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First Peak at my next surf novel: work in-progress

January 30, 2015

First Peak at my next surf novel: here’s a work-in-progress:
It was the thousand-yard stare. I have it. But add a couple feet, and throw in a horizon, some fencing, and maybe an occasional scenic view. It draws in youth. The ones who want have all these receptive and throbbing energies broadcasting flooding and overflowing within them as such a rate they can never dry up the flooring or put down new carpet. What’s the point? You’ll only have to do it all over again the next day. So, everything is left undone—dishes in the sink, kitty litter spreading out on the floor, a path of neglect toward the percolating future.

And there I sit, staring at the surf, long after the Earth has cooled. And I have that look and they sense it, The stare. I have had one shoulder blade down on the mat while death casually pressed me down, using my own gravity against me, and I restlessly stirred beneath him, not squirming but position for leverage because I didn’t have bargaining power. I can’t see him. But I can smell his warm and foul breath–the breath of an old man where his rogans are dying inside him, spoiling, his mouth an open garbage can.And that altercations rides within me, a backdrop I processed my film on. And the younger’s one walk around me, curious. They see the stare. They have that sense, this curiosity about experiencing the bottom so everything going through them has more meaning. I don’t want to know them. And they don’t have to be young either, there is a whole team of the disconnect, dragging a plug behind them, not connected to what around them. Somehow they see me as an outlet. Their outlet. But I’m not, there’s no room for them. I’m plugged in. They come closer with friendly smiles, talk about the swell, or ask about my session, and I nod, exchange a distant currency, and run away from them while standing still and nodding. And that’s where they know I see them from. They can’t go to where I am right now, and I have no complaints about that. I think no matter what people say or complain about, most of the time they become they people they want to be. And they haven’t gotten there yet, or are running away from it. Well, that happened to me early, and it’s late now.

So I paddle away from their friendly conversations to wait for an outside set, unable to hear their words, uninterested in their conversations where they are trying to convince themselves that as long as they’re speaking to someone else like them they belong here, and they don’t, even though they will be the first ones to tell you that they have every right to be here, and the ocean belongs to everyone, and who are you to make the rules, and if they can surf here who are you to tell them what to do. And I sit beyond them. They will watch my movements because they don’t know when a set wave is coming, and some will try to paddle to my left to snake the wave, but don’t realize they are lining up too deep and won’t make the section, others paddle in front of me and believe they can block me and take the wave because they’re positioning themselves in such a way I’d have to run over them to catch the wave, while others go inside and think they can cut me off. They’re wrong as individual, but when it’s a crowd, everyone loses. All of this goes through me as the waves roll beneath me as I’m sitting on my board, head down, fingers interlocked like two train car couplings, looking through them with my stare into the rising wall my eyes glazed with stoke and smiling and they know they can’t touch me.

What can I say? There are a lot of ants on the sugar cube, and sometimes all you see is another ant, and someone’s all the other ants see your butt, but I’m clinging to that cube and they’re not going to pry me off, even when I can’t see it, because no matter how they swarm over it, pushing each other out of the way, competing and consuming, I can still find it, while they push and shove each other away from it, and each time they attempt to grab the cube, their hands slide off because they always holding on to each other.
Yes, surfing is popular. Yes, every time a spot gets discovered it becomes ruined. Yes, there are surf classes ruining the breaks. Yest, there are beginners on disposable foam boards they purchase at box stores and paddle out with their entire families. Yes, wherever I go, I see where something else once stood. But I’m here, and what’s left of me is more than what remains around me.
SO thast’s why they come towards me. To see what’s not there.

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