(This story riffs on some themes and ideas I’ve loved from Will’s stories. It could not have come about without my reading them, and talking with him about oh so many things.)

“Fog tomorrow morning, the weather says.” You said it casually, like it was, well, the weather, spoken over coffee at the kitchen table before work. But I knew different. I knew why you said it.

A cold front coming, breaking a brief spring heat wave. Those could draw the moisture off the river and sock in the city for half the morning. I knew you’d been waiting for it because you told me so in the warm cocoon of our winter bed. I hoped that the winds would shift and blow the front in another direction. You told me where we’d go, and when we’d go there, and what we’d do. What you’d do to me. You’d said it just that once, and I never forgot, though I’d hoped you did, until today.

I did all right at work, though I was distracted. I checked the weather too often. I fidgeted. I went for a walk through the park. It’s a beautiful park, a great square of green and blue in the center of the city, surrounded by the high-rises of business on two sides, and residences on the other two. I walked along the winding path, lined by greening trees, around the big arc of the northern field, where college kids were lying out and playing Frisbee in the young grass, reveling in a bright, clear, warm day of spring promise. The walk settled me for a time, but didn’t comfort me. By the end of the day, and through dinner I was antsy, though you were perfectly civil and wonderful as always. Attentive, caring, loving. We ate, talked, read, snuggled, went to bed, just like normal. But still I couldn’t fall asleep until far too late.

The alarm startled me awake. It was 5 am. Too early! I mumbled and rolled over, seeking your warmth, but you weren’t there.

“Get up,” you said. You were standing by the bed, dressed in your grey sweats. It was the tone in your voice that made me remember. I wanted to hide under the covers, but I knew it wouldn’t be an escape. I groaned a protest and emerged. You pointed to the clothes you’d laid out for me. My powder grey sweatpants and shirt, socks for my sneakers, but no panties and no bra.

You saw my hesitation, and said “Let’s go. It will be light soon”.

There was the slightest edge in your voice. Why couldn’t you have forgotten? Why did the weather have to cooperate? But as I changed out of my nightshirt and pulled the heavy cotton onto my bare skin, I felt the first stirrings of something other than dread. You must have seen it too because your smile, while stern, was knowing and warm

Warmer than the air outside. Cold front was right. Our breaths frosted as we emerged from the apartment and jogged off toward the park. The air chilled my face, sneaking past my neckline, and wrists, and waste to nip at my skin, driving the last mists of sleep from my head.

Now, I see it and blink. The outside fog has indeed hit. I can barely see across the street. It is only a few blocks, running side-by-side; long enough to warm me up, long enough for me to think about what each step is bringing closer. We pass through the sleepy but waking city, stores receiving deliveries, other early runners crossing the avenues, and on the paths of the park itself

The street border gives way to the parks’ path, the land opens up; but in the morning’s gray fog, it appears to close in, thicker, tighter. Ten feet away, the passing trees lining the path are indistinct. They flash into sharpness as we pass, then back into dark blobs before disappearing in the gloom.

We run along toward the north field. The noises of the waking city seem to murmur more quietly, muffled by the veil of mist. We pass other runners almost startling each other during fleeting moments of resolution on the winding path. We hit the long curving pathway of the northern field and with your hand at the small of my back, we veer off the path and onto the grass, to be quickly lost in the barely lightening gray of the pre-dawn in fog.

The trees lining the path become dark, smudged shapes, then disappear altogether in the mist. We run ten, twenty more paces, then slow in a small, closed in patch of green surrounded by, apparently, nothing, though mere tens of yards in any direction, there isn’t anything between us and the paths, and beyond that the streets lined with apartment buildings and business skyscrapers facing the park. We hear a truck hit the brakes, the thudding tread of a pronating runner, an eager dog pulling his lead. We are in the middle of the living, waking city, but, at the moment, in complete privacy.

“Now, off,” you say. So few curt words. You, my articulate, sensitive equal, biting off cryptic orders. But I understand, and, trembling a little, I obey. I fix my eyes on you, imagine us in a closed white room, and pull the sweatshirt off, letting it drop to the wet grass beside us. The cold air makes my skin, slightly sweaty from the run, break out in goose bumps, and my bare nipples harden quickly. You watch me, your face impassive, but your eyes spark, hungry. I can see you starting to get hard under your sweat pants.

I bend forward to untie my dew-wet sneakers and step out of them, soaking one sock as I pull off the other. Then, with the barest hesitation after meeting your eyes again, I hook my thumbs in my waistband and pull down the pants, stepping out of them toward you. I stand before you naked, in the middle of the city park, my only protection from the eyes of others the fading night and the thick fog.

