The beach is the edge of the known world. It’s where land meets water, where certainty dissolves into chaos, and where you’re left barefoot, staring at the horizon, wondering if the tide is coming in or going out. It’s both arrival and departure, the place where Polynesians shoved off and where shipwreck survivors wash ashore.
To some, the beach is a playground—a carefree expanse of sun and surf. To others, it’s a graveyard of dreams, where every wave brings driftwood and debris. But for the surfer, the beach is something else entirely: a paradoxical middle ground. You launch from here, chasing the ephemeral perfection of a wave, but you always end up back here, wet, bruised, and out of breath.
The beach is life’s reset button. You can’t build on it—sand shifts, dunes erode—but you can start over from it. It’s the cosmic waiting room, the launchpad, the landing zone. It’s where the waves rise and fall, and where you, humble human, decide whether to paddle out again or just sit on the sand and watch the horizon.
This post is about the beach—not as a physical place, but as a state of being. It’s about what happens when you want something, chase it, and either don’t get it or, worse, do. It’s about the moments when you’re not chasing at all, when the waves come to you and you ride them, effortlessly, until they throw you back onto the beach.
Because no matter how far you paddle or how long you ride, you’ll always end up here. On the beach.
Desire
Desire is a signal, a wave-form interaction between the observer and the observed. The act of wanting collapses the wave into a particle—reality becomes smaller, narrower, and bound by your need to control it. By contrast, being wanted expands the field of possibilities. It’s like tuning into a signal you didn’t realize you were broadcasting, the universe catching your vibe and sending it back amplified, often in unexpected ways.
The nastiness you feel when chasing something? That’s the Chapel Perilous effect: the more you push, the more reality warps, reflecting your anxiety, expectations, and attachments. But when you let go and allow others to pursue you, you’re aligning with the wave, surfing it instead of paddling against it. This creates a feedback loop—mutual reinforcement between what they want from you and what you can authentically give.
We might also point out that the drop back on the beach isn’t failure—it’s the ebb of the wave. It’s necessary to rest, reassess, and allow the cycle to reset. The trick, if there is one, is to recognize that the beach isn’t an endpoint but part of the same cosmic rhythm. Financially, creatively, and existentially, the beach is just another place to start paddling out again.
To reconcile the beach—those stretches where no wave seems to come and the universe feels indifferent—with the paradox of collapsing wave functions, we might draw on a synthesis of quantum metaphors, existential humor, and pragmatic mysticism. The beach is where the illusion of progress evaporates, and you’re left with the humbling realization that no amount of paddling will summon a wave. Yet, paradoxically, the beach is also the stage where possibilities are silently building, waiting to materialize. The trick is not to fight the stillness but to understand it as a necessary part of the cosmic rhythm. Here’s how it could work:
1. The Beach as the Quantum Field:
In quantum terms, the beach represents a superposition of states—a liminal zone where the rules of ordinary reality seem to falter. Everything and nothing are equally possible, and yet neither feels within reach. The waves may seem absent, but absence itself is an illusion. The waves exist as potentialities, suspended in a quantum flux, waiting for the right conditions to manifest. But here’s the kicker: the act of observing the beach changes it. The harder you stare at the empty horizon, the more stubbornly the waves refuse to appear.
To reconcile this maddening paradox, you have to abandon the illusion of control. Stop fixating on the absence of the wave and start noticing the intricate web of possibilities woven into the stillness. It’s not just the empty beach; it’s the whisper of the wind shifting grains of sand, the faint glimmer of a wave cresting far out at sea, the subtle hum of something just beyond your perception.
Like a quantum particle, your relationship to the beach isn’t fixed—it’s relational. The field of potentiality responds not to brute force but to your willingness to participate in its dance. Wanting too hard collapses the wave function into a singular, disappointing reality: no wave, no progress, no joy. But stepping back, loosening your grip on desire, expands the field again. Suddenly, the wave begins to emerge—not because you forced it, but because you stopped demanding it.
