in the fog

Fog this morning. I love fog. The mystery and the containment. The silvery cast of every object. The way coming inside, into a warm place, feels like a revelation.

Not so much coming in to work, but a shop or a bakery, say. I would have liked to go to Bon Bon's for pain au chocolat, but sugar seems to aggravate the Condition.

Normally this many grey days in July would make me frantic with disappointment. Because of this inflammation, and the combined fear of the sun and of putting anything on my face to protect it from the sun, and the hat which would be a perfect food critic's disguise, so absurd and yet so anonymous is it, the rain is a relief. In January the same weather will make me curse again that I washed up on this Island, but now the cool air and dim sky are comforting.

So it's fair if you hate it, but I think of it as a gift to me.

The puffiness is, I hope, resolving, but I still don't understand it. Of late I have lost the sense of coherence and identity in body that makes living a largely unconscious pleasure, the assumption that things will go right with your body. Everything feels fragile, fragmented, conditional, as thought the parts of my body could float apart into a haze. As though I were a mobile turning, appearing one moment to be a coherent form, and the next breath of air creating a gentle explosion into incoherent parts, or some other form altogether.

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(no subject)

It's the strangest thing. The window in the staff kitchen is at ground level. It opens onto a parking lot. Across the road is construction, and next door is an auto shop. There are dumpsters within stinking distance, and smokers hovering around the doors.

Yet the freshest, most exquisite little breeze is always blowing in at that window. If you stand just south of the microwave, it plays over your face and through your hair. Right now it is just a degree cooler than my fluorescent-reddened brow, and it smells of rain.

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