First Mast & Foggy Poem

I saw the first sailboat moored in the harbor this (Wed) morning. I’ve been seeing so many signs of spring in the past month, but this is the first one of summer. It’s just a lonely mast out there this morning, but soon, it will be a veritable forest of aluminum. Oh, maybe a wooden mast here and there.

But I’m not a sailor. The sea scares me. One time Beverly and I took one of these small harbor cruises which takes you down the river and out to the mouth of the Merrimack. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful June day. But by the time we got near the ocean, you couldn’t see more than twenty feet ahead of you.

Fog is a constant feature of the Gulf of Maine, and it’s one I’d rather see from hard ground. And I see enough of it there. On the other hand, Son Rivers is on the radio right now. I don’t think I’ve ever heard this tune before. It sounds a little like Nick Drake backed up by The Incredible String Band. But in the break it turns into a Magic Dick harp solo. Curiously enough, it’s about fog.

Foggy Metaphysics

We see nothing; we call it fog.
Of course it’s something—we see
the fog. But what we cannot see
we cannot name. And so we call
it fog. Yet behind the fog is something
undefined—indefinite.

If one is careless one will see
what one just wants to see. Or one
will say it’s nothing. But it’s not—
it’s something else. It’s something that
is near, that waits there in the mist
for you to strike it. Then, you’ll see.

~Son River 2005

Lastly, it's not about fog, but close enough for this blog's daily happy ending. Tony informs us that "the average number of farts per day is 15." Well, that's all from the crack news team here at grapez. Courage!