We might say this is the essence of guerrilla ontology. The beach isn’t a barren wasteland; it’s a playground of mutable realities, an infinite canvas where your expectations and perceptions co-create the outcome. The more you fixate on “no waves,” the more you lock yourself into a dull and empty paradigm. But shift your focus to the subtle possibilities—the distant swell, the shimmer of light on water, the soft rhythm of tides—and you start to surf the quantum field itself.
In short, the beach isn’t a problem to solve; it’s an opportunity to rewire your relationship with reality. You don’t conquer the beach—you harmonize with it, dancing with the potential of the waves until they finally arrive. And when they do, you paddle out—not as a conqueror but as a partner in the eternal, cosmic rhythm of ebb and flow.
2. Laughing at the Absurd:
Existential humor transforms the beach from a barren wasteland of frustration into a carnival of cosmic irony, a place where the universe seems to wink at your confusion. Here’s the thing: the waves don’t follow your schedule. They arrive unbidden when you’re distracted, indifferent, or daydreaming—and vanish the moment you paddle out, ready to ride. It’s not malice; it’s comedy. The universe, in its infinite absurdity, loves a punchline.
Recognizing this doesn’t solve the problem of the absent waves. You can’t force the tide to rise with a well-timed joke or a philosophical epiphany. But it does shift your perspective. You’re no longer a hapless victim stranded on the shore, shaking your fists at the sea. Instead, you become a co-conspirator in the cosmic joke, someone who sees the humor in the futility of wanting and the strange beauty of simply being.
The beach, after all, is absurd: a liminal space where water meets land, where permanence dissolves into transience. Your desires—whether for a perfect wave, a perfect moment, or a perfect life—become laughably small against the vast, shifting horizon. And yet, it’s precisely this absurdity that makes the beach bearable. The futility of control becomes a kind of freedom. If you can’t dictate the waves, why not sit back and enjoy the ever-changing dance of light on water, the absurdly intricate patterns of sand underfoot, or the sheer ridiculousness of it all?
In embracing the absurd, you find a new role—not as a frustrated spectator but as a playful participant. The beach is no longer a dead zone of waiting but a surreal playground where you and the universe share an inside joke. The beach isn’t a problem; it’s a cosmic jest. Once you get the joke, the shore stops being a place of despair and becomes something far more interesting: a strange, liminal, endlessly entertaining stage for the theater of existence.
3. Mysticism in the Mundane:
Pragmatic mysticism reveals that the beach isn’t a purgatory of stillness but a living, breathing lesson in presence. It asks you to let go of your fixation on the wave—the mythical “something” you think you need to be whole—and instead tune into the infinite complexity of what is. The grains of sand beneath your feet, each a tiny fragment of eternity; the cries of seabirds that stretch across the wind like a melody written by the universe; the endless horizon that dissolves all notions of boundaries—these aren’t just background noise. They are the beach speaking to you, inviting you to participate in its subtle dance.
To wait for the wave is to misunderstand the beach entirely. The wave isn’t the goal—it’s a punctuation mark in a larger story. The beach, with its stillness and its rhythm, teaches you that life happens not in the moments you’re chasing but in the spaces in between. By immersing yourself in its quiet presence, you begin to resonate with its energy. You notice the texture of time, the ebb and flow of possibility, and the whispering hints of movement far out at sea.
And then, without effort or expectation, something extraordinary happens: you become ready. Not in the sense of preparation but in a deeper, more intuitive way. You’ve aligned yourself with the beach, and now, when the wave arrives, you recognize it—not as the culmination of your waiting but as a natural extension of your being.
4. Letting Go to Catch the Wave:
Here’s the ultimate paradox: the more you desire a wave, the more elusive it becomes. The very act of wanting, of clinging to a specific outcome, collapses the vast, infinite field of possibilities into a narrow, rigid vector, directing all your energy toward a singular, often unattainable goal. The universe, it seems, is less concerned with your desires than with the natural rhythms it already has in motion. The harder you reach for that wave, the more you end up gripping the air—disappointment is your reward.
