Image by David Patterson

I must be buying into the hype. Definitely feeling the anxiety; Seahawks and Forty-Niners. There’s too much history. It says something that three teams from the NFC West are in the playoffs. There was no way it wasn’t going to be us against San Francisco or, maybe worse, Los Angeles. This is part of the reason I’m doing this today rather than after the… whatever happens five hours or so from now.

This drawing was inspired by a photo by RON STONER of BARRY KANAIAUPUNI, Malibu, 1965. I remembered seeing a video (film) of the stylemaster and power surfer executing a ride at Malibu, ending it with a perfect kickout-to-knee paddle. I was looking for a photo sequence of him (or anyone) executing an in-the-tube island pullout. When I compare my drawing with the photo… Tough with pen and ink to get an image as smooth and glassy as a Stoner photo.

Mike Doyle doing a STANDING ISLAND PULLOUT at Makaha. Photo by JOHN SEVERSON.

No one seems to have the island pullout as part of their surf repertoire. Along with a flyaway kickout, the island pullout was one of my favorite moves. Usually done from a crouch, one version involves (possibly) grabbing the outside rail and rotating the nose of the board into the wave until the fin pops out. The island pullout has largely been replaced by airs and off-the-lip maneuvers, those descendants of the 60s era ‘roller coaster.’ Nowadays, when I have to bail on my SUP; I try to fall forward and crank. It sort of works.  

                          UNTIL DYLAN LAUGHS (Not AI)

I haven’t had one of these dreams in a while. Dreams are meant to vanish, and most do; except that, these dreams leave an impression that is more like a memory of something real. I had one of these dreams last night.

There are several specific categories of these false memory dreams, some frightening, others annoyingly repetitious, each seemingly rotating in randomly, as if they’re on shuffle.

In the Dylan-specific dream category, I’m, and not for the first time, at some gathering in a dark room, a dining room or a motel room or a café. I’ve always had the impression that the location is somewhere up in Bakersfield or San Bernardino, though neither of these cities have been ‘up’ for me in many a year.

There are five or six of us sitting at a table, mostly men, playing cards in a lazy sort of way.  There is a woman, an unlit cigarette in her mouth, one over to my right. Dylan is straight across from me, pulling in a loose scattering of chips and a pocket watch.

“Lucky,” someone says.

Dylan nods and pushes the watch toward the middle of the table.

Others in the room are shadows in the hazy background, sitting on couches or leaning in toward each other. Over the muffled conversations and clinking glasses I can hear, vaguely, another woman, one I cannot see, singing. She finishes up a tangly, cowboy sort of song, her guitar backed by at least one other, with la la las rather than lyrics.  

Then silence.

Dylan is nodding. He looks to my right, to my left, then directly at me.

This is Dylan somewhere just before, perhaps, he took on the Salvador Dali look.

He takes off his sunglasses, squints, looks at his hands, looks back at me. His expression seems to be asking if I have something to say. Or ask.

He is waiting; but he won’t wait for long.

“I, um, It’s just that I’ve always wondered what kind of person can just… sing, sing in front of… I mean, even in front of a few friends… Not to mention… even more… people.”

There is, of course, a hush. Waiting.

Then Dylan speaks. “I’ve… I’ve just always wondered…” Dylan was mocking me. Had to have been. But he was smiling. His speaking voice, and I’ve always noticed this, is exactly like my brother Jon’s. There were some background chuckles. “I’ve wondered… how someone can just… show up… in another person’s dreams.”

Pause.

“You…  You invited me.

                          

It took a few moments, hiking up the beach, to realize this wasn’t what my brain said it was; a jetty where there had not been a jetty. Optical illusion. If it appears there are rideable waves; no, also an illusion. The log was jammed into the rocks during the recent KING TIDES. For now, it provides a convenient spot for celebrating.

LET’S look for something worth celebrating.

SO, The non artificial intelligence generated (so, I guess, real) illustration and piece on Dylan are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

NON-POLITICAL ERWIN- I’m going check into doing a second page. I’d really prefer to not get involved in all the disturbing shit going on, ICE-TAPO, GREENLAND LUST, PEDOPHILE PROTECTORS, HEALTH CARE FUCK STORIES, CONGRESSIONAL SURRENDER, SUPREME COURT DISFUNCTION, EPSTEIN SKIDS, FIRST AMENDMENT THREATS, NOBEL PRIZE REGIFTING, EGO STROKING, EPSTEIN, EPSTEIN, Yeah, shit like that. Not that I have any strong opinions.

And if I do, they are, thankfully, protected by the U.S. Constitution.