| |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
 |
| |
Interview:
Martin Strel
(Marathon swimmer) |
|
| |
Martin Strel swam the Amazon River (5,268 km) and the Yangstze River in China (4,003 km), he also swam the length of the Mississippi River (3,885 km). He did all this slightly overweight and slightly drunk. He has avoided piranhas, anacondas, crocodiles, stingrays and bull sharks; swimming unscathed into the Guinness Book of Records four times. He is the ultimate lesson in doing things when people say you can't. Laughing in the face of adversity, then taking a big glug of whiskey and diving in. Some call him the last true super hero, some call him big river man. Whatever the name, us mere mortals should stand up and salute a true mentalist and an absolute legend. He spoke exclusively to moon rocks about a life in the water.
|
| read more>> |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
| |
|
|
| |
The sea is hell on earth. |
|
| |
It was like something out of Mad Max on the back of that truck. Twitchy euro-boys, feigning confidence with ethnic trinkets and ill-advised piercings, wild-eyed white South Africans, apartheid-era cops in another life, for sure. And us. For us it was maybe more like a Vietnam movie, we were the fresh conscripts, unable to feign indifference to our fate. Something seemed a bit wrong about everyone. In fact the wrong was the situation, who wants to go to the bottom of the sea? We have no place there, but we were used to that sensation by now. As were the white South Africans i mused, maybe that was part of the appeal for them. For a long time now i've always kept close the immortal words of Harvey Keitel in Mean Streets, "don't fuck with the infinite" he said, and i've always agreed. And so it came to pass.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
| |
|
|
| |
Gone fishing. |
|
| |
Whenever I watch the sunlight flicker on the gloomy green sea I’m reminded of the dead and the distant. Old friends, family members and the loved ones that got away. I’m not sure why, I’ve never known anyone who drowned. It always just seemed more conducive to such reverie than looking up to the stars or even, god forbid, down at gravestones. In any case, far more appealing than worming a hook or the bloody slaughter of success.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
| |
|
|
| |
Diary of an
unkempt man. |
|
| |
October 2nd - Already it is getting cold. No Indian summers, no lenience this time. Outside I can hear the chill wind in the tall trees at the foot of garden. The freight trains rumble by and my home seems to shake a little more each time. There used to be foxes I could watch from my window, but I can’t see them tonight and, thinking now, cannot recall the last time I could. I never really noticed the end. They just aren’t here anymore. The gatepost at the end of my drive has become unhinged and creaks and flaps like a broken wing in the slightest breeze. I should fix it. I could fix a lot right now. I think I am unhinged. Do I flap though?
.
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
 |
| |
Interview:
Jolyon Hoff
(film maker) |
|
| |
Michael Peterson is a legend in the true sense of the word. His story is told and re-told around the campfires on surf beaches all over the world. In the early to mid 1970s he won every Australian competition available, he then went on to win the first ever international competition in 1977. He seemed to have the world at his feet, but he never surfed again. A combination of heroin and madness culminated in a 15 car police chase and incarceration.
Australian film maker, Jolyon Hoff, was compelled to make a documentary about such a hero. There have been preview screenings around europe and he has just finished a tour of the USA. He talked to moon Rocks about searching for Michael Peterson.
|
| read the interview>> |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
Gutterfucked. |
Lunar licks lure me to her inky spoils,
Where a watery wasteland of infinite darkness winks at me.
Deep within this purulent cavity
Where teeth and talon await my evisceration,
A violent sun is extinguished and, self-haunted
My anxious shadow is eaten alive.
Whither am I falling?
For no more I find her;
She, who held the sponge that
wiped away the horizon of meaning,
She, who murdered our beautiful silence
And let in only hate, fear and solitude,
She, who unchained the earth from its orbit,
And let chaos reign like a cancerous god.
As the urgent moon sucks me under her swell,
The centre is lost and I am burnt clean.
Viciously purged, bleached of humanity,
I breathe in this liquid elixir; blunted,
The knowledge comes with a terrifying velocity:
I am a cunt.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
| |
Whale dinosaur. |
|
| |
My soul is the water. Everything in my life flows like a winding river. Some parts are calm – the water ripples my reflection across to the riverbank, while other times its rapids are tearing through rough rock. Eventually I will make it to the ocean where my horizons will broaden.
If I were a wild animal I would be a whale swish swash in the ocean wish wash roaming the seas without any fear of my surroundings – I could really be free. I would be this whale at a time of the dinosaurs and eat dinosaur-plankton. I would have use of my hip bones, seeking food in the brush – barking, howling, digging – digging holes underground making it a place of my own, with my scent and my bones and then covering up that hole for another day when it was really needed. These bones will be covered in flesh – a fresh catch – to only decay in it’s newly dug grave to become a nice bone to chew on. That would be how I would keep time, you see? By the time on the land and my time under the sea, you see?
Maybe one week in the woods and the next in the ocean. Under the ocean I can swim in the dim water with an otter that knows secrets but cannot tell them because it cannot talk, but I know these secrets because I am a prehistoric whale and I can read minds.
My soul is the water, my body is the prehistoric whale – eating dinosaur plankton and digging up those holes.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
| |
Letter to the sea. |
|
| |
Pieces of eight in the jukebox...
Us, we, are mostly made of water, tides and moon move us, moons and stars guide us, rocks us, beacons warn us, rocks up at us, jogs us, - moonrocks...
So I begin, us, i - name itself means - "Son of the wave, born near the sea," It is shared with a poet and a songwriter and i would like to begin and end with some of their writings/lyrics and more known words than mine alone...
|
| read more>> |
|
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
| |
You have been watching... |
|
|
 |
|
|
|
xxx |
