After a long day’s afternoon and a late dinner meeting at the Cedar Tavern — when did that atrium skylight thing happen upstairs, or have I just not been paying attention? — I come home brimming with Things To Say, looking forward to a session of the Pepper time that has been so elusive lately.
Outside the mist is dense and freakish, game yellowy lights gleaming from upper windows in the dark Court Street office towers, sound slushing in strange waves over wet tidal streets. It’s near midnight, and fog strokes the night into a long alley of forms wrapped in gauzy, indistinct absence. It’s a Ray Bradbury fog, a John Carpenter fog, an Edgar Allan Poe fog. It’s a fog that makes you want to run away from home, and a fog that just might deliver you to a dark passing carnival if you wish hard enough, or out loud.
Inside, the phone doesn’t work and I have no Internet service. Again. Is that a case of bloggus interruptus, or what? As of January 12th, my home phone has been out for half of 2005. That’s a lifetime, in dog years. Woof woof.
Whew! The fog jag had shades of Tom Waits’ “Emotional Weather Report”…
“late night and early morning low clouds
with a chance of fog
chance of showers into the afternoon
with variable high cloudiness
and gusty winds, gusty winds
at times around the corner of
Sunset and Alvorado
things are tough all over
when the thunder storms start
increasing over the southeast
and south central portions
of my apartment…it’s cold out there
colder than a ticket taker’s smile
at the Ivar Theatre, on a Saturday night
flash flood watches covered the
southern portion of my disposition
there was no severe weather well
into the afternoon, except for a lone gust of wind in the bedroom
..”"
Very nice. I especially like the “game yellowy lights”; a cheap death of illumination thing.
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