and was shielded, sheathed in a thick crust of mystery and an understanding that what we were experiencing was sacred. it was an extension of us. this is what we came here for. and now, that shell is cracked and the light inside is bursting into a realm of possibilities beyond our creative community. moneyed blankness is a description of nyc that i recently stumbled across whilst soaring high above the swiss alps. a good yin to the yang of my extreme desire to see and experience as much of the world as my feet can deliver me. perhaps its my gluttony for punishment or my mortons toe, but i can’t and won’t stop exploring. its why for the last decade, nashville has been such a haven for travelers and wanderers like me. its rare to feel home from a skyline, and for a few magical years, it was. now its a different place. the fuse has burned down to the money bomb and boy, has it blown up. we lit the match. and theres no stopping the flow now that the levy has broken. the allure of opportunities to make art and move people, to stir emotions and to tell stories has been seized by the ones who seek to profit from the culture we fought so hard to sanctuary. nashville has been branded and packaged. marketed and sold. exported and tariffed. and the rich keep getting richer. because thats their objective: to profit from an opportunity. perhaps thats the difference between the two of us art minded folks and business minded folks: how we see and seize opportunity. the motivation for me has rarely been money and has predominantly been opportunity. opportunity to insert my message, passion, and agenda every time i work, regardless of the return. that has taken great trust and relinquish from my collaborators, colleagues, and partners. for a true entrepreneur, if the return isn’t greater than the investment, its a mute play and they’ll go the other way because its all about the return. for a true artist, the return is immaterial and irrelevant, because it’s only about the investment.

i’ll love nashville again one day. perhaps when its on the other side of the country and on the other side of my consciousness. behind me, not around me. grounded underneath me, not hovering above me.

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I had an uncle whose alter ego was donald duck. when i was a kid, he used to make us laugh and laugh with his voices. but his best one was the quacky wacky donald duck. he really sold it to us. probably because he had a lot of practice. 

right before he died, and his donald duck ego along with it, he made my aunt swear to let it happen (she was an auburn fan). 

when he eventually did pass, at the funeral, all the pall bearers dressed up (every single one an alabama fan) and ushered my great uncle wayne out the way a true blue bama boy would: by his closest paul bear’s. 

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good stuff.

www.CVRST.com

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Atlas Motorworks Sportster Cafe

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Atlas Motorworks' BMW R75/5 Scrambler 

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I Fought the Desert… and the Desert Won

