Friday, September 05, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
SEPTEMBER 6, 2002
Either we have been raised in some massive uplifting or the clouds have dropped down into the trees and streets. It is a foggy, foggy morning. I can see across the street, and a bit farther than that, but you wouldn't say I can see far. It is moisture's lovely touch in the air, not yet thick enough to drink, nor to run down window panes, yet thick enough to blind us. As if blindness is a limitation - rather it's another way of seeing.
Heading east on Washington Street I can see about two blocks. No luff in the flag at the cemetery, nothing to blow the fog away. You can't call it a fogment of our imagination.
In the country, the greyness is very thick, visibility not more than an eighth of a mile. It will be a slow drive to work. The glint of headlights coming at me, like a cat opening its eyes, its glowing eyes.
SEPTEMBER 6, 2002
Either we have been raised in some massive uplifting or the clouds have dropped down into the trees and streets. It is a foggy, foggy morning. I can see across the street, and a bit farther than that, but you wouldn't say I can see far. It is moisture's lovely touch in the air, not yet thick enough to drink, nor to run down window panes, yet thick enough to blind us. As if blindness is a limitation - rather it's another way of seeing.
Heading east on Washington Street I can see about two blocks. No luff in the flag at the cemetery, nothing to blow the fog away. You can't call it a fogment of our imagination.
In the country, the greyness is very thick, visibility not more than an eighth of a mile. It will be a slow drive to work. The glint of headlights coming at me, like a cat opening its eyes, its glowing eyes.
