The Endless Bummer

What is acceptable? This is the fundamental question of human existence. The keystone of religion, culture, action. What is acceptable. When the answer loses its predictability, the system throws itself into chaos. The resulting tumult, the very nexus of fear to many is, for some, the sacred ground of creativity. And what is creativity, but process? Last year, around this time, I bought a 6/5 wetsuit. This year, since returning from California in early January, I have yet to surf Atlantic waters. I haven't used that wet suit more than a handful of times since its purchase. And by handful, I mean two. A month ago JJ received his custom-fitted Japanese rubber suit. Antonio swears he is up to paddle out for up to an hour in his 4/3. None of us has surfed New York in 2oo9. Two Fridays ago I saw Mollusk Chris on the street. We made plans to surf that Sunday. I worked at the office instead. This last Saturday night, I saw Jack and Alyssa, fresh off the plane from L.A. for a month stay. Over a bowl of Brazilian black bean soup, Jack's eyes got wide when I admitted to my lack of surf. Later that night, in conversation with Mark , his eyes got wide when I told him confidently that "sure, of course you can surf here in the winter." I actually said that. My world gets thrown into the tizzy when I think about lost time, lost opportunities, lost sessions. You should have been here yesterday. You should have been here twenty years ago. You should fix your priorities. That special seizing of the chest at the sight of Doc Ball and Leroy Grannis photographs. That quickening of breath at the flash of a Ron Stoner snap. The inevitable heat rises, the tension mounts, my eyes dart back then forth. Don't let yourself fall into the trap of those fearful types, I tell myself. I insist I will live here in my moment, knowing that the quagmire of acceptability is for me to traverse on my way. Here, I find my Cartesian point of no return: excuses are unacceptable.