May 26 2001
Fog City
This looks to be the second foggy day in a row. Sometimes you can tell that it will be sunny by noon, but not yesterday and not today. Good thing I like the fog. If you don’t like it, get out of the city.
Foggy nights make me feel like I’m in a Bogart movie or a novel by Hammett or Chandler. The streets are slick from the moisture and the fog swirls around the streetlights like ghosts, making them look mysterious. Very film noir.
The fog seems to muffle all the city noises, even the cars speeding down the hill in front of our place and the birds in the tree outside our window. It makes everything seem like a dream — the pastel buildings on the hills misted over, the bay full of what looks like white clouds just sitting on the water and allowing peeks of the famous orange bridge. And of course, the low, deep sound of the fog horns under it all, the bass line of the song.
The hush is all over my apartment, too, except for me typing and Jack the Siamese kitten. She is explaining to me in loud piercing Siamese that she is either bored or lonely or about to throw up, so I better go and see what’s going on.
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