Talk Thursday: A Dense, Wet Fog

This week’s title certainly fits Talk Thursday. I seem to be operating in a fog. Having a title/topic/thought each week inspires me, makes me stretch my wings, wet my writing nib. Sometimes it leaves me it exactly in the middle of a clingy, wet fog unable to turn left or write.

This morning is sunny, the coast is commonly hampered by a wet fog in the early morning hours. After doing the taxes, because who doesn’t wait until the last moment (when they don’t owe money,) to do their taxes? I will garden. In the sun, the glorious sun, removing the clinging dirt from the roots of weeds to plant my seeds and greenlings.

I have a saying, “If it’s not windy by 10(am) it will be by 2(pm). Well unless it’s foggy.” Most especially the fog comes inland after three days of heat in the valley. Often in the early morning hours pea soup moves inland laying a quiet blanket over the coast, deadening all sounds, except that of the buoy. Living a mile from the beach I can hear “the Whistler” at night (the buoy a mile off shore or less) singing on the dense marine air. Oft times in the middle of the night, even over the white noise of my fan, I hear the Whistler’s Circe’ song calling.

In the city pea soup feels dirty and stifling, on the coast the fog carries the salt scent of the ocean further inland (which is nice unless there are dead whales or bluesail on the beach.) In the high desert, dense fog turns into a suffocating white sheet of tule fog. In Utah my friend, Jenny T, assures me that a fog of weeks long inversion will suck the life out of everything, depress feelings and moods, and becomes quite dangerous. On the coast we know it will clear into wisps of mist that wrap sensuously around the dead snags in the sand dunes and coast pines before receding under the warmth of the sun, leaving the sky crystal clear blue.

Sith,
Cele