White Plains

[Cramulus]

I work in a city called White Plains. It's called that because of the way the fog rolls off the Bronx River and cloaks the city in a thick white mist.




My camera phone doesn't do it justice, but it looks beautiful here sometimes. It's like this almost every morning in the Spring. It's mysterious, like a dream city, misty canyons of concrete and glass.



My commute takes me through the fog. The rest of the day will be filled with question and answers, tasks and tribulations -- the drive to work in the morning is free of these things. I am alone in my car, carried forward by the momentum of the 9 to 5. Thoughts coalesce in the fog, things that I couldn't think at any other point during the day. This is still dreamtime.



Through the fog, and the phantoms of last night's dreams, I can barely see the building where I work.



Last night: Dreams of the old house where I grew up, anarchy and sexuality under the floor boards, father returns, there is conflict, but I am resolute.

Suddenly I am in the office dream world. My dreams lead here, to the glassy trance of the day.

[Jenne]

Thanks for sharing that, Cram.  A view inside a very personal world.

My "commute" is so much more mundane--I walk downstairs and pick up the phone to have with me on the couch, open my laptop and voila! I'm at work...

[Cramulus]

here's what it looks like today, buildings vanishing into the sky

[Triple Zero]

Ok good! Now teach them to do that when you get those hurricane things.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

That's really pretty and eerie.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

I love fog, especially a good thick one with low visibility. Like, even when you're familiar with the area, you look at it kinda differently and you can appreciate the area more. Things slowly fade into view. You can kinda take it in one bit at a time.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I love how up around Puget Sound you can drive into and out of really intense fog pickets that you can't see anything through at all.