The Ocean, at Night

There's something about a girl's hair when she runs naked through the surf, splashing through her lunar-shadow, frolicking in the cool night air. Arms crossed, I stand and watch, as she, silhouetted against the almost-full moon, skips through the white foam.

Then she turns and races into my arms.

Her fingertips leave dog-print patterns in the wet sand as she kneels before me, hair blowing in the breeze, skin glowing in the moon. The full kinesthetic experience surrounds us, embraces us, chills us, supports us, as we look around enjoying the view--almost hoping for a wayward observer. Behind us, the ocean crashes and broils, as it has for umpteen years, and as it will for eons--no matter what we do to it, no matter what we dump in, harvest from, spill on, or take away--as long as there's a moon to guide its ebb and flow.

When it's done, she slowly stands, sighs, and shuffles toward the waves, bow-legged, rinsing herself, cleansing herself, giving herself and me to the saltwater from which we came in bygone eras. A sacrifice of innocent proportions, unmarred by dogma or rite or law or sanctimony.

The tide wraps around her knees, as she stoops and splashes, digging her toes into the sand--or are those my toes burrowing in, up here beyond the reach of the water? I stand and watch, proud, happy; feeling something more than myself. She jumps and stomps both feet down, hair wild in the wind, arms flung out for balance. Wisps of clouds caress the moon, and the surf thunders over all.

Arm in arm we stumble home through loose sand and fragments of shells, as behind us, the ocean reaches out and calmly erases our footprints, knee craters, and elbow grooves. As if we've never been there. As if we weren't there now.

4/18/10

It's a log. Just a piece of wood, stripped of its bark and drying imperceptibly in the cool air. Once a growing thing, grains and veins flowing with water and life—now cut, sectioned, and alone. Just a log.

But then take a closer look, maybe squinting, and there's something else. A promise. A shape. It carries its own inspiration, and suddenly the tools on the bench vibrate with magnetism, crying for help: use me! Gouge, shave, and trim. Caress the shape from its hiding place; encourage the intrinsic design; open the doors whose outline is only just visible, and only to the seeing eye.

Curls of wood bloom and fall, liberating themselves from the amorphous whole and leaving behind footprints to what's hidden within. Bit by bit, shave by shave, the path spreads out, and there's something vague on the horizon, something coming into focus with the gnarled patience of its willow-tree former self.

This dip too shallow, this angle too steep, this knot rounded down, this edge softened up. The hush of sharp steel, the grunts and tuts and low whistles of exertion and complete absorption.

Shavings tumble and catch on hair, knee, knuckle, and carpet, hanging on to watch the birthing. There's a song, a vibration barely perceptible above the wind; a sort of keening that surrounds the scene in a concentration of focus and dedication of the senses.

A droplet of sweat turns a woodchip into a reservoir. Another splashes a tear in a newly formed eye, winking up and wondering at its place in the universe, an unattached piece of awareness, seeing but not yet registering.

Some careful wiggling with the tip of a knife, and sinuses are cleared. A lip curls into a slant. A chin appears, gouged into a pointed goatee, jutting forward. Sandpaper rubs a healthy glow in the cheeks. The nose wiggles—something's not quite right...

There. That's better.

Outside, shadows lengthen—but overhead, the light is steady. Creating in a created world, all the more real for being imagined. The light catches mistakes and reveals improvements. Shavings peel back from cheekbones and jaw, curving around ears and swirling into patterns of hair. An eyebrow arches, a brow lowers.

And then the sound changes. No longer the steady buzz of concentration, distinct noises murmur free with each slow slash, filling the air with burbling attempts at communication, rough-hewn words of anticipation and...something else. Something frightening.

What is it, that's trying to get out? And what happens if it finally does? Another notch across the grain, and a sharpening of the nose. The wood is warm, hot. Flaws melt away like wax, joining a discarded pile on the floor, and pulling away more and more of the wooden bonds that have kept this visage shrouded for so long. It's just a log...

Eyes narrow. Tools move on their own. A pulse. Breath. A voice. Hollow sucked-in cheeks and pale glowing eyes. Breathes in, and the carver withers slightly. Exhausted, he flags—but the wood whispers MORE. A veiner scoops out a furrow in the brow, and a sweep hooks the ear. All the better to hear you with...

The figure gains vigor as the carver huddles forward, panting and shaking. RELEASE ME cries the figure—just a log!—and despite himself, the artist peels wood back from the neck, strengthening muscles strained in twitching eagerness to be freed.

No more, please, no more, whispers the exhausted creator. You aren't what I meant to create. Not what I expected.

Then bows forward until foreheads touch with a surge of something like understanding, or a crackling acquiescence.

A moan of triumph, rattling windows and stirring the heap of shavings, unheard by the slumped artist whose tools clatter from unfeeling fingertips. Splinters and chips fall free of sweater and corduroy, joining the pile, waiting for broom or spark. The fiercely grinning face tilts and falls, cushioned by the remnants of its disintegrated cage, no longer supported by the rough hands of the carver, staring at the scuffed side of a shoe, unable to turn and look at its world or remove itself from the remains of its former cell. A shriek of anguish, and a scene frozen in time, susceptible only to further decay without the help of its creator. It's just a log.

Beach-House Reunion, Outer Banks (OBX), NC

One Fourth of July
Paul D Blumer

A fat yellow sun loitered at the edge of a wood-slat fence around the pool, understandably dawdling at the approach of evening. The heat had mellowed out, leaving us decorated with streaks of sea salt, patches of scarlet skin, and deep eye-wrinkles from laughing at the burning orb as we rinsed the ocean off in the pool. The idyllic summer vacation.
Just minutes ago, we were gathered around the deep end of the pool, watching Nate streak back and forth, working to break his own record of three lengths with no breath. This is what we do. Compete to survive. If you can't do it, we'll still hang out with you—but you won't be quite as cool.
There was the "three club," consisting of Nate and Erik. There was the "two club," which didn't exist, because just two was for chumps. The rest of us were in that club.
This is it, boys, Nate huffed, filling his lungs, I'm getting four.
Do it.
He reared back and launched himself in, wake churning a v-for-victory, as we chatted and gossiped, and watched him flip-turn perfectly against the back wall. Then again on this side. Streaking across with slow, deliberate strokes. Another perfect kickoff over there.
Here he comes. Our excitement buzzing with the cicadas. Almost there. He's got it.
The halfway mark.
Another lanky kick—two thirds.
The crown of his head at the surface like an otter. Wanting air so badly; discipline and machismo growling go! go!
Almost there. Arms reaching forward, fingertips stretching out, muscles straining.
And then a foot from the wall, he stops.
"What's he doing?"
Arms drifting.
"Dude, he definitely made it. I think we can give him that."
"Why doesn't he just touch the wall? He can easily reach it."
"I think he's fucking with us now. He's gloating."
"Is he...?"
"Wait, Nate...?"
He floats up and then rolls slightly over, sinking to the floor of the pool. A string of bubbles connects his mouth to the surface.
"Oh my god, you guys! He's out!"
"Get him up! Get him up!"
Thrashing, diving, scooping, dragging—a dead weight rises from the bottom, a dozen desperate hands scrabbling to help.
"No, like this!"
Arms crossed on the pool deck, forehead on forearms. Just like you're taught. Plant a hand on his wrists and hoist yourself out. Just like you're taught. Reach under his armpits; squat, twist, and stand up; get the victim clear of the water. Just like you're taught.
"Nate...! Nate...! Wake up, dude!"
"Please!"
Nothing else for it. Tilt his chin back. Look, Listen, and Feel for breathing. Just like you're taught. Just like you're taught. Just like you're goddamn taught! Find the xyphoid process. Position the hands. Just like you're taught. Only—do you go for the diaphragm and push the water out? Or compress the sternum and get his heart beating again? Which––? Wait, which––? Is this really happening?
Jesus Christ, what were you taught?
Just do something! Solar plexus. Push. Push. Pinch his nose, make a good lip seal. Breath. Breath. Listen for air. Breath. Bre—
He sputters, water burbling from his lips.
Turn him over! Turn him over!
Nate on his side, sputtering. Is this really happening?
"Cough! Keep coughing!" Screaming just like you're taught.
He retches.
"Fucking vomit, dude! Get that shit out!" Just like you're taught.
"Turn him over again, do it again," someone shrieks.
No, he's breathing. Let him catch his breath. 

"Puke it up, Nate! Wake up!"
He's awake. Oh my god, he's awake.
Eyes flutter. He rolls over, supporting himself on a hand. Sits up, elbows on knees, head in hands, drool and tears dripping onto the concrete.
Sputtering. Breathing. Blinking.
Alive for the sunset.