liminal seasons

Up here, in this north, the borders of winter are marked by fog. Early in the morning is a Twilight Zone episode, like one Zizek writes about, when the man in the cab can see nothing out the windows. There is a grey that starts right on the other side of the thin window pane, and there is that and nothing else outside our house. I go back to sleep rather than open the front door. I dream about Adrienne Barbeau, or else about Jamie Lee Curtis and Janet Leigh. When I wake again, the sun is out and the world has returned with its trees, cars, and birds.

The fog time happens just before the snow time and then again just after, as the ground and the water lose their heat to the air and then the reverse. I know this, and yet this science knowledge runs up against my film experiences and my latent want-the-world-to-have-some-mystery desires, and my own fog generator kicks in and I go back to sleep in thrall to the grey in-between so I can dream a bit more under some irrational blankets while the world warms (or cools?) around me and until I do have to open the door, again.