A blog about photography & transformative art
It was only a week ago that I was writing about the heavy ground fog and smoke that was hugging our hamlet here north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Picturesque (albeit laden with small particulate matter) it presented me with a treasure of photographic opportunities. Now it is raining.
In hindsight, after a tempest I can always see it—the mark on the trail, the warnings, the storm brewing. It seems so obvious. That is the way of the path. Seldom does anything really smack us unexpectedly. When there is trouble ahead, there are signs. Always.
It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I'd been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday's gray drizzle seemed appropriate.
"Mark!"—my father always bellowed my name—"You could get run over by a car crossing the street. When your number is up, it's up." He was one of the few people I've ever known who could be a fatalist and optimist at the same time. In this case, despite his lecturing tone, he was mostly trying to be an optimist. That kind of talk, however, never made me feel very hopeful.
Suddenly my day gets jumbled with facts. I stare at my computer screen and the screen talks back. Wanting the last word, I start a conversation. This is a bad idea. The computer code that is my fledgling web site starts swimming around the room. It's time for fresh air. I go to the park and see my tree.
The fog lifted today. I could tell before I even opened my eyes. It was the garbage men that gave it away. The fog muffles the sound of the Tuesday-morning garbage truck and this morning I could hear it loud and clear. The men were shouting and the truck's hydraulics were howling. Right then at 5:00 AM I knew the fog was gone.
For over a week we've woken here to a low-lying shroud of fog. In the hazy, first moment of waking I am confused. I am fooled into thinking that I'm opening my eyes as a young boy—and discovering a silent blanket of fresh snow out my window. I think I am five again.
It is later in the day than normal. I prefer walking after sunrise. By now the sun is too high. There are too many people. The park playground is full of screaming kids and their proud, young mothers. No one notices me. I glide past them like a specter.
During a walk near the local school I noticed a man on a roof of one of the prefabricated buildings that clutter the schoolyard. A giant tub of roofing cement in front of him, he was frozen in an impossible position. Seagulls walked around him, flew over him. He remained frozen except for one arm that swung back and forth as it lathered black goop onto the homely, little roof.
Dragging myself out, I walk in a daze out into a cold fog and down to the park. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I veer off the path into the wet-sponge grass. My feet instantly get soaked, affirming my theory that once your feet are wet, the day is shot. It's time to go back to bed. I feel the sogginess seep into my new, white socks. I look down at my old, sad sneakers, thinking to myself that they are past their prime. I feel like an alien on a planet of someone else's choosing. I shrug it off—not enough coffee I suppose. Then I look up. Something is different.
