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Saturday, July 09, 2005 

Finding a Way Through the Fog

Why fog?

Because of images like this picture. Beautiful, isn't it? Can you hear the crickets, maybe a gentle breeze from left to right? There's water in the brook under the bridge and it too moves from left to right. No animals move yet, it's too early for that, or too late. But they're there, just like you, staring at what might be . . . and hiding from it too.

Fog draws us in, fog is intriguing. We can look at mountains and seascapes and find all kinds of beauty and majesty. Art in the gallery is the same way, stared upon for hours and hours for all of the detail and "what it says to me". Fog, I think, is different. We stare at fog because we don't know what's there. Because it's cloaked by the fog we find ourselves staring at nothing and loving every minute of it. We want to know what's there, what it's hiding. Like little children we want to lift the corner of the cloth to see what's hidden under the table.

And at the same time we don't. Because while the fog hides what's on the other side . . . fog hides us, too. And fog becomes our friend, our comfort. In fog we're alone, yet not. We hate it, but we also love it. That's why life is so often a fog. It's not transparent, it's not opaque. It has no definitive answer for any of our questions. No yes or no, fog is one big "maybe."

still standing on this side of the bridge,
~sof

in case you missed it the first time:

Son of Fog
by Dean Young

When the fog burns off and the air's pulverized
diamonds and you can see beyond the islands
of forever!—far too dramatic for me. It hurts
something behind my eyes near the sphenoid,
not good. I prefer fog with fog behind it,
uninflammable fog. Then there's no competition
for brightness, no Byron for your Shelley,
no Juno eclisping your Athena, no big bridge
statement about bringing unity to landmasses.
All the thought balloons are blank. The marching
band can't practice, even a bird's got to get
within five feet before it can start an argument.
Like dead flies on the sill of an abandoned
nursery, we too are seeds in the rattle
of mortality. A foglike baby god
picks it up, shakes it, laughs insanely
then goes back to playing with her feet.
I have felt awful cold and lonely and fog
has been blotting paper to my tears.
My dog is fog and I don't have to scoop
its poop with my hand in a plastic bag.
There are sensations that begin in the world,
the mind responding with ideas but then
those ideas cause other sensations.
What a mess. We stand at the edge
of a drop that doesn't answer back,
fog our only friend although it's hell
on shrimpboats. There, there, says the fog.
Where, where? You can't see a thing.

you starbucks people are too deep.

:)

well then welcome to the deep end of the pool. i hope you will continue to dive in and tread along.

"...we too are seeds in the rattle
of mortality..." What's deep about that? He can't handle the reality of life and the vagaries that come with it. It's escapism.

Alas, poetry is often lost on me because I don't take the time to dwell in it as you ask us to. Sorry. I choose to spend my time elsewhere. My choice.

By the way... I find your "nom de plume" interesting and somewhat funny because I know the "Son of Fog." His name is Fog Tanner, Jr. and you can find him here => http://tinyurl.com/begr8 And, I don't think he's ever set foot in a Starbucks.

bonne jouissance mon ami

give us your take on what that picture means

sorry, that comment was posted on the wrong blog. that's what happens when old men stay up too late.

you may spend your time anywhere you please, i hope that you'll return and spend some here. perhaps we can bend your posture towards poetry.

buenos dias amigo

~sof

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  • Chris
  • Dallas, Texas, United States
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