“Turn. All the way around.”

On a clear day, this field – this spot – can be seen from the windows of most buildings around the park. The city bus, only a sound on the border road right now, could easily see the field’s center on such a day. A pedestrian curses at a too-close passing car probably less than 100 feet away. But none, save you, know I am here. Only you see me.

When I face you again, your eyes pass up and down my body. You look greedy, prideful, lusty, nearly half of the deadly sins rolled into one. You reach out and place your hand on my shoulder, pushing down. I kneel in the grass, naked in the public park. You push my knees wide apart with your wet, sneakered feet, and I feel myself open toward he grass below me.

You step closer, twining my hair in one hand, pulling the waist band of your sweats low enough to allow your cock to spring free. You pull me to you and I open my mouth and take you in. The air is cold around me, and I shiver, but you are hot in my mouth. Hot, incredibly hard, already leaking a drop of your arousal. I tighten my lips around you as you fill my mouth, take you deeply, running my tongue along your sensitive underside. You hiss in pleasure and I look up. You look down, at me, eyes half lidded. The grey behind you is lighter than before; the mist is brightening as the breaking sun begins to illuminate our world of cloud.

I suck intently, enthusiastically, one hand reaching into your pants to cup and fondle your balls. Part of me wants you to finish with me like this, so I can dress and be safely concealed. But I know that is not what will happen. I know this even before you pull out of my eager mouth. You step away, erection jutting from between sweatshirt and pants.

“Down,” you say.

You do not elaborate but I know what you mean. Heart racing, I bend forward, hands to the wet grass, then elbows. I turn my head to the side as I lay my head down in the cold dew. The fog continues to brighten. The glare makes the world closer, cleaner. The sun is going to burn off the mist. The sounds of the city are increasing, encroaching on the space, and I am on my elbows and knees in the middle of the park, ass and cunt raised to the air. And no one can see me except you.

But you are not there. You have stepped away into the mist. I am alone. I raise my head to look around and see nothing but a near patch of grass below the white.

“Head down.” I hear your voice from nowhere. “Cunt up. Open just for me.” You must not be able to see me, but you know what I am doing. I am open just for you, but anyone could walk across the grass as a shortcut, or the wind could blow… I shiver, not from cold.

“Touch yourself. Make yourself ready for me.”

I reach down, sliding may palm along and past my belly, between my wide open legs. I find my slit. My fingers touch slick wetness. My own dew is flowing and I feel myself blush as I touch and tease myself in the center of the city. How long will the fog last? Can I see farther across the grass than a minute ago? I cannot help a small moan of both arousal and fear.

And then you are there. Your hands hot on my hips, the head of your cock hot on my cunt lips. My hand falls away as you wordlessly thrust yourself completely into me, our bodies slapping together in our white room of fog.

I grunt, loud enough I fear, to carry, and try to stifle my sounds as you take me hard in the thinning haze. Yes, it is thinning. Burning. Like me. I am burning now. My face is turned to the east. I find and I see the blurry white ball of the sun through what must be a canyon of city buildings. But now… I don’t care. All I want to feel is you inside me, filling me, completing me here. I want everyone to know it. To see you have me. To see me being yours. I let myself moan louder and you do not hush me, fucking harder and faster. Fog lights from cars on the facing street peer through the veil. The nearest trees assume vague shapes. I turn myself up to you, wanting you deep, all the way inside me. The wet grass tickles my breasts and nipples and I am rising, burning like the fog in your sun.

You growl low and rough, slamming into me one last time. You swell inside me, bursting like the sun through the clouds. I cry out, head coming up, arching, pressing back into you. You fill me, and when I feel your hot seed brimming and overflowing our straining junction, I come too.

The world goes white and indistinct again for a perfect age of devotion and ecstasy. Only you and I exist, and you fill me as you were made to. I squeeze you, urge, you, as I was made to.

And we hold there. A frozen tableau of two. The fog is lighter still, the city nearly awake. Faint shapes move at the edge of sight. Cars, runners begin to resolve from indistinction, and yet we hold, as if still in our private space. As if daring now to be seen. And I do not dread it. Not even close.

The loud complaint of a taxi’s horn somewhere behind us finally shakes us from our trance-like state. You pull your softening cock from me and step back. I rise to my knees feeling your semen ooze, then gush from me. But there is no time. We quickly throw on our soaked sweats, then take a little more time with socks and shoes. We stand. The fog is only thin strands now. I can see the cars, and the runners, and the couple with canes, and the one with the baby carriage walking along the arcing path around us. How long have they been visible? How long have those windows in the nearest towers been able to see down into the field?

