It had been a perfect day. My beauty thirst was satiated, and I reveled in the sun that warmed my shoulders through the open roof as we drove, Michael McDonald on the radio. As we approached the coast, I could see great swaths of fog caught in the evergreens, their pointy tops tearing holes in the blanket of pearl gray. Not having much experience with fog in landlocked Ohio, I was pleased to discover that fog really does “roll”. I loved how it was constantly changing, revealing something new while covering up what had just been plain against the sky.

We drove through fog for the rest of the day, thick enough that we couldn’t see the ocean on our right hand side. It could be heard, pounding on the cliffs below, but we passed unseen through our own little world. At sunset we stopped for quiche, coffee, and gingerbread men; and we sat, staring out the cafe window, slowly feeling less irritable as we filled our tummies that had been growling since lunchtime.

The next morning, the surf was rumbling low across the dunes and the fog was still hanging low – dripping off the trees, sounding like rain against the tent roof. The air smelled freshly laundered and damp as I breathed; waking up slowly, savoring the hush of early morning.

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Squint yr eyes, raise your hand, seek the shadows. Pro-dubbed fog white cassettes with hand-brushed tape labels with hand-numbered full-color photo cover artwork, and wrapped with a hand-cut patch of  plaid picnic cloth, salvaged from the day. Edition of 30.

Blissed out improvisations to an old, mildewed reel of footage we found of stoked tube riding at Tehapoo.

Projected on a way-to-slow projector as the light burnt out in a beach shack in Parapa Village.

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In the city, if you wanna surf, you gotta take the A Train out to the Rockaways.

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Recorded along the banks of the East River,
with the city veiled under the mystic curtains of snow on December 20th, 2008.

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Found late Saturday night busking in the Bedford Ave L stop, we offered him a sandwich & some blue bottle for the chance to record him back in our studio. After that first bite of Marlow & Daughters salami, he was on.  We couldn’t even start the tape in time.  15 minutes later, the tape ran out & he ducked out while we were changing reels, leaving only a flittering scrap of paper with the name Salty Starshine.  We’ll can only assume that’s his name.  We were able to snap a picture, so if you see him around Bushwick, knit him some mittens & give him our thanks.

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Ten foot topaz waves pounded the reef 50 yards out.

The sky seemed in endless, improbable bloom; cirrus clouds here, rain showers there, patches of sunlight shafting down in between, creamy blues with mercury linings & the odd but frequent rainbow.

Behind us, a plateau of outcroppings draped with lush jungle, glowed with a myst of erotic post-drizzle shimmer.