But, and here’s where the magic happens, when you release the need to control—when you let go of the relentless grasp for the wave—you begin to expand the very field you once tried to dominate. In this surrender, you’re not giving up; you’re opening up. You’re making room for the unexpected, for the wave that wasn’t yours to catch but was always there, just waiting for you to stop swimming against the current.
Trusting the process doesn’t mean passivity. It means aligning yourself with the flow of life, embracing its uncertainties, and letting the rhythm of the tides guide you. In that release, the wave comes not because you forced it into existence, but because you’ve become attuned to the natural order of things. You’ve stopped clinging to the future, and in doing so, you’ve started to exist fully in the present—where the wave, when it arrives, is a gift, not a goal.
5. Recognizing the beach as Preparation:
The beach years aren’t a void; they’re the quantum superposition of potential outcomes, a period of latent possibilities where every path is simultaneously open and closed, depending on how you choose to engage with it. Just because no observable wave appears on the horizon doesn’t mean the system is inert. In fact, it’s likely more active than ever. These are the moments of recalibration, the quiet but vital intervals in between the waves, where unseen forces are at work beneath the surface. It’s a time when everything you could possibly be—every version of yourself—exists in parallel, waiting for the right conditions to emerge.
We might liken this to Schrödinger’s cat: the beach, like the box, holds the potential for multiple outcomes. While you wait in the stillness, your potential selves are alive and fluctuating, coexisting in a state of uncertainty. You are not merely waiting—you are becoming, in ways that are hidden from immediate view. Some of these selves are unwanted, some are the ones you’ve been chasing, some are the version of you that will emerge victorious, while others are the disappointed, disillusioned self. But they all exist in that quantum state, unmanifested, yet real. The art of the beach years is not about forcing one self to emerge but allowing all of them to coexist in a state of harmony, trusting that the next phase will reveal the right version of you at the right time.
The trick is to learn from the desert. In the harsh landscape where the waves seem distant and unreachable, you don’t merely survive—you adapt. You dig for water, you build shade, you practice patience. The desert is not a barren place; it’s one teeming with unseen energy, a reservoir of potential just waiting for the right moment to burst into life. Similarly, the beach years are not static; they are filled with the slow, steady buildup of energy, gathering in the quiet, preparing for the next wave. What seems like stillness is, in reality, a time of cultivation, of groundwork being laid beneath the surface. It’s in this space that you can gather your strength, refine your focus, and prepare yourself to surf the next wave when it finally arrives.
6. Shifting from Wanting to Playing:
When you want something, you collapse an infinite number of possibilities into one narrow vector of desire, focusing all your energy on that single point. This creates pressure—a taut string pulled tight with expectation. The more you pull, the more rigid and unyielding the system becomes, and the less likely the wave you’re chasing will manifest. Desire, in this sense, acts like a force that distorts the fabric of potential outcomes, narrowing your field of vision to the point of desperation.
When you play with desire—when you approach it with curiosity rather than desperation—you reintroduce freedom and uncertainty into the system. You step out of the pressure cooker and back into a more fluid, playful space where things are less rigid and more open to exploration. Life, Wilson would say, is a game, and the best way to play it is with a sense of humor and openness. Desire doesn’t need to be a heavy anchor pulling you towards an idealized future; it can become a thread you gently tug, a whimsy you entertain rather than a goal you strive for.
In this reframed approach, wanting becomes less about grasping and more about exploring. Instead of obsessing over catching the perfect wave, you start to see the act of waiting itself as part of the game. You move from being a desperate surfer, fixated on riding the crest of that elusive wave, to a beachcomber—a seeker, a wanderer. You begin to appreciate the process of looking, of finding, and even of losing. The treasure isn’t the wave itself, but the strange, serendipitous beauty of the shoreline you encounter along the way.
