The black walnut tree keeps dropping its ordnance on the roof. When will the fog burn off?
I’m not talking about financial fog, the fog of war, the fog of charm, or the fog of epidemics. I’m not talking about Fat, Oil and Grease, Friend of Girl, or Fear Of Google. I’m not talking about Utility Fog, in which microscopic robots link arms to form apparently solid furniture that can shape-shift on command, much less electronic fog, a mysterious phenomenon allegedly responsible for the Bermuda Triangle.
It’s a little confusing, isn’t it, all these fogs! I’m not talking about Alzheimer’s, the mental condition attending chemotherapy or chronic pain, or impediments to reading comprehension. I could be talking about a Photoshop effect, but I’m not, and for once I’m not alluding to existential ignorance, either.
I mean actual, honest-to-Whomever fog: clouds that form on the ground instead of in the sky.
Of course, when you live on a mountain, your fog might well be someone else’s cloud, especially in the winter and early spring. But this time of year, you can rise above the clouds simply by walking uphill. Or you can stay inside and wonder vaguely, between bouts of election-season-induced fury, who the hell keeps knocking on the roof.