You are before me and enfold me in your arms. I am yours, and I don’t care who knows it.

Hand in hand, we walk from the park.

Some photos that I took on a foggy day in Istanbul.

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Chris Berry, lead singer with FOG, FOG ACOUSTIC, CMC and solo artist in his own right, is also a renowned journalist/writer. Chris has written for the YORKSHIRE POST for over 20 years and is currently writing the autobiography of his good friend and fellow singer JOE LONGTHORNE.

Joe Longthorne with fans Sandy & Mona

Chri Berry - singer & writer

‘Joe is without doubt the best in his field,’ says Chris. ‘On Saturday night he wowed a packed concert hall in the North East and by Christmas he will have played over 80 dates yet again this year. His brand of big ballad numbers and all-round entertainment is something that no other performer in the UK can match. His story is a rollercoaster ride of emotion, funny happenings, family loyalties, disasters, tragedy, excess and success. The book THE JOE LONGTHORNE OFFICIAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY will not hold back on any of that, so readers might need to make sure they’ve a few handkerchiefs ready because there will be tears!’ Following months of interviews and research work the word count for the book now stands at 48,000. ‘I’m now well over half way with the book and it is certainly attracting a good deal of interest,’ says Chris. ‘We are confident that Joe’s story is certainly worth a great deal of media interest and we hope that Alan Titchmarsh, Graham Norton, Alan Carr, Loose Women, The One Show, Paul O’Grady and all other reputable interview shows on TV will invite Joe on to their programes – ideally in late March in line with the book launch.  I started officially writing the book 3 weeks ago, so another 3 weeks should see it close to completion.’ The publishers are Great Northern Books, quite appropriate for Joe as he is a great northern born & bred star!  Chris is also very busy too with his own acts. You can find out more by clicking on to his other stories on this site.  www.chrisberrysingerandwriter.wordpress.com    www.myspace.com/chrisberrysinger    www.myspace.com/cmcacoustic   www.the-fog.talktalk.net    Email: chris@chrisberry.tv   

Chris Berry - lead singer with FOG

Chris is also on Facebook & Twitter    You can also visit 3 other Facebook groups for details: FOG – The best … ; CMC – Chris & Mick …; CHRIS BERRY Solo, CMC, FOG…

Chris Berry, who is currently writing Joe Longthorne’s autobiography, is also playing his own December tour – with his melodic rock covers band FOG, plus his acoustic act FOG ACOUSTIC .. and also 2 SOLO gigs.

Chris - Christmas Tour 2009

The tour starts this Friday 4 December with a FOG ACOUSTIC gig @ The Mex starting @ 9pm (Mexborough Arms, Thorner) when Chris & Andy from FOG (the two voices that provides FOG with its unique vocal style) take on 2 gigs in 3 days; the second is FOG ACOUSTIC @ The George & Dragon, Wetherbt – starting @ 6pm – again with Chris @ Andy… then 2 days later it’s FOG ACOUSTIC again @ Roman Bath, York in the centre of the city, when Chris, Andy & Pete – all from FOG will be playing; the following Saturday 12 December sees Chris playing SOLO @ THE MEX .. with hopefully a special guest planned!!

The week before Christmas sees Chris up the pace again with 3 FOG gigs and 1 solo gig …. Friday 18 December sees FOG back @ the Horse & Groom in Doncaster – one of their favourite venues, and where it is always packed; Saturday 19 December sees CHRIS back in action as SOLO playing @ Fox & Hounds, Boroughbridge… the lead up to Christams sees FOG playing @ both THE MEX in Thorner (Tues 22 Dec) & then at THE BUFFERS in Scholes (Wed 23 Dec)… FOG, FOG ACOUSTIC, CMC and CHRIS BERRY SOLO gigs already number around 80 in the book for next year! Make sure you get along .. the acoustic gigs are well worth your attention… FOG is quite simply one of the best party bands you can ever have!   

Chris with FOG

www.chrisberrysingerandwriter.wordpress.com     www.myspace.com/chrisberrysinger     www.myspace.com/cmcacoustic   www.the-fog.talktalk.net    email: chris@chrisberry.tv    Chris is also on Facebook & Twitter

These terns seem to love the posts on this little jetty. I had seen birds on these numerous times before and thought they looked pretty cool. I had ventured to the spot a few times hoping to get a shot similar to this but the birds never co-operated… Sometimes there would be seagulls hogging this prime real estate, but for some reason they just seemed to ‘flighty’ when I would be about to take the shot !  This particular foggy morning the terns were having their turn at the prime real estate and it all came together and I shot this on 6×17 and this is a 6×6 crop so I’m pretty stoked with it.

