The fog hasn’t lifted yet. I say that with subdued glee, of course — glee, because I love the fog, and it is a major reason why I love living here; and subdued because, of course, everything is subdued in fog. Everything is slow, and deliberate, and haunting. My neighbor, walking his dog, seems more fraught with meaning when I peer through fog to watch him do it. The fact that the opposite shore of the lake across the street is concealed from my view seems guilelessly metaphorical. And the recent bloom of forsythia in the back yard is a bright shout of color against the heavy, listless gray.
I lived seven years in Syracuse, New York, a town shot through with gothic grimness, and a town that, historically, experiences fewer sunny days than Seattle. A friend of mine, who, incidentally, still lives there, once made the comment that he loved those densely overcast days in Syracuse, when you felt like you could “reach out and grab a fistful of gloom.”
Me too, Tom, me too.
I wish I owned a great sweeping trenchcoat, so I could stride slowly down the street, portentiously.