Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Enchantment
Yes, indeed...it's 3:00 a,m, here on the Left Coast - and all is silent as a soft tomb, except for the mournful sounds of the fog horns off San Francisco Bay.
The night is dark, and I am awake in the warm glow of this living room lamp, listening. It's like hearing some sort of primitive animal ritual, and i imagine large - very large - prehistoric creatures that have come alive in the dark cloak of foggy night to meet and greet one another.
I don't remember when I have been this happy.
Though I am comfortable under this deep russet blanket knitted lovingly by Paul, a part of me wants to put on a warm sweater and three shawls and walk out into the feline black of Pierce Street, down to the Bay - only several blocks away - and commune with the creatures whose low voices I am hearing: they seem to be calling to me to come play. A most beautiful sound....punctuated by an occasional antiphony of higher-voiced horns replying to the resonant insistence of the larger horns: they seem to court one another.
I think about the boats and various crafts these fog horns are meant to guide, and I wonder who pilots them: Are these mythic water folks, cradling cups of hot coffee between cold hands, sleepily going about their daily work keeping the coastline supplied with various goods? Are the tips of their noses cold and wet, like human sea dogs? Have they had breakfast yet, and when they do, who cooks it for them? A crusty old bay dog of a boat chef, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth? Are they bundled against the chill wet morning? Did they ever want to do other things with their lives? Or are they so in love with the early morning horns that they have devoted their lives to them for eternity? As I sit hear listening to the ghostly concert of horn against horn, i can see how devotion could develop, and how a life lived in the fog could appeal.
Peter and i are on a week's break from the rigors of Barter, where the Summer season is coming to a close. We are scouting places to live here in San Francisco , since we will sooner than later be moving here, and we will be starting a new chapter of true adventure: a new city, new past-times, paid and otherwise....new selves, you might say. And we are both tremendously excited about it all. At my age, it's stunning to contemplate this shift, this seismic change from one coast to the other, but it's a contemplation long in coming: we have wanted to move to this fabulous city ever since we first came here together some 5 years ago to celebrate Paul's birthday....and now, after moving from NYC, spending several years back at Barter, we are finally making this move. This week is about finding out how we can do it with a bit more ease.
And i want to write. Here in San Francisco, I will be a writer, and even as I type those words - I want to write - I wonder how many countless people have written the same, as they have moved to this brilliant town. How many others have wakened to the sounds of these fog horns at 3:00 a.m. and rhapsodized in this way, inspired by their need to express themselves? Which leads me to believe this:
I shall now consider these after-hours fog horns as my official MUSES! So rather than envisioning them as enormous Tyrannosaurus Rex-like monsters, I now see them as large gorgeous women, draped in foggy splendor, singing out to me in their deepest richest alto and contralto voices, intoning to me "Come out here and be our free-est, feel your deepest, write your best! Let us guide you through the fog-drenched nights of your very soul, and trust us to get you where you need to go!"
Each gorgeous dame is draped in long flowing wraps of whispy, yet substantial white fog, some of it grey and some of it tipped in 3:00 a.m. inky blackness, like tips of ermine on a monarch's robe, and as they open their ghostly mouths to speak, out of each "O" comes these aching tones of desire, which always seem to end in a question: "Do you hear me?" " Do you follow?" - And even as I sit in this cozy 3:48 a.m. living room, securely fastened to my blanket and chair, follow them I most certainly do.
The night is dark, and I am awake in the warm glow of this living room lamp, listening. It's like hearing some sort of primitive animal ritual, and i imagine large - very large - prehistoric creatures that have come alive in the dark cloak of foggy night to meet and greet one another.
I don't remember when I have been this happy.
Though I am comfortable under this deep russet blanket knitted lovingly by Paul, a part of me wants to put on a warm sweater and three shawls and walk out into the feline black of Pierce Street, down to the Bay - only several blocks away - and commune with the creatures whose low voices I am hearing: they seem to be calling to me to come play. A most beautiful sound....punctuated by an occasional antiphony of higher-voiced horns replying to the resonant insistence of the larger horns: they seem to court one another.
I think about the boats and various crafts these fog horns are meant to guide, and I wonder who pilots them: Are these mythic water folks, cradling cups of hot coffee between cold hands, sleepily going about their daily work keeping the coastline supplied with various goods? Are the tips of their noses cold and wet, like human sea dogs? Have they had breakfast yet, and when they do, who cooks it for them? A crusty old bay dog of a boat chef, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth? Are they bundled against the chill wet morning? Did they ever want to do other things with their lives? Or are they so in love with the early morning horns that they have devoted their lives to them for eternity? As I sit hear listening to the ghostly concert of horn against horn, i can see how devotion could develop, and how a life lived in the fog could appeal.
Peter and i are on a week's break from the rigors of Barter, where the Summer season is coming to a close. We are scouting places to live here in San Francisco , since we will sooner than later be moving here, and we will be starting a new chapter of true adventure: a new city, new past-times, paid and otherwise....new selves, you might say. And we are both tremendously excited about it all. At my age, it's stunning to contemplate this shift, this seismic change from one coast to the other, but it's a contemplation long in coming: we have wanted to move to this fabulous city ever since we first came here together some 5 years ago to celebrate Paul's birthday....and now, after moving from NYC, spending several years back at Barter, we are finally making this move. This week is about finding out how we can do it with a bit more ease.
And i want to write. Here in San Francisco, I will be a writer, and even as I type those words - I want to write - I wonder how many countless people have written the same, as they have moved to this brilliant town. How many others have wakened to the sounds of these fog horns at 3:00 a.m. and rhapsodized in this way, inspired by their need to express themselves? Which leads me to believe this:
I shall now consider these after-hours fog horns as my official MUSES! So rather than envisioning them as enormous Tyrannosaurus Rex-like monsters, I now see them as large gorgeous women, draped in foggy splendor, singing out to me in their deepest richest alto and contralto voices, intoning to me "Come out here and be our free-est, feel your deepest, write your best! Let us guide you through the fog-drenched nights of your very soul, and trust us to get you where you need to go!"
Each gorgeous dame is draped in long flowing wraps of whispy, yet substantial white fog, some of it grey and some of it tipped in 3:00 a.m. inky blackness, like tips of ermine on a monarch's robe, and as they open their ghostly mouths to speak, out of each "O" comes these aching tones of desire, which always seem to end in a question: "Do you hear me?" " Do you follow?" - And even as I sit in this cozy 3:48 a.m. living room, securely fastened to my blanket and chair, follow them I most certainly do.
Labels: San Francisco
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