After a long day’s afternoon and a late dinner meeting at the Cedar Tavern — when did that atrium skylight thing happen upstairs, or have I just not been paying attention? — I come home brimming with Things To Say, looking forward to a session of the Pepper time that has been so elusive lately.
Outside the mist is dense and freakish, game yellowy lights gleaming from upper windows in the dark Court Street office towers, sound slushing in strange waves over wet tidal streets. It’s near midnight, and fog strokes the night into a long alley of forms wrapped in gauzy, indistinct absence. It’s a Ray Bradbury fog, a John Carpenter fog, an Edgar Allan Poe fog. It’s a fog that makes you want to run away from home, and a fog that just might deliver you to a dark passing carnival if you wish hard enough, or out loud.
Inside, the phone doesn’t work and I have no Internet service. Again. Is that a case of bloggus interruptus, or what? As of January 12th, my home phone has been out for half of 2005. That’s a lifetime, in dog years. Woof woof.