The juxtaposition of life against death, valley after valley, mountain top after mountain top, hasn’t stopped filling my imagination with wonder and awe. The best way, in my humble opinion, the experience the desert is on two wheels. Perhaps I’m biased towards two wheeled machines, but I find them to be as alive as I am, no matter the context. An instagram post is great for fuelling your ambitions for travel or even for inspiring you to embrace opportunities for adventure that exist at every intersection along every path. However, as instagram and social media becomes more prolific, you have to understand that there’s no way to capture or explain the beauty of the Grand Canyon, Death Valley, Joshua Tree, or anything mother nature has to offer via photos any more than a virgin can learn how to have sex by watching porn. The desert was the destination for Robert and I as soon as we touched down in Los Angeles 4 days before the annual Los Angeles to Barstow to Vegas desert ride. We rented two Harley’s from a rental place near the airport (mine was a Dyna Superglide Low Rider while Robert cruised on a Fat Boy) and loaded the bikes with our camping gear and what minimal clothing we brought and hit the road. The best part about LA traffic is the states allowance of motos to cruise between the stacks of cage machines…which is usually 5 vehicles wide and miles and miles long of creeping, gridded traffic. Most Californians are pretty good at moving over for the folks on two wheels and those that aren’t receive a well-deserved and swift kick to the door panel or healthy bitch slap to the side view mirror. Robert at one point saw a window rolled down and didn’t miss a beat launching his chewing gum squarely in the lap of the asshole driver who almost sandwiched us against the side of a semi. After an hour of that we were able to open up the bikes and exercise the 6th gear of those big dumb Harleys. Even though it was incredibly windy as we headed out of western civilization toward the Land of the Desert People, we were still working out our adrenal glands with triple digit speeds. We stopped for some dinner after the sun went down to refuel our bikes and our bodies and headed up the mountains toward Idyllwild, which is a beautiful small town about 6000 ft in elevation. With the sun gone, the wind still howling hard, and the quick rise in elevation, we were chilled to the bone quick. Cold and tired from the almost 200 miles of riding that day, we arrived to our campsite and quickly rounded up some dead and dry California cedar for fire fuel and set up our camp. I chose to sleep in a hammock with stacks of blankets and sleeping bags and as many clothes as I could wear. Laying in the hammock listening to the crackle of the fire, I could see the forest canopy above me. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the stars crept in every available gap between the branches. Robert and I had a chuckle at the thought of a pinecone falling smacking one of us in the face, but we stayed pinecone free the whole night. Darkness shrouds a new place in mystery when you arrive after nightfall, that much is clear. But when you immerse yourself in the journey, where you live for the next moment as much as the present one, the surprise of what you discover when the sun comes up will never diminish, only increase. We rode our asses off the next day and arrived in Joshua Tree right at sunset, which turned out to be, in my opinion, the absolute best time to experience Joshua Tree. As the sun went down, the oranges and reds or the sunset gave way to whites and blues and eventually blacks. The moon was only barely visible, like a thumbnail, which allowed for the stars to fade in quickly as the light of day was fading out. And the number of visible stars compounded with every minute that passed by as we just stood there and stared as the sky presented clusters of brilliant stars on very inch of the night sky’s ink black canvas. The Milky Way streaked overhead while Orion stood at ready, and the little dipper dumped out its cosmic contents. We slept in the desert and, like the night before, the morning brought a breathtaking view of the massive desert expanse from where we stood, to the edge of the mountains surrounding the valley… The next day we met up with the rest of our crew for the remainder of our trip. Most of us had first done the Barstow to Vegas ride this time last year and were severely under prepared. This year, we all came prepared. After a wonderful thanksgiving with Marina and Jon’s family, Jon, Chris, Will, Robert and I were as ready as we would ever be to tear the desert to shreds. However, I didn’t arrive in Vegas on two wheels like I would have preferred. In fact, I arrived in Vegas in a sling with broken bones. In the same way that no words can explain the beauty of the grand canyon or what I imagine space travel to feel like, no words can explain what it feels like to ride in the desert with nothing but the pack on your back and the machine between your legs. Riding a moto across an environment as hostile as the California and Nevada wilderness is more than just having a good bike, good gear, and good buddies. It requires your whole mind, body, and soul. The marriage of motos and desert is a transcendent experience and to achieve autonomy in the midst of that majesty is nothing short of euphoria. That’s why a debilitating spill is soul crushing. Towards the end of the second day, on a straightaway that begged for more and more speed, all the while spitting up more and more dust, impeding clear vision and clear trail sight; the desert decided it was time for my day to be over. I went down hard in some natual desert whoops. I lost control on a triple roller and tried to recover it but to no avail. I slammed shoulder first onto the unforgiving desert floor. My shoulder was out and broken. I gathered myself up off the ground and back onto my bike to ride 10 miles to the nearest gas station where Marina, Jon’s wife, would scoop me up and take me to the nearest hospital in Barstow. While waiting at the gas station I was surrounded by other LABV riders. I eventually convinced the guys to keep going without me. One of the support guys for a team of riders came over to talk to me because I looked, clearly, like I had been through hell. He said he was an EMT and could try and get my shoulder back into place. No dice. But he gave me a couple of Percocet’s and bought me a 40oz high life and said good luck. Marina scooped me up, no doubt bewildered at the sight of me with my right arm dangling in precarious angles and all percocett-ed out and swinging a half empty 40 oz bottle of beer in a brown bag surrounded by strangers more than willing to help load my bike and get me to safety. The first hospital gave me some strong drugs and tried to put my shoulder back. No dice. They referred me to another hospital in Vegas, and they eventually got it back in. The rest of the guy blasted through the desert with ease and after some celebration came to see me in the hospital bearing gifts and grins. I truly have some of the best friends. They got me through that shitty experience and even made it memorable. The best part is that the entire experience was shared among all of us. It was always about the desert. It’s always going to be all about the desert. The desert is the gatekeeper and the gate. The desert is the harbinger and the message. The desert is the landlord and every time you set foot onto her bone-dry soil, your rent is already three months late. The desert can be everything you imagine it to be but at the same time be more desolate and dead, barren and brutal as anything you can conversely imagine.

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Six feet from the edge. Addicted to it. The sweat on my face. The chill down my spine. The electricity that jolts up my side, down my arm, and through my fingertips. I've never been one to care about the maturity of an idea. The gestational period of a thought, from the time its concieved to the time its hatched to action, is but merely a process. A process. It has nothing to do with action. Or everything. But still. I'm here. There. Ready. And I can't get enough of the feeling.

