Fog at Vinnie's, too?
With a starry starry Don McLean melody wafting up softly from a distant, subconscious place, I sat out on my front porch at a tiny hour the other night, just to marvel at the deep, silent fog that the warm Gulf waters had exhaled over the island, enveloping it in a dense and ghostly mist.
There is, I submit, a palpable magic to this fog.
Strictly speaking, of course, my best friend Science would opine, rightly, that it’s merely a matter of deadened acoustics and limited visibility that makes the fog a trifle unsettling to the human heart. But to the artist, the philosopher, to that wee-houred front-porch rocking-chair thinker, it is, perhaps, something more enigmatic.
And especially here in old Galveston, that most cherished of Havishams still, where her heyday apparitions delight, dance, and dart, for a wisp of time at least, under the safe cover of a swaddling cloud.
But more than that, in the hushed fog may be a kind of quietude of remembrance, perhaps of an unfathomable mystery once a home, now only a longing, the faint echo of forgotten paradise breathed fleetingly upon the land, carving out a small moment to be still and reflect, a short muffling of time to think.
And so I did.
Fantastic post. I felt as if I was there with you in the fog.
Maybe you were…