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Jul. 30th, 2001 07:47 amIt's a foggy morning in San Francisco.
The kind of fog that wraps around you like a jealous lover and tries to isolate you from the world. Someone has stolen our hills and replaced them with a grey wall that undulates like a living thing.
This fog didn't come in on little cats' feet, it slid in. Rolling around the hills, swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge, mocking the tourists waiting to take pictures. For the fog is not to be upstaged by the mere works of man! No, today there is only room for one diva in the City by the Bay.
Somewhere out in that swirling gray cloud of probability is my SF, but there's another one there as well. Out there Sam Spade is tracking down the black bird, trying to find out who killed Miles Archer... a lone vampire walks with unaccustomed ease back to his lair, spared the cursed rays of the sun by the city's blanket... dogs bark at things just beyond the range of human perception or understanding... a thousand stories walk down each damp street, and always the fog acts as both director and stage master; letting us catch the rare glimpse of another's solitary life.
Listen! somewhere close by, the Dead and the Airplane jam with Coltraine and Monk.. can't you just hear them? Maybe they're down this alleyway...
...or maybe that leads to a Chinese dragon, coiled and waiting for New Year's Day. If the firecrackers drive off the evil spirits, what of the fog? Our guardian and guide; we leave our hearts in San Francisco deposited carefully in a fog bank until we can return.
You can tell the natives, we revel in these mornings. We walk a little slower, absorbing each tendril as it caresses us. We love the city, and she loves us right back. Let the tourists shiver in their hotel doorways. We know that this is the time when all the possible San Franciscos come together; as Niven pointed out in "For a Foggy Night." We know what to do.
Put on a trench coat, grab your fedora, and walk out into the swirling mists. And be sure to lose yourself there.
It's a foggy morning in San Francisco
The kind of fog that wraps around you like a jealous lover and tries to isolate you from the world. Someone has stolen our hills and replaced them with a grey wall that undulates like a living thing.
This fog didn't come in on little cats' feet, it slid in. Rolling around the hills, swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge, mocking the tourists waiting to take pictures. For the fog is not to be upstaged by the mere works of man! No, today there is only room for one diva in the City by the Bay.
Somewhere out in that swirling gray cloud of probability is my SF, but there's another one there as well. Out there Sam Spade is tracking down the black bird, trying to find out who killed Miles Archer... a lone vampire walks with unaccustomed ease back to his lair, spared the cursed rays of the sun by the city's blanket... dogs bark at things just beyond the range of human perception or understanding... a thousand stories walk down each damp street, and always the fog acts as both director and stage master; letting us catch the rare glimpse of another's solitary life.
Listen! somewhere close by, the Dead and the Airplane jam with Coltraine and Monk.. can't you just hear them? Maybe they're down this alleyway...
...or maybe that leads to a Chinese dragon, coiled and waiting for New Year's Day. If the firecrackers drive off the evil spirits, what of the fog? Our guardian and guide; we leave our hearts in San Francisco deposited carefully in a fog bank until we can return.
You can tell the natives, we revel in these mornings. We walk a little slower, absorbing each tendril as it caresses us. We love the city, and she loves us right back. Let the tourists shiver in their hotel doorways. We know that this is the time when all the possible San Franciscos come together; as Niven pointed out in "For a Foggy Night." We know what to do.
Put on a trench coat, grab your fedora, and walk out into the swirling mists. And be sure to lose yourself there.
It's a foggy morning in San Francisco
