There wasn't much fog around here this morning. According to reports it was mostly south of "The Cities." Since I was neither driving a car nor trying to navigate a boat, I felt mildly deprived. We have lots of purple lovegrass, aka tumble grass (Eragrostis spectabilis) covering the fields behind the house and it's particularly lovely, I think, when it's fog- or dew-covered in the early morning. Much later in the season, watching tumbleseedheads blow around as if they were stick-figure ghosts has become one of the sights I've learned to associate with Halloween here in Minnesota.
purple lovegrass, (Eragrostis spectabilis)
Photo by J. Harrington
I think my partiality toward fog may have something to do with having been raised near the Atlantic ocean, where the temperature differential between land and water often yielded fog banks along the shore that couldn't be found five or ten miles inland. The way fog, or mist, softens a scene makes me think of Loren Eiseley's observation that"If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water." That saying reminds me that another Summer is passing and, once again, I haven't spent anywhere near enough time in, on or near the water. (During the Winter, with all the snow we usually get, I spend more time than I like near the water when it's in one of my least favorite shapes.)
water's magic at St. Croix Falls
Photo by J. Harrington
Moving water seems to me to hold more magic in rivers and ocean tides, and flowing as liquid in rain and rivulets, rather than blowing water crystals as they magically turn into snow drifts.
While we're considering water, try this thought experiment. Think about how long you could live and even thrive without your cell phone and all its rare earth elements. Now think about how long you could survive without water to drink. How long do you think you could thrive without eating any of the processed foods made from field corn's high fructose syrup. And, again, how long without water to drink. Final question (for today) Does it seem wise to let mining and industrial agriculture pollute our waters for their profits? How long can either or both of them thrive without customers? That's some of the thinking behind yesterday's posting here and Honor the Earth's Dear Governor letter. Our Minnesota has turned its priorities upside down and needs to magically turn them back rightside up.
Son of Fog
When the fog burns off and the air's pulverizeddiamonds and you can see beyond the islandsof forever!—far too dramatic for me. It hurtssomething behind my eyes near the sphenoid,not good. I prefer fog with fog behind it,uninflammable fog. Then there's no competitionfor brightness, no Byron for your Shelley,no Juno eclisping your Athena, no big bridgestatement about bringing unity to landmasses.All the thought balloons are blank. The marchingband can't practice, even a bird's got to getwithin five feet before it can start an argument.Like dead flies on the sill of an abandonednursery, we too are seeds in the rattleof mortality. A foglike baby godpicks it up, shakes it, laughs insanelythen goes back to playing with her feet.I have felt awful cold and lonely and foghas been blotting paper to my tears.My dog is fog and I don't have to scoopits poop with my hand in a plastic bag.There are sensations that begin in the world,the mind responding with ideas but thenthose ideas cause other sensations.What a mess. We stand at the edgeof a drop that doesn't answer back,fog our only friend although it's hellon shrimpboats. There, there, says the fog.Where, where? You can't see a thing.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.