‘prime real estate  –  medium format 6×6 velvia. ’

Foggy morning after a long rain,

she does the scales on her new mandolin

I lay in bed with furs draped over me

heavy and warm

keeping me dry as the yurt’s little leaks

show themselves.

Water your orchids with rain water

says Annalise with the rose gardens.

And the fog creeps up again from the valley below,

onto the deck

through the little cracks

of exquisite imperfection.

Floods and fog, originally uploaded by magnum_lady.

I took Lucy to Dublin yesterday to see Little Boots in concert. She was brilliant (I’ll do a blog about that tomorrow).
Jono was meant to be coming as well, but his back is too bad to stand for any length of time. So he stayed with Andy.

We went on the train and because of the floods the train line between Carrick on Shannon and Longford is under between 3-5 feet of water. So we had to get a bus from Carrick to Longford and the same on the way back. So it took around 4 hours each way Sligo-Dublin instead of the usual 3.

This photo is of Carrick on Shannon, it’s hard to see the floods because of the fog. The yellow building you can see a tiny bit of is the Landmark Hotel.

The main N4 road towards Tesco and the retail park is completely flooded so there is a detour up through the town of Carrick on Shannon and down by the MBNA building. There were big tailbacks of traffic and the bus driver was telling us that the traffic was so bad the other day it took almost two hours for him to get from Carrick on Shannon to Longford.
I have to share this link of photos of the floods….some amazing photos there.
So if you are travelling in that direction be prepared for delays.

Thanks so much for the good wishes for C. So far so good.

I did both the 6th and the 7th part two times – though for different reasons.

The 6th stretch took me along the River Sihl to one famous roundabout that looks very American and then onward to Baar. The path along the River looks very nice from the train. It is quit different from the path: the noise of the cars is awful and for the biggest part it’s everything else than a romantic walk. But still, seeing it from this perspective was very interesting. The noise and the traffic were two reasons why I’ve decided to give the 6th leg another try – over the hill. That was very interesting because I was actually walking “over the railway” (the train is in a tunnel there) and it was a totally new part of Switzerland for me.

When I did the 7th part for the first time it was a little foggy. When I got off the train in Baar I thought that the fog will be gone soon. But no, for the most part I walk in very dense fog and at the end I had no idea, how the landscape looked around me. So one morning when the weather was fog-less I wanted to that same walk again. This time I knew how it looked – but I have to say that being in the fog was somehow more interesting. Funny how things go.

Check out the photos of all the stretches in the German articles!

I see the path vaguely now that leads me through the fog, beyond the smoke, the ethereal gas, destinies chaotic bog.
Peer I to see beyond the scope of limited present vision, hope lifts my mind far away outside this mysterious prison.
Perceptions bleak when compasses fail but destiny beckons on, what wonders exist at the climactic edge, where the light reveals the dawn.

So after a LONG quarter at MSOE and a week of finals my dad and I went to Devils Lake for a couple days to do some camping. The weekend was very relaxing and the weather was perfect. We got up there late Friday night and had to set up camp in the dark. Not a big deal though seeing as how we had power at our site. Just plugged in the halogen work light and it was a breeze. Around 11:30 we crawled into our sleeping bags and crashed out.

I awoke to the sun rising through the foggy morning air. Unable to go back to sleep I grabbed my camera and took a few photos of our campsite and the woods around us. Once we both were awake and functioning dad decided breakfast and some coffee were in order. Hit the log cabin resteraunt for some hash browns, biscuit & gravy and eggs. Great way to start off a morning of camping. Later in the day we had the campfire going and cooking some food over the hot coals. Dad made a killer shish-ka-bob of steak, green peppers and potatoes on the charcoal grill for dinner. Just add some brown rice to that and we ate well. Through out the night we kept adding wood to the fire while we kicked back and talked. After a couple hours of relaxation we got antsy and decided a coffee run was in order. After returning full of caffeine we got the fire roaring again and got back to the telling stories…

What does this have to do with motivation and inspiration? Spend the weekend camping with your Dad and you’ll see. Even after twenty-six years being around him you learn new things about him. A lot of it comes not only from what he says, but how he says it. I’ve never been good telling people how I feel or think about something flat out. So I’ve found that I try to explain to them how or why I do what I do. It lets people see and understand what you’re thinking on their own because sometimes the summary of your thoughts don’t do them justice. Rather than reading the summary of a book, you can get a better understanding of what it’s saying by reading the whole book.

As for inspiration, take a look at the pictures I took on that foggy morning. The last one is my new desktop image.

A misty fall morning, on the Blue Ridge Parkway, after a night of rain.
© 2009 D L Ennis, All rights reserved.

