29 01 2008

People have romantic notions of lighthouses–their spare-as-a-bone-ness and white isolation drawing loners; their beacons, their reaching-out compelling romantics; their literary associations stirring poets. I never much liked them. Too disruptive. Too deliberate and showy. I spent my childhood summers on a foggy stretch of the Maine coast, away from the human world–no telephone, no television, no neighbors– a place where no lighthouse flicked its rays, but where a deep-throated, invisible foghorn on the far point sang plaintive harmonies with the mesmerizing gray. A child with a fiery imagination, I would fall asleep lulled by those thick melodies, cushioned, in-between, weightless.

Voicethread version




2 responses

29 01 2008

Because I spent a lot of time in Maine (during the Maine Coast Semester and the summer after), this piece completely evokes a vivid gray that I will forever associate with Maine. I also really like the last word “weightless”—it feels like fog.

31 01 2008

Thanks, Cloe, for reading–you have to love thick gray dampness to love the coast of Maine. We never get that kind of deep fog in Vermont, and I miss it!

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