Crane at Rotterdam port 13/01/18 (c) Gregory Collavini
In the beginning was fog:
A veil of opacity lies over the land. Or is it the waters? It is momentarily hard to catch contrasts in a sea of greys. ‘Vapor condensed to fine particles suspended in the lower atmosphere.’ It fills the air with contemplation, locked in ‘evanescent strips' and weavings of ‘linen sheet' (Mahon from Lucretius). The realm of nature engulfs us all. ‘Tout l’automne à la fin n’est plus qu’une tisane froide.’(Ponge) Although there are rumours. In the corridors, fleeting voices and raspy murmurs; ‘et la vapeur des haleines avec les fumées des candélabres faisaient un brouillard dans l’air’ (Flaubert). Tucked in the mess, the realities of the outer world appear hazy. A cigarette burns, ‘forever sideways' (Ponge), a silhouette fills the kettle, when the captain suddenly appears, his mind in disarray: ‘Mein Schiff ist verloren, rief er, dort segelt der Tod!’(Hauff)
Gabriel N.Gee