The beachcomber doesn’t expect the ocean to deliver anything specific. Instead, they walk the shore with an open mind, ready to discover whatever the tide brings in—shells, stones, sea glass, or even the occasional unexpected treasure. There’s no pressure. There’s no narrow expectation. The freedom comes from the realization that everything is already here, that every moment, whether it brings a wave or not, has its own unique value. And when the wave does come, it’s not something to catch—it’s something to play with. You move with it, ride it, and then let it pass, ready for the next one, or content to just keep walking the shore.
The game is less about winning or losing and more about engaging in the experience itself. The point isn’t to chase the wave to the exclusion of everything else—it’s to explore the entire beach, to let the uncertainty of the tide guide you, to treat every wave, every moment of stillness, as part of the larger, cosmic play. In doing so, desire becomes a playful exploration, and life itself becomes a dance of possibilities rather than a race to fulfill a single, narrow wish.
7. The Cosmic Joke of Getting What You Want:
Getting what you want can be the ultimate punchline, a cosmic joke delivered with impeccable timing and a wicked sense of humor. Imagine inheriting a castle, only to find it haunted by restless spirits, secret passageways, and an array of bizarre and unwanted responsibilities. What seemed like the culmination of your deepest desires turns out to be a sprawling, haunted mess of externalities you never even considered. This is the universe’s punchline, a twist that comes when you least expect it—because, the universe is always playing a joke on you, and it’s usually one you didn’t see coming.
The thing is, we tend to overlook this universal humor in our quest for control. We pin all our hopes on a specific outcome, assuming that getting what we want will bring the satisfaction and clarity we’ve been seeking. But in the quantum play of existence, once you collapse all the possibilities into a single, desired outcome, you’ve unwittingly set yourself up for the punchline: the outcome, when it arrives, is rarely as neat and perfect as you imagined. Instead, it’s a messy, complicated, and often paradoxical result that contains as much disappointment as it does reward. The castle you wanted is filled with ghosts and creaky floors—literally and metaphorically.
So, what’s the solution to this perpetual cosmic prank? Maybe what the Zen masters call beginner’s mind. This is the mindset of being open, flexible, and curious about the world around you, without the rigid expectations that come from preconceived desires. It’s about holding outcomes lightly, like a ball tossed gently into the air, with the understanding that you don’t have ultimate control over where it lands. By avoiding attachment to any particular outcome, you allow for the full range of possibilities to remain open.
Beginner’s mind doesn’t mean abandoning desire or giving up on goals. It means approaching life with the understanding that nothing is guaranteed, that the universe is fluid and unpredictable, and that every moment is just as likely to surprise you as it is to meet your expectations. When the joke lands—when you get the castle and discover it’s haunted—you won’t be crushed by the weight of attachment. Instead, you’ll be able to laugh at the absurdity of it all, to see the ghosts for what they are: part of the game, part of the cosmic rhythm. You’re no longer clinging desperately to an outcome; you’re embracing the journey, with all its messiness, unpredictability, and humor.
When the joke inevitably lands—and it will, because life, in its infinite complexity, is always telling jokes—you’ll be ready to let go. Not because you’ve given up, but because you’ve learned to embrace the uncertainty and absurdity of it all. You’ve learned that getting what you want doesn’t solve everything. Instead, it becomes just another part of the ongoing comedy of existence, a punchline you can laugh at, because you understand that the joke was never really about you in the first place. It’s about playing the game, rolling with the unexpected, and finding joy in the unpredictable turns life takes.
8. Embracing Cycles, Not Permanence:
The key to navigating both the desert and the wave lies in understanding impermanence. Nothing is permanent—not the wave that crashes with euphoric power, nor the desert that stretches endlessly in its dry, silent expanse. The wave always rises and falls; the desert always looms and recedes. This is the fundamental dance of existence, the ebb and flow that we must learn to move with, rather than fight against. We would likely frame this as a process of recognizing the patterns of life, rather than fixating on fixed outcomes or trying to control the ever-changing landscape.
In the quantum sense, it’s not about controlling the wave or the desert, but about understanding the probabilities that govern them. The wave’s rise is inevitable, but so is its fall. The desert’s emptiness may feel permanent, but it, too, will recede in time, perhaps to give way to new growth, new possibilities. The universe, like the wave and the desert, doesn’t offer static outcomes, but a series of unfolding patterns. Recognizing these patterns—and understanding that you are part of them—shifts the perspective from struggle to adaptation.
We might encourage you to shift focus from outcomes to patterns, from a fixed desire to the flow of the process. Instead of obsessing over whether the wave will come or whether the desert will ever end, the secret lies in surrendering to the rhythms of existence. You learn to ride the wave when it arrives, and you learn to sit still in the desert, aware that its emptiness is simply a precursor to something new. You don’t waste energy trying to force an outcome, because you understand that both the wave and the desert are just phases in a larger cycle.
By shifting your focus from individual, static outcomes to the dynamic, ever-shifting patterns of life, you open yourself up to the full range of experiences—both the highs of the wave and the lessons of the desert. The desert teaches patience, resilience, and awareness. The wave teaches joy, exhilaration, and release. But both are fleeting, and both are part of the same rhythm. Your role is not to control them, but to adapt, to dance in tune with their rise and fall.
Impermanence, then, is not something to fear or resist. It is the very fabric of existence. By embracing it, you shift your perspective from one of struggle and desire to one of flow and adaptation. When you stop trying to control the outcome, when you stop seeing the wave or the desert as obstacles, you begin to see them as teachers. And in this understanding, you find freedom—not in achieving fixed results, but in moving with the rhythm of the patterns that shape your life.
In short, the desert and the particle collapse are both necessary parts of the cosmic game. Reconciliation comes when you stop seeing them as opposites and start viewing them as complementary aspects of the same playful, maddening, unpredictable reality.
9. Riding the Wave of Being Wanted:
Here’s the counterpoint: when you’re wanted, the wave appears effortlessly, and you ride it with joy. In this moment, the universe seems to conspire in your favor. You don’t need to chase or force it; it simply arrives, like a perfect wave cresting on a calm, welcoming sea. The difference here is resonance. When you align your own energy with the universe’s natural flow, everything clicks into place. You no longer need to collapse possibilities into a narrow vector of desire, because you’re harmonizing with the broader field of potentiality.
The wave materializes naturally, as though it was always meant to arrive at this moment, at this precise spot. This is where Wilson’s ideas about synchronicity and resonance come into play. When you’re in tune with the rhythm of the universe, the very act of being in tune creates the conditions for the wave to manifest. Instead of exerting effort or focus on wanting the wave, you stay open, playful, and receptive. The universe isn’t something to control; it’s something to flow with. You don’t chase the wave; you let it come to you, trusting that when the time is right, it will materialize effortlessly.
This isn’t a passive stance, though. Being receptive doesn’t mean you’re sitting idly by, waiting for something to fall into your lap. It’s more about engaging with the process—about tuning your own energy to the frequency of the wave rather than trying to force its arrival. When you stop grasping, the wave no longer feels like a distant and elusive goal. It becomes something you simply meet, something that arrives as part of the natural unfolding of things. There’s a subtle difference here between effort and ease. The moment you stop trying to control the wave, you stop collapsing the field of possibility into one narrow option. You become receptive to the full spectrum of outcomes, and in that openness, the wave materializes without the need for force.
It’s as if the wave itself has been waiting for you to align with it, and now that you’ve found that resonance, it’s there, effortlessly, for you to ride. I this way, the wave becomes a metaphor not for desire and struggle, but for presence and attunement. You’re not grasping for it, not forcing it into existence, but rather allowing it to arise naturally from the interplay between your energy and the universe’s flow. The wave arrives because you’ve created the conditions for it, and you ride it not as a conqueror but as a collaborator, at ease with the flow of the moment.