Let us go in; the fog is rising.

Reportedly, those were Emily Dickenson's last words.  How very obscure, rather like both fog and Dickenson herself.

There's a lovely fog on tonight, lingering in the streets from this afternoon when it silently settled into the river valley.  I'm sure it's not lovely for the people driving in it, who are all moving extra slow like the whole city is in one enormous funeral procession.  But it's lovely for me, and my camera.

I couldn't resist.  I went out and took pictures while the light was transforming from an underwater-afternoon light, to a unworldly evening light, punctuated by glowing tungsten and florescence.
The mist made even my neighborhood look dreamy, which is no small trick, as it's a mix of abandoned homes, unkempt rentals, and owners trying to keep up appearances.

I wended my way towards the river, expecting to find it quite dreamy in the fog.  Instead, I found it next to impossible to see at all.  It just disappeared into one quiet meditation in Middle Grey, rather like a Whistler nocturne.  The camera actually picked up more detail than my eye could without straining. It was...beautiful.

The pictures have a temperature to them: the same misty cold that was seeping into my sweater while I was taking them.  So grab yourself a cup of something warm while you peruse.

I thought about adding little notes, saying things about where each picture was taken, or what I like about them, but it seemed rather besides the point.  I mean, the whole thing about fog is how disorienting it is, how each familiar place and object is rendered strange, sublime, and unreal.

Now I'm off to pour myself a steaming cup of chai.