sometimes the best ideas are born over such things as pina coladas and shrimp cocktail. such was the case last week during a lovely 4th of july soiree with friends in falmouth. we started talking about The Slant, and i mentioned how fun it might be to have some of them post as "guest bloggers."
exactly one week later, i am happy to present The Slant's first ever Guest Blogger. she is, among many things, an artist, and when i read something that she's written, i often feel like i'm looking at a beautiful painting. or a photograph. that moves. and i'm grateful to her for letting me share this particular piece on The Slant.
this morning I woke thinking "huh, no fog horn, must be a nice day". I looked out the window as is my habit in the morning to judge the weather (a non-precise science). it was grey enough to make me think I had set my clock hours too early. I could not see the trees lining the back of the yard and barely the garden.
I rose, I dressed, stretching the sleep from my body as Burl wagged a tired tail lazily about my knees. black velvet sweat pants, a turquoise hemp top, and sneakers, I am a fashion knockout in the morning, aren't I.
we walked to the beach in silence, not that I expected the dog to talk, but his snorting was inaudible, my shoes not noisy. it was as if the world was being swallowed by the nothing, I couldn't even see the corner ahead. the cross walk lines were a mere ghost in my view. I heard the distant echo of sandy shoes walking away or toward but they never appeared. not even a figure to give the sound life. it made B nervous, he looked at me from the side of his head and receded behind me. I walked as if nothing were different and he gained his confidence again. the beach was an unearthly quiet, I smiled thinking maybe 'I am the only one on the beach', but then the voices drifted out of the fog. at first they held the whisper of birds in a clicking chirping language, but then again they distinguished themselves as human. I sighed, disappointed.
but burleigh burst forth onto the playing field like he had just won the race, spinning around to watch me throw the first ball. and he raced off to disappear in the gloom.
I think, "fog is never thick like pea soup it is only as thick at a distance." it is not humid enough to be thick. the wetness hanging in the air collects on my fleece...wiping the hair from my face leaves it wet. a deep breath fills my lungs with airy water, it gathers on my eyelashes.
Burleigh has found a shadow on the water's surface that flits in and out of sight, a cormorant. a silent ghost of a bird that sinks into water I know is there but cannot discern from the sky. there is not sky today, only the water that laps at the toes of my sneakers as I reach to retrieve the ball in a wave. that wave recedes into nothingness. some odd beautiful grayness beyond.
I smile as I think "if I wore a long flowing gown and walked barefoot, one might mistake me for a being from another world. the world of mists."
my hair and my skin glow in this gray, I look . . . other worldly. the fog swirls around me, spins in my wake and sinks back into its gloom, its blanket on the sand.