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Theres an unknown element of life that the otherwise jaded, trapped slice of society will never know. We are the margins, the ones who stay true to self at the expense of brittle, universally accepted forms of comfort. It's there where we find our release, our identity. In the wind, in the cold, in the sweat, we stay bold. We get the glances, whether judgement of insanity or vanity, but we keep our eyes on the road ahead, knowing that what lies beyond is intent and desire: a world of freedom. We are the riders of the night. We are the two wheeled bandits, the band of birds black.

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It’s not the end of the line, But I should probably find, Another way. So open the door.

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You('re)

Part 1

You're in the city where you grew up. You have your favorite shirt on. Cigarette in your hand. All you can think about is how much you want to go home. To your real home, because after all home is where you think your heart is. You're late. But it doesn't matter; you're together. The smell of sex. It drives a part of you that transcends the illusion of primal instinct. Perhaps it's the feeling of the home you so desperately seek to dwell. Your most recent thought being on the probity of family, although your family hates you. You hate this place. The reasons span decades. You think about your school teachers. Your friends. Your first job. Your first blow job. What makes you, you. Him. You think you know him. What makes him, him. The look he gives that makes your stomach turn. Sometimes upside down. Sometimes, just a different direction. You're in the moment. In time, in space. Etched into the memory of your soul eternally. You're hot. Sweat dripping down the side of your face. You're on the run. The things you say have consequences. You never think things through. You're in trouble. You reach out for help. You're falling. Into darkness. No reference. A blank canvas. A time to weep. A time to laugh. But you can't figure out which to do right now. Your feet find solid ground. Your room. You collapse onto your bed and find that someone is already in it. He turns to you. Its him. The one that broke your heart into a million pieces, half of which you never bothered to look for. You embrace. A knife. You're bleeding. You look down. A knife. You take it out, covered in your own blood. A knife. You're thrusting it into the heart of the one you once loved. You feel the rush of the destruction of a once beautiful thing. Retaliation is the only thing you ever learned from your father. A bridge. You're running across a bridge. The weight of the world chasing you. You run towards a life you'll never have. You run from a life you'll always have. The bridge will never end. You're running. Into time, into space. And this time, it's real.

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strong and pungent 

tried and true

far, unreachable

black and blue

shape and form

frame and hue

frozen, contact

me and you

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Friday

8:32pm - Buffalo Wild Wings goes down

10:19 - BWW comes up

Saturday

Midnight - child-bearing pain in stomach

7:45 - more BWW comes up

9:22 - even more BWW comes up

9:23 - in the car for the emergency room

12:00pm - check-in at Athens Hospital near parents

1:30 - IV insert into one of my water hose veins

2:00 - drink 2 giant cups of sprite and radiation dye stuff

4:00 - CT scan

5:00 - confirm appendicitis

6:00 - prep for surgery

6:30 - appendix cut out

7:00 - awake

8:00 - hospital room

(every hour until i leave - vitals)

Sunday

1:00am - still haven't peed

3:00 - nurse asks dad to leave, brings in two more

3:01 - catheter inserted

3:02 - dad, only other male on the whole floor, asked to come back in

3:03 - 800 mL of urine drained

6:30 - surgeon comes in to check orders catheter out and bandages changed

7:00 - nurses change shifts

9:00 - catheter comes out, bandages get changed

9:15 - pee on my own, burns like hell

11:30 - walk down the hall

12 pm - go home

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I still study my dad. His face, his body language, his actions. The way he orders dinner in Greek. The way he tips the waitress for a crêpe. The way he responds to the strength of his coffee. I don't know if I do it because I've always assumed one day I'll be just like him or because I respect the man so damn much. Over the years I've gone from resenting him to barely bearing him to deeply respecting him. We can finally function in the same room. Most of the time. If politics are involved, expect the world to teeter on the brink of WWIII (more so than it already is, mind you). But we're friends. I truly enjoy his company and insight. 

I often wonder though, "is this the way it's supposed to be?"

I think so. I have heard many stories of abusive fathers and I'm so grateful for mine. He never was abusive. Provocative maybe, but never harmful. 

The more I look at my dad, the more I learn. About myself. About the world. About him. Some of it I like, a lot of it I don't.

But I'm slowly realizing. My dad is my hero.

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Chicago to L.A. on Route 66

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California is On Fire Again

I'm back.

And its on fire again.

LApping flames of brilliant orange and electric yellow into a baby blue sky with the hue of a 20 year old polaroid.

Like diamonds in a brush fire,

nothing is consumed.

Nobody knows how long it'll burn this time.

Here's hoping it'll last a lifetime.

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