Shitty cell phone photography of shitty waves

The best time for poetry is after midnight. The best time for surfing is the arse crack of dawn. Hence, I've got nothing to show, at present. The wave obsession is currently running hard. I'm trying to read Catch 22 but instead I'm waking up at 4am in the pursuit of waves, most of the surfing milieu, even those that pretend to get off on junk surf, would dismiss. Sometimes, during the good times, the right times, one finds a sense of synchronicity in all aspects of life. The art you consume resonates with current events in your life or your mindset. I read that great chapter in Catch 22 last night where Milo bombs the shit out of his own camp, because he has a contract with the Germans and free market opportunity reigns above all else, even the lives of your fellow countrymen. It is absurd but is obviously a comment on the realistic causation of wars, especially in this day and age over half a century later. I hide from Libya, Syria, Bahrain in the Doug Fir trees or I duck dive under silty murky cold water. The next day, the water is warm and clear again. It is so unpredictable at the moment.Last night, I was in bed before sunset and read more of Catch 22 because I can only justify reading before going to sleep but then I sunk into a deep sleep before I had read enough to really feel like I'd read anything.I'm laying a stone path around my house. It is an easy puzzle to busy the mind with and get a little sun-burn on the back, gently taxing the muscles, while listening to the buoy reports on the weather radio. I'm not sure where this path is going to lead to. I've cut a few fingers laying the stone, while arranging this improvised jigsaw to wherever it is going but there is a destination, I think.