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Friday, July 31, 2009

Mists

Mists, mists surround me the smell thick in the air. Ghostly figures walk, enveloped in the fog, some sit by the fire seeking clarity.

I cling to my father, surprised that this is a cloud, clouds should be fluffy, friendly, not like this.

Pleasant scents of affluence wafted through the air; I was standing on the edge, though my stomach growled, we didn’t stay to eat.

The din of voices, water rushing over cliff face, humming suspension as I step into the tram; we descend, down, drop down into the carnival of people awaiting their turn up the mountain.

Silence now reigns at Bridal Veil Falls, nature leveled all with a mud slide. Still I ache to think of the ghosts at the top.

Mists and chlorine, sweet oil, and sweat. Paradise, an oasis in the desert, a place to squeeze out regrets.

Dry heat, dry wood, steam rises from the towel as I sit to excise my sins in the sauna. Cedar bleached scents, lacking substance and body, aching dryness creeping into my head through the nostrils.

Persistent, the heat licks away at my skin, my hair, my breath, to relieve the dryness I squeeze out the wet strands of my hair and the mists rise, briefly. I imagine I am in Hell, the fagots lick at my feet until I open the door to release me from the inferno.

Overpowering mists that strike at my face, another place, a sauna of steam. Steam rising up to the heavens, white billows where people sit breathing shallowly as they meditate. Reflecting on the pools of water below, as steam cleanses and purifies from within.

Purification or perdition, something to think about as I walk between the two saunas.

Mist surround me as I stand out in the cold. I am waiting, thinking and waiting. The mist is thick, fog surrounds everything, swirling in the orange light cast from the street lamp. I close my eyes and focus, the mist feels right, like my mood.

Shivering I feel as though I am the only one left in the world, a lost world, every sound is muffled in the night. My father pulls up, tires crunch in my ears, in slow motion I open the door to another world.

A world of harsh overhead lamps and heater vents where I warm my fingers as we pull away.

Swirling mists in the bathroom, clinging to me, familiar and thick. I will never dry my hair in the dampness, so I open the window then regret the loss of warmth as goose bumps jump out on my arms. I wrap the towel tighter and rush to dress.

Subtle amounts of steam rise away from the heat of the blow dryer, the dry heat feels good against my scalp.

Mists cling to the forest floor, I walk out savoring the smell. Dew hangs near the ground like a shroud. Spring grasses are glad of it, sparkling green grasses with their diamond jewels.

I long to taste the elusive dew. I catch a drop on my tongue as the sun rises, brighter and brighter. The dew lifts as a brides veil, the mists are gone.

There is mist outside now, I can smell the familiar scent of rain. The night is cold, I wonder if it will snow...

(This is a re-write here is the original for comparison)

6 comments:

  1. SG-do even the flames of hell cast a mist? just wonderin. These forest mists wreck my tennis shoes but otherwise I like em. Nice telling of relief. ~rick

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  2. ;D no the flames of hell were stealing all moisture from the air, mists rose only briefly if you'll recall. Who wanders in forest mists in their tennis shoes? Barefoot is the only way to go, to feel the cool drops of dew on your feet and all... ;D

    Thanks for the comment Rick.

    SG

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  3. Very enjoyable to read, keepup the good work.
    Look forward to more.

    Yvonne.

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  4. Wow, very beautifully written...I am impressed with everything of yours that I have read...well done!

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  5. This one, in particular, is somewhere between prose and poetry, innit? I am very much tempted to write that you can make another version from this, only shorter.

    Nicely done! Keep writing!!!

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