Thursday, March 29, 2012

I'm Not Sure You Understand Me

When I say fog, you think of gray.  Correct?  To you fog is a color, a concept.  On the Cape, fog is a way of life.  It is infused into every day.  It is blaired in and out with the regular sounding of the lighthouse.  It rolls in off the harbor and physically invades Main Street.  It sticks to the branches and drips from the trees in oversized droplets onto your car.  It makes cold, wet.  It is the embodiment of misery.  It is a cold, wet, white, dampness.  It is like walking into the night, into the black of night, in the day - only it's white.

In a sense it is magic, mystery and illusion.  Thick, dense, whiteness.

It is a beautiful misery.

It is NOT mist.  Mist is confetti compared to this.  It is a cloud in which you live.

Until - it is gone.

Replaced by wind, which is worse, unsettling, disturbing, unrelenting.  Angry.

Today the foghorn sounds, though fog is not imminent, at least not here.  And - there is no wind.  The water so blue, with a tinge of green.  The sand so tan.  A palette to paint your world, your room, your home.

And to then whitewash.

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