1.16.2010

The Fog

When we got out of the concert, the fog had descended over Kansas City. The parking lot lamps were well-defined, sharp-edged spotlights and we were the stars of running across the black ice and hopping into my freezing cold car. I had been yawning all night, and when the last band came on and the whole building started shuttering with their alt. rock mediocrity, we both understood it was time to go. Even if you did have to write a review for the newspaper.

At first everything was purpley-red - or maybe red purple, I could never tell the difference between those two crayons. “Maybe the whole planet was swallowed by something while we were in the concert. It feels like we’re in the bowels of the beast.” Very Jonah and the Whale, very Pinocchio, but let’s not mix metaphors, although they all seem a little appropriate; I’ve been feeling pretty lost lately, although things are beginning to get a little clear. Write a creative thesis, get an MFA, become a bestselling author and live in a well-maintained turn of the century house.

The fog comes in waves wisping over the windshield. We discuss the merits of the almost forgettable final scene in Men In Black where the galaxy is part of a game of marbles. We feel small – we are small. And then we’re alone on the road and the fog is swallowing us up completely. The red has turned into smoky grey, and I can only see two dashes ahead on the road. All the cars disappear for a while.

It feels like we’re on a bridge! I feel like I might fall off! It’s just like Banshee Boardwalk. Except the giant fishes arching overhead are the eerie floating lights of cars unsupported by bridges, even unsupported by cars.

I begin to freak out, but you’re in love with it all, and if I weren’t too busy being responsible, maybe I could see all the beauty, too. Which I guess is sort of our story, which I guess is why we couldn’t live with each other for a while. And then once you were gone, it was just me in the house alone with my bitterness, and that’s when I knew it was always my fault.

We reached the toll plaza, which floated out of fog in mere seconds – nothing, and then something, with chips and cracks and grooves and dents. Beyond, a curtain of satin gold cast down from the yellowed highway lights. And beyond that ...? I roll down the window for the toll, and then keep it down with my arm out and drive through the low-lying clouds. It feels like the perfect cold, velvety with wetness. And we smile and laugh with our arms out, and for a second it’s clear - there’s still hope for all of it yet.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Cara,
I read the last entry where you start out, "I'm a terrible writer;" and then I read your other entries, and that simply isn't true. Rarely do I read blog posts all the way through, but I really enjoy yours!