When Fogbound

The fog is so thick out here you can touch it. It’s like pushing through fine chilled gauze. The air is sweet and soft, and everything beyond the garden fence is an abstract of diffused light and faded charcoals.

I wish it would last for months.

I understand some people still read these notes, and that they comment on social networks.  I’m glad you find some pleasure in these little sketches I send to myself, but I’m afraid I don’t see your comments. I’m gone from social media. I like the fog. It’s a quiet life for me. One hopes my remaining acquaintances will stop me before I go full survivalist. I might have been reading about hugelkultur again. I’m wearing an Icelandic wool hoodie, for god’s sake.

I still get broadcast waves.  I’m still engaged with the world and learning every day.  But I’ve chosen a quiet life in the fog.  I leave you to that other world. I like it better where I am.

If you want me, I’m at warrenellis@gmail.com. If you can recommend me ambient or electronic music podcasts, all the better.  This is been, for the remaining eight readers of this journal, my reminder for the year that I live in other, more distant spaces now.


READING: LENIN ON THE TRAIN, Catherine Merridale (UK) (US)