Personal Essays
Archived Posts from this Category
Archived Posts from this Category
Posted by karlmeyer on 27 Jun 2011 | Tagged as: Bank Row Writers, Personal Essays
Copyright © 2011 by Karl Meyer. All Rights Reserved.
Lunar Retreat
June 16,2011 Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â South Wellfleet, MA 3 pm
Half of the Bank Row Writers are asleep–or trying to be, on a sun-drenched June afternoon on outer Cape Cod. This June sun, bumped fully into the open by last night’s amber full moon, has proven a worthy obstacle. Coming on the heels of day-upon-day of gray spring chill–the intense June light, coupled with these glittering, sandy shoals, has quickly melted our Yankee defenses. We are relaxed. We are comfortable. We are drooling on pillowcases in the middle of the day.
Yet, here on this temporary sand spit that will remain known as Cape Cod for a time, there is a single, profound reality permeating the collective subconscious as we daydream; as we sleep. It is ocean; the awareness of ocean. It is the inescapable presence of the great water that links us all to this past, and this future.
Moon, sea, cloud, tide–earth is nothing if not a water planet–a wet, chaotic and wondrous place that has offered a foothold to random, organized collections of complex atoms from time to time.
Staring at last night’s brimming tide and spring full moon at Nauset, it seemed inevitable that we would come to meet at this place. Inevitable too, even for our three Bank Row comrades toiling at daily work a hundred miles from any tide–someday, not long off, their presence will be co-mingled with the same consciousness now holding us in its grip–here, today, at Ocean.
But for all, the question will remain; the puzzle will linger as the sea breeze presses through the fingers of whispering pitch pines: what’s to be done with this great consciousness? Is the mystery more sacred?, or were we shoved into our agitated awareness merely to solve one riddle, following closely on the heels of the next??
The answer to existence could be Ocean. The proper response to awareness could be awe. At this moment, half-awake under sunny June skies on the sands of Cape Cod, I can manage but a simple gesture to the full tides waiting to accept me: thanks.
Comments Off on Lunar Retreat
Posted by karlmeyer on 21 Aug 2008 | Tagged as: Personal Essays
Karl Meyer                                                                  August 21, 2008
Lunar cycle
I spotted it, the spotted newt, in the half-dawn, half-moonlight. I wanted to just skip it, forget what I saw, but it had bubbled up into my consciousness that chilly, mid-August morning. It was in the road, alive. It could get squished.
It was a pact I’d made with myself at some distant time: if it’s savable, and you can save it, stop. Reluctantly I slowed, swerved left, circled back and there it was—a foot from the white line. Unmoving. I reached down to gently pinch the burnished red creature by its sides with my seemingly enormous claw. I hesitated just perceptibly, thinking I might harm this tiny sliver of flesh. I followed through, half-expecting a small squirm of anguish that some red efts display. Instead, there was nothing. Just the softest pinch of puffball sides.
I had the little character, and without a fight. But, oddly, something went out of me when I pinched that creature and was met with something more than heavenly softness. Warmth. This fellow traveler conveyed warmth to my bumbly fingertips in the pre-dawn August chill.
It was an abrupt, disarming surprise—like a bucket of water in the face, only opposite. Warmth, softness, giving flesh where it is least expected. Cold pavement, hard road, unflinching full moon about to set.
And this. Red eft. Would-be salamander. Hand warmer to sleepless middle-aged guy. Hi hardly knew what to do. Reflexively I walked it to the edge of the pavement, dumping it, unceremoniously into cold, dew be-dripped crab grass. It landed, half flipped on its side, in the close-clipped blades. Unmoving.
I turned and reset my foot in the toe-clip, slowly regaining the momentum of this flat, pale moon soaked stretch. It registered then, too late, that the little guy had been drawing its warmth from the stored reservoir of the night pavement. I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Off balance, that was me—flipping a pavement warmed amphibian into the cold grass and then thinking I was of service.
“I’m way off center,†I remember thinking as I rode south past perfect rows of corn—the setting moon to my right, the orb of an August dawn to my left.
Posted by karlmeyer on 03 Dec 2007 | Tagged as: Personal Essays
December 3, 2007
© Karl Meyer
The snow writer
So, not meaning much but friendly on the glow of a half-dark urban street I feel compelled to speak—to make a joke as I pass, sheltered under my hood and carrying a canvas bag with a coffee mug, appointment book, empty lunch container; reading glasses. She has to move a bit away from the window to accommodate this passerby. “You know,†I say, “if you stand there too long you could get a ticket.â€Â I watch her face, she smiles, and I’m sure I haven’t made a mistake—about who she is, or the joke.