Peter Behrens's Blog, page 480

Ow Canada! and the 1967 Malibu

This wasn't the guilty car, but close.



This CBC story came via Aidan Oneill:"A Nova Scotia man was fined more than $55,000 for not declaring repairs to a 1967 Chevrolet Chevelle Malibu he had fixed in the U.S., then brought back to Canada.Brian James Wheaton, 50, crossed into Canada at the St. Stephen, N.B., border in September 2013. He claimed he took the car to Maine for repairs, but said he’d decided against the repairs.Suspicious border guards took a closer look. They found the vehicle was transported across the border at Calais, Maine, moved to Chicago and repaired. It was returned to Calais, where Wheaton took it across the border.Wheaton was arrested and the vehicle was sent back to the U.S.Wheaton, who’s from Enfield, spent $137,185 on the car, including $85,000 on parts and services.Wheaton pleaded guilty in St. Stephen provincial court on March 10 and was fined $55,000 in penalties for failure to declare the work done on the vehicle.Had he done it above board, he would have paid $17,834 in taxes.“The Canada Border Services Agency reminds all travellers to truthfully declare all goods when entering Canada. It doesn’t pay to try to circumvent these requirements; the risks are just not worth it,” said Debra Thompson of the CBSA.

Jaguar XK 150 Santa Barbara

Saw it in the foothills on a foggy morning, heading up to hike San Ysidro Canyon.







 

1967 Plymouth Fury; Maine Surfers' Union; Tessa Green O'Brien

BB saw this mural, by Tessa Green O'Brien at Maine Surfers Union, a surf shop in Portland. I guessed 1967 Plymouth Fury- and I think I was right.

Streets of San Francisco: 1962 Comet; Land Cruiser; Audi Q7

from Chip Lord in SF:"These shots represent state of the art Auto San Francisco.  The 1962 (I think) Mercury Comet, with a spray can paint job,  represents the funky older ride, still popular will SF hipsters, but disappearing as rents go up all over town.  The Toyota Land Cruiser - I call this a car-within-a-car, could be representative of the Burner crowd - new, big, money and the perfect vehicle for the playa.  Finally, the "Fat Butt" Q7 - what do they sell for, about 60K$ ?   More new tech money and bad taste all around. What were the Audi designers thinking?  Maybe the marketing folks designed it to fill a niche in the SUV market.  This one is fresh off the showroom floor.   All three were spotted on my four block walk home from Martha Brothers yesterday."--CL
(There was a Mercury Comet for sale in Kamouraska, Quebec a couple summers back--AL)

1985 Toyota Truck, Carpinteria

We don't do a lot of Japanese trucks at AL, but the Toyotas of the day were nimble and sturdy machines, though inclined to rust, especially on the seam along the bed. Not such a problem in Southern California, though. This was a clean machine. Not too good on dating these but I'm guessing '85.
For a Mainer in California this time of year, it's all about the light. Carpinteria, 7am, booming surf, touch of fog, scent of coffee.

1945 Chevrolet 2-ton truck, Santa Ynez Valley

After the beach at Jalama and before the pinot noir at Los Olivos...spotted the truck at Buttonwood Vineyard, outside Solvang.

Jalama Beach & Whitman, The "Sea-Drift" Elegies

Both elegies  from Leaves of Grass, and posted here after a day spent at Jalama Beach with four of my closest friends....whenever I read/think Whitman, I usually go back to Larry Levis' poem Whitman.
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 
OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking , Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot, Down from the shower’d halo,Once, Paumanok, When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this sea-shore, in some briers,Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great Sun! While we bask—we two together.   Two together!Till of a sudden, May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest, Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appear’d again.Blow! blow! blow! Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore! I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.   6
Yes, when the stars glisten’d,Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me.   Low hangs the moon—it rose late;The aria sinking; All else continuing—the stars shining, The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, Now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake,Whereto answering, the sea,As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the
         land of the globe.

Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow
      &nb sp; those slender windrows,
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the
         tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.

2
As I wend to the shores I know not,
As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I
       &n bsp;have not once had the least idea who or what I am,
But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
         untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and
         bows,
With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.

I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
      &nb sp; object, and that no man ever can,
Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart
        ; upon me and sting me,
Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

3
You oceans both, I close with you,
We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing
      &n bsp; not why,
These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

You friable shore with trails of debris,
You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
What is yours is mine my father.

I too Paumanok,
I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
        ; wash'd on your shores,
I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

I throw myself upon your breast my father,
I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
I hold you so firm till you answer me something.

Kiss me my father,
Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring
         I envy.

4
Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)
Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you
         or gather from you.

I mean tenderly by you and all,
I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we
       & nbsp;lead, and following me and mine.
Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
(See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
         drifted at random,
Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out
         before you,
You up there walking or sitting,
Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet. Walt Whitman

Two houses, Eastern Promenade, Portland Maine

The Eastern Prom is the neighborhood adjacent to Munjoy Hill, though the housing stock is very different. The Prom has some enormous Victorian single family homes. Sea Captain houses. It was never considered as fancy a neighborhood as the Western Prom, on the other side of town, but I prefer it: the light and the views are better. The Eastern Prom more open to Casco Bay. Windy and  cold up there this winter, though.

Munjoy Hill, Portland, Maine

The Hill is the old Italian/Irish neighborhood in Portland.  Lots of three-deckahs. This version of the vernacular is not as common. Sorry about the wires messing up the image, but I thought the building was interesting enough to put up with them. Yikes it was cold in Maine last week. Been in the mid-70s since I got to Santa Barbara, though. Today we are heading up to Jalama; I think my favorite beach in the world. Will report.

1964 Chevy II wagon

This wagon had just made the trip down the eastern Sierra when I saw it in Santa Barbara. Nice machine and a great RV with room to sleep 2. Running a new-ish 283: this is Autoliterate's kind of car. Kind of a sleeper--not in the classic sense, its not gonna take your money racing in the street, there's no 409 hidden there---but a plain jane of an old American original that's not been over-restored or mangled but is totally, enthusiastically driveable. We caught the 1965 edition of this wagon (by '65 it was a Nova) last year, a couple blocks away.












able.