Slept late this morning, the morning after Hallowe'en. Sonja and the Hammer, usually the earliest of us to poke a nose between the curtains at the cold light of most any Canadian morning, and I had been kept awake much of the night by a back garden Beowolf making its presence known upon the carpet of potato chip crispy fall leaves awaiting the action of a rake or the fall of snow to make it once again safe for night creatures to prowl the night without waking us.
After the dog had raised her loud as Motorhead at the Kerrisdale arena alarm Sonja was first to cast her eyes upon the darkness. "Some motherfucker is out there!"
There was no motherfucker out there. I have heard enough wildlife walking by my tent in the middle of the night to know the difference between the sound of creature and the sound of a motherfucker in the night.
"It's a fucking 'coon," I assured my watchful wife. "Ain't a motherfucker on Earth would would make that much fucking noise in the middle of the night."
We would have got back to sleep then except that is when the loudest explosions of the night began, around 1:00 AM, and continued until well past 3:00. My local fucking government outlawed fireworks years ago. Outlawing anything always has unforeseen negative consequences. Naturally (naturally to an Anarchist like me anyway) the negative consequence of this particular ill thought out Prohibition is fireworks being lit very late at night rather than during family time. If you are breaking the law anyway you might as well break the law to maximum effect.
"Fuck the neighbours!" as a neighbour of mine once eloquently put it.
When I did wake it seemed darker than it ought to be given the lateness of the hour. Fog had rolled in and it looked like it was going to be around a good while.
I love the fog. It changes everything. Changes everything for the better. Gives everything the naturally creepy look we so successfully disguise with everything we think makes us humans and the world we have created for ourselves so Joe fucking Cool.
Leaving Sonja with her big cup of tea and two kisses, one from each of her loving housemates, the Hammer and I headed for the river. Nobody was there. Me. My dog. The winter birds. Magic mushrooms growing in a nearby farmer's field. A tug honking in the deepest channel of the mighty motherfucking Fraser like Dr. Sax. Unseen yet about as near as last night's visitor to our back garden.
Used to be we got fog all the time around here. Back when industry gave about as much of a fuck about anything as they do now.
Still I miss those days. A man could lose himself in the fog. Might find himself there too, if he was looking to do so.
4 comments:
Hey. This gave me a good Sunday morning feeling, reading and rereading it.
Eloquent, Beer.
There was no fog at the mouth of the Fraser when the Whackadoodle and I were wandering around yesterday morning...The tugs were there though, all Coronet and no Sax (or Ti Jean)...Was even a little relic-type skiff hauling an escaped boom log to an undisclosed cash 'n carry location.
What I like most about the fog, and a still, wet snowfall, is the closeness of it all.
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ibster - Wrote it while listening to WDVX's All Over the Road Show which begins foggy Sunday morns at 5:00 AM GMT and goes to about 8:00 or 9:00, I forget just now. When Wayne Bledsoe is hosting, which is most of the time, it is my favourite hours on the radio.
Gazz - Yes. Our super size country becomes close as a country hockey rink when the fog is around.
Beautifully said Beer, I love the fog too, sound travels differently in the mist, the spiderwebs collect pearl necklaces.
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