Lana feels

Today we are misty. Today when I woke up I thought it was still night but then I saw the little misty tendrils creeping in through the holes in my screen and I realized the mist had descended. Ever since I read Mists of Avalon I've thought of mist the way Marion Zimmer Bradley described the mist around the island, how the priestesses in the boat could make it slam up and down for the passing between worlds. Slam. A whooshy, windy noise would accompany the slam and I was a little bit surprised I hadn't been awakened. The irrational thoughts of morning. Then I got up, closed my window so as to block out the seeking tendrils, and took a shower. Now my hair is drying in curls, and it seems so determined to do so that I shan't even try to stop it. Mist. Walking the path to the bar fork I couldn't see anything around me but this slow, gray damp. Mysterious, here, as if something other than the mountains is hiding in it's depth. As if something monumentous could be going on outside this curtain, as if we inside could be jumping erratically through time, but we don't know because inside the curtain all feels stable and timeless anyway. Even without the mist I feel that sense of this place sometimes, but now, now that there is an accompanying visual... We are so isolated here. So cut off, metaphorically if not physically, from the rest of the world. The mist intensifies it, and I'm reminded of the Appalachians. Older mountains, and though comparitively speaking it's all drops in the ocean, they do feel older. Driving through those mountains early enough in the morning for them still to be covered in mist, I wondered about the things that could live way back in those hills. These mountains, these Rocky things, are younger and starker and less prone to conceal things, but today, today when the whole world is covered in a curtain of deep gray mist, the fantasy writer nestled in my soul uncurls and takes me on wild journeys of the imagination. We whiled away Geometry, my imagination and I, exploring the mountains in the alternate world to which the misty curtain had transported us. Misty moisty mornings and we are but ships passing on the ocean of time. I keep crashing into things.