NOTE: Permission for the use of my images is granted for personal websites and blogs but is to include a link back to this site and proper credit given to me, D L Ennis. Link to be used…(Visual Thoughts http://dlennis.wordpress.com/)

NOTE: Commercial use, and the creation of prints, must be purchased! For more information you can contact me here.

In honor of Thanksgiving Day: I’m thankful for the access to I have to the majestic natural resources of the North Shore. Here’s a shot taken from the in-laws’ property, a few years ago, on a foggy day.

FRÅN PROFFS. AV PROFFS. TILL PROFFS.
Proffsbutiken vänder vi oss uteslutande till professionella plattsättare och inredningsarkitekter. Sveriges nya proffs fackhandelskedja för kakel och klinkers. Det är hit du kommer när du vill ha det bästa, och vi tar ditt arbete på största allvar. Med oss i ryggen kan du vara säker på att materialet du väljer håller världsklass.I Proffsbutiken handlar sveriges professionella användare av kakel och klinker. (klicka här för mer info om våra 16 proffsbutiker).

Autumn in the backyard

Originally uploaded by dkzody

Although there is none of the usual tule fog for Thanksgiving in the Central Valley, the reason is bad news for us–no rain. The drought continues. Our weather is so glorious, the light is so golden, the trees are beautifully dressed in reds, yellows, and oranges. The smell of autumn is intoxicating as we have so many bay trees and citrus trees. Someone should make a perfume with that recipe.

With a whole week away from school for the holiday, I have plenty of time to rake leaves and linger in the backyard to enjoy this beautiful time of the year. Today, after taking care of the newly fallen foliage, I sat on the greenhouse wall and read and wrote in my journal. Behind me, in the saddle of the pear tree, a squirrel was munching on the nuts I had left there. He did not appreciate my presence even though I am the source of his bounty.

Suddenly there are leaves, small pears, and other debris, raining down on my head. The squirrel had scurried up above me and was shaking the branches. Perhaps he was only trying to pry lose some of the pears for his own lunch, but after I got up and left, I could see him nibbling the nuts again. He too is enjoying the lovely fall weather in the backyard.

Idag så stod följande artikel på SVT text-tv:

Uppehållstillstånd till salu

Svenska uppehållstillstånd kan köpas på svarta marknaden för 2.000 styck, avslöjar Ekot. Med ett sådant i sitt pass kan man sedan resa fritt i Europa.

Den som köper ett uppehållstillstånd på svarta marknaden måste dock på egen hand infoga det i passet.

Det kan bara göras av Migrationsverket men enligt den försäljare som Ekot talat med brukar pass och märken fogas samman av en medhjälpare i Grekland. Det är inte känt som om märkena är äkta eller förfalskningar.

Ja, oavsett om märken är äkta eller inte så stinker detta hästskit, eller apskit om man så vill, lång väg. För det här innebär att drösen av kriminella invandrare och flyktingar till Sverige kommer att öka ännu mer.

T ex är det ett brott att köpa sådana här uppehållstillstånd svart, och många utav dem som kommer hit med hjälp utav dessa är ju kriminella redan innan.

För ingen ska tro att alla de flyktingar och invandrare som kommer hit flyr ifrån någonting utan orsak, många gånger flyr de ifrån sina hemländer på grund utav att de har begått brott där.

Och vad är då bättre än att fly till ett land som tar emot vem som helst med öppna armar utan att kolla upp saker och ting ordentligt när det gäller personen ifråga?

Nej, i Sverige släpper vi alla, oavsett vilka brott som de har begått.

Sverige – De kriminellas fristad på jorden.

Dessutom är det när det kommer till kritan få utav de som kommer hit som verkligen är riktiga flyktingar.

Läs mer om de illegala uppehållstillstånden på bl a  http://www.svd.se/nyheter/inrikes/artikel_3849589.svd och

http://www.aftonbladet.se/senastenytt/ttnyheter/inrikes/article6190388.ab .

På tal om flyktingar och uppehållstillstånd: Läs även om saker som har med dessa att göra på http://frianyheter.wordpress.com/2009/11/25/31-arigt-flyktingbarn-nekas-uppehallstillstand/

…I think.

A table in the misty autumn woods on the Blue Ridge Parkway of Virginia.
© 2009 D L Ennis, All rights reserved.

NOTE: Permission for the use of my images is granted for personal websites and blogs but is to include a link back to this site and proper credit given to me, D L Ennis. Link to be used…(Visual Thoughts http://dlennis.wordpress.com/)

NOTE: Commercial use, and the creation of prints, must be purchased! For more information you can contact me here.