Fog has rolled in tonight blanketing the river valley with a shroud of loneliness. It flattens the streetlights so that they let off a blurry glow which works hard to push through the heaviness.
It strips the trees to bareboned nakedness leaving them gnarled and stark silouettes.....their tired branches reaching out to find warmth.......any kind of warmth left from the past. But, there's only a sweet memory of lush heat. Instead, those aching limbs spread out only to find cold sheets of wetness.
Alone in the fog, a transient arrives to a new town. Disoriented, hungry and in need of a warm bed, he goes in search of a lush heat he knew from the past. It seems like he has lived most of his adult life in a mindfog caused from losing his inner self in a brawl to prove he was made of something. He lost. He lost his need to be. When the fog begins to get the best of him.........when the loneliness felt in his aching limbs throbs insignificance, he moves on only to find new cold sheets of wetness. Numbstayed he remains broken and invisible. He can't find his way.
And it makes me wonder how many live in the muffled noise, separate of other's warm touch.
And it makes me wonder if fog can be a good place to insulate the headnoise from oneself, or do the negative words reverberate never managing to escape beyond the blurried streetlights.
And it makes me wonder if musicians prefer the muffled thickness of a cold fog in November in order to hear the isolated cupped notes more clearly. They have no where to go but reflected back from the shroud to the soul.
When it rolls in, I have this urge to listen to Warren Zevon or Tom Waits or an after hours singer with a gravelly voice and the night soul where he scrapes up his inspiration. Are heartache ballads created inside a fog? Is this where real creativity lurks?
Tonight the fog rolled into the river valley and as I walked the dog under the flattened streetlights towards the apple orchard bare of life I could only hear the sounds close by. The deep drop drips of rain into the storm drains, the jingle of my dog's collar as she plays tricks for herself with the tennis ball, the muffled steps in my walk. The November cold begins to seep into my bones, frightening me.
Not another soul in sight except my own.
I decided to walk back home humming to the tune of the howling werewolves of London. Funny, my fear didn't leave me until I stepped into the warm light of my home and heard the clear innocent voices of my children. Perhaps I needed to choose something more show tune-like?