Is it a grey, wet,
and foggy morning? Why, yes it is. Why do you ask?
The other side of yesterday, this fog. It would have been snow yesterday; today it's not.
We do not step outside ourselves. We do not step outside these cages we've built for ourselves. We are happy, locked up with the limitations we've chosen. We enjoy the pain because we believe it is better to suffer this much than to risk suffering more. Every day is a gambler's choice.
I like a prose that talks like a brick talks, smashing through a glass-front case so a fellow can get the jewels. Direct, accurate, like my dad would have it - useful. I like a prose that gets something done. Yet don't go away! It must be a lovely prose, too; there must be a lilt and it should lay like the first snowflake on a child's tongue, his head full of wonder. I like a prose that does something and looks good doing it, like the young Elvis singing "You ain't nuthin' but a hound dog." I like a prose that flirts with the common folks such as those I grew up amongst, yet on the other side is sassy enough to make somebody mad.
Alas, I fail to write prose such as I like and have to make do with the raw timber of my language. Exposed two by fours, rather than finished cabinet.
Practice, practice, practice. The same thing, again and again. The same thing, once again. Some more, then some more again. Practice, practice, practice.
Until it is as smooth and inviting as the curve of the woman you love. Practice.
As thick as the fog this morning, the sky is filled with the sound of birds, from the wall of the eastern horizon to the wall of the western. The birds have cut loose to scream their choruses. Glory, glory, hallelujah.
The closer I get to Ripon, the thicker the fog. The world shrinks, then shrinks some more. The snow in the ditch on the west side of Highway E is far from gone. There is still snow on the northwestern corner at Five Corners. Wherever we go, we drag our history with us.