Today was one of fog and faeries. I looked outside about mid-morning and suddenly could not quite see across the street; the haar slips in silently, swiftly. When I went out to run errands, I decided to first ‘go for a pastoral’. The spires of the ruined Cathedral rose up majestically from the green and graves, vaguely undefined, a testament to the ages and yet hinting of unreality. I, the single living soul, passed through the graveyard and the fog of time, and continued on toward the sea. A saxophone played from St Mary’s on the Rock, but was instantly lost in the fog behind me. I alone went down the pier; at the end, there was no town, no beach, just the stones beneath my feet, the sea below, and the fog above. All was silent and still; all was silver and slate, gray as pearl, the air, the sky, the sea. The water shimmered, rippling faintly as the veil between worlds. (Waiting to be parted, or torn?) A small fishing boat drifted by, sharing, for a brief moment, the same realm of consciousness.
When I finally turned back, the town appeared ahead of me, wakening from a long forgotten dream: the harbor, the gulls, the sounds of trucks and boats and people. I stepped onto the ground of reality and rejoined the realm of mortals. On my way back into town to undertake my mundane tasks I passed a little old man stepping out of his home, and nearly said, ‘Lovely day!’ It takes a certain type of soul to glory in blurred edges, and who is not frightened by the undefined.
Then there were more walks in the fog, and talks of faeries and otherwordly things. I am thinking about green being the color of the dead and that I may be on track for a very cool thesis topic indeed.