On Fog

A few days ago, fog engulfed the valley in which I live. I woke to a haze of subtle grey, which left me rather uninspired to leave the warm fog of my sleep. Nonetheless, a shower, some breakfast, and a hurried look at my watch, and I was out the door to school. Outside, walking with or against me, the people of my town seemed to carry not only the burdens of their daily chores, but also the weight of the oppressing fog.

Walking in fog that morning gave me a sense of blindness. The process of losing the sense of sight intrigues me more than almost any natural process I can comprehend. On the other hand, the ultimate fruit of the process terrifies me to at least the same degree -- and this despite my archetypification of the unsighted Borges. As the world dims, only the fool may resist savoring absolutely every hue and tone, knowing that such vivid forms and shades will one day exist only in his memory and his imagination.

To walk in fog is, necessarily, to wander. As I followed my normal path to the school, my landmarks appeared slowly before me, first as ominous shadows, then as undiscerned solids, and finally as dream-like self-impostors, their colors and details failing to reach full resolution. People, too. As if walking among my imperfect memories of my town, vague forms passed of people at whom I may once have casually glanced, but whose features were never committed to memory. And just as in a dream, only the shadows of those people and those landmarks which serve some active mental capacity manage to resolve into anything functionally recognizable.

On another note: Living as the only American in town often feels like living in a fishbowl. I can't say for sure, but I imagine that fish feel a bit more anonymous when their owners fail to clean the tank for a few weeks.

What are your thoughts on fog?

On Flies

I can hardly wait for the cold of Winter to arrive. No, I'm not being facetious. Let the temperature drop far below the zero mark, and bring a smile to my tired eyes. Why, you ask? Certainly not because of shorter days or heavier clothes, nor for the pleasure of seeing my breath freeze on every exhale or the extra attention required while walking over ice and snow. No, I simply cannot wait for the opportunity to revel in the extinguished lives of flies, albeit temporary.

At this particular time of year, the Sun rises at precisely too early an hour every Saturday and Sunday. These, being my days of rest, often find me in bed well after the Sun has peaked the horizon. I say "in bed" and not "asleep" because of no other reason than the unfortunate existence of flies. These light-sensitive embodiments of foulness rest on the walls and ceilings until the first rays of light appear, at which moment they burst into their uninspired airborne dance. Attracted to light as well as warmth, they find the only warm thing in the room, and direct their gyrations toward my slackened face. I, unconcious and usually enjoying some pleasant dream (not involving flies), am jolted from my sleep and unkindly reminded of the existence of evil in the world. At best, I can stubbornly refuse to remove myself from bed, instead pulling the covers entirely over my head.

Many graceful and majestic creatures possess or are possessed of the sky. The lark swoops rapidly in delicate patterns, like a dancer in the Russian ballet. Dragonflies flutters chaotically, turning heads where ever the breeze may carry them. Even large birds of prey, despite their inherent violence, cast shadows over their terrified potential victims, below. The lowly fly is, perhaps, the only creature which fails utterly to properly inhabit its airy medium, instead possessing those erratic qualities and crass behaviors which seem fit only to counter and destroy the elegant and eloquent reputation of flight.

An examination of its name, "fly," we find clues of history's loathing toward this insect. As a verb, this word indicates the action of flight. As a noun, it may refer to something that stands or exists apart from the other constituent parts of its larger whole. As a reference to the insect, however, this word seems to signify the only positively impressive quality of the entire genus -- that is, its capacity for flight. It is as though those who first applied the name were saying, "Let's not expend more breath or thought necessary in order to signify the existence or presence of this wholly nuisant and obnoxious insect. Such is its vile lowliness."

But perhaps there is more to this insect.

I have developed an alternative* theory on the nature of flies, derived from a slight interest in the fundamental tenets of early spiritual systems such as Animism and Shintoism. I have observed that flies often seem to appear out of thin air, usually when there is a foul scent or decaying matter nearby. It is my theory that flies are actually the physical manifestation of the spirits or the god of stench. They are not simply attracted to bad smells or decomposing matter; indeed, they are these frowned-upon aspects of our world.

In any case, my fly-catching (that is, killing) skills have become rather expert. I fully intend to commence study of this new fly theory, as soon as my Moldovan Cloud research is sufficiently concluded.

*Perhaps partially jocular.