Karl Consciousness
Karl Consciousness
v.20 | "Wisdom sits in places." - Keith Basso
Hi Yogafolk,
When you’ve grown up in the Bay Area like I (mostly) have, the fog forms your cellular structure, slowly and softly molding your consciousness, mood, attitude, and creative capacities.
San Franciscans have a nickname for the fog, affectionately calling it Karl. But we say it with the same intonation and smirk with which we call our siblings adoring and annoying names like ah-DUMB, or Lansi-poo. Oh, Karl.
One summer when I was an undergrad at UC Berkeley, I went on a 6-week dig to fulfill the archaeology requirement of my Anthropology degree. My classmates and I journeyed south to Pinnacles National Monument which lies inland near Gilroy, California. Pinnacles doesn’t have the protective marine layer like the Bay. Instead, it’s known for boulders, rattlesnakes, and 108° F days. That summer was the first time I realized the fog had seeped into my bones and being.
I craved the fog. Dreamt about it. Back home I was accustomed to waking up slowly in the cool, crisp mist. You see, Karl allows for a slowness. An easy, dreamy start. In the arid landscape of Pinnacles, the laser-beam sun-rays demanded that I exit my sweltering tent early lest I roast. And as I tumbled out of my polyester grotto at dawn I could already smell the ground burning. There was no mellow roll, no steady start. Just up and at ‘em. Time to put on snake chaps, boots, and a very wide brimmed hat. Without the fog to accompany me, I was a bit disoriented.
In an article about the fate of the Bay Area fog in a changing climate, John Branch writes:
"Fog is a companion, part of the rhythm of summertime, flitting in and out of lives like a family member.”
The fog really does feel like part of the family, synonymous with home. It appears each morning, before (usually) disappearing for a few brief hours, only to reappear again in the evening. Karl’s presence is as certain as the passage of time. It’s so notably chilly and foggy in San Francisco that the city is considering a new motto to attract tourists in this warming world: Come Cool Down.
I giggle when I see trail reviews like this one for a local hike: “It’s windy and foggy.” Well, yes! Welcome to San Francisco! Do I bitch and moan about it when I’m here? I sure do. But to complain of the weather feels resonant of Subpar Park Reviews: The Grand Canyon? “A hole. A very, very large hole.” Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore? “All the points of interest are rocks.”
Keith Basso’s 1996 book, Wisdom Sits in Places, asserts that there as an inseparability between people’s lives and the places in which they live them. That there is an inter-animation between the two. The inter-animation between people and the fog is palpable in the Bay. The fog impacts our desires, attire, imaginations, senses of self, other, and possibility. I imagine that it inflects the ways in which we practice, and the excuses we make for staying in bed a few moments longer. Karl’s tendrils bind us human folk, but it also connects us to the sea, the redwoods, the vineyards, and the critters that depend on the mist for survival.
The more we notice what shapes us, influencing how we think, feel and act, the more we come to see that others are also shaped by outside forces, often outside of their control. I am inseparable from a fog consciousness. Perhaps you and your consciousness are shaped by kangaroos, or coriander, or cork trees or Kilimanjaro. Our environments make us. And we in turn make meaning, and form cultures. Knowing this might make for a more empathetic world. Below, a few links to the ways in which rituals, recreation, and cinema are transformed by the specific place in which they play out. What are the places and forces that shape you?
Karl on my mind,
Erica
To live in England is to live in a monarchy. Technically speaking. And so when the Queen passed there were protocols to be followed. Rituals to be carried out. And bees that needed to be told.
“Telling the Bees” is a medieval custom of notifying the winged insects of a death in the family, so that they too can share in the filial mourning. Each hive is told individually by a friend, keeper, or loved one who knocks, and then whispers the sad news, before draping the hive in black. In some cultures, bees are meant to be informed of happy occasions too, and in the instance of a wedding, are offered a piece of nuptial cake.
There’s something lovely about being able to share our sorrows & joys with non-human kin, and to feel that they empathize. Bees are crucial to our ecosystem: if they were to go, we would all go. So perhaps keeping them abreast of human goings-on is a ritualistic practice of keeping our own spirits and hopes afloat. I romantically imagine that it brings us closer to ourselves and our fragile world.
Illustrator and graphic novelist Leanne Shapton spent a day at Sunset Park Pool, a public swimming spot in Brooklyn. I love her quirky field notes, and the portrait they paint of the life aquatic:
12:45 p.m. Sixty-one swimmers, three in bikinis and four in burkinis. A sign states what is allowed: Towels. Books/magazines. Not allowed: Street clothes. Flotation devices. Newspapers. Food. Electronics. Glass.
5:00 p.m. Clouds roll in and the sky is dark mauve behind the treetops. Eighty-nine people in the pool. A teen-ager does a handstand. Two friends link elbows and fall backward into the water.
Every four years, in a small clearing in the Greek Peloponnese, there is an experimental film festival that seeks to cure our contemporary woes. Avant-garde filmmaker Gregory Markopoulos envisioned the gathering as a sort of cinematic Bayreuth in his ancestral backyard, and he spent his life preparing the magnum opus he would show at Temenos: an 80-hour piece called Eniaios. Though he never saw it projected, Markopoulos perceived the film as a balm, the combination of cinema and space a salve for our media-saturated world. | Spike Art Magazine
Thank you for sharing your grace Erica!