Thursday, July 28, 2022

WE'RE GLAD IT'S NOT THERE

Last night was densely foggy on Nob Hill. Dog walkers disappeared from view within a block of passing, the glow from the distant street lights manifested itself as orbs of light surrounded by purple greys. Remarkably, the sounds of traffic and noisy pedestrians on Polk Street were distinct even two blocks away. A night fit for man and beast.

This morning's pipe smoking walk felt moist. San Francisco summers are like Autumn elsewhere, the hot months are still to arrive. I expect the end of August through the third week of October to be insufferable.

Three years ago the heat coming in from the sun in mid-afternoon at one of the eateries on Stockton Street was surreal, which I remember distinclty for some reason. And of course my right leg is a vicious bitch in hot weather, painful and not quite functional, so I'm not looking forward to that. On the other hand, I often feel somewhat cold during the warmest part of the day nowadays -- probably scrawniness and bloodpressure meds working in tandem -- so it might be quite bearable. When it's one hundred and ten in Texas, it's ninety in San Rafael, and high sixties in San Francisco. There are mighty good reasons not to visit the suburbs. Everything between outside of the city is suburbs, all the way to Greenland.
Either that or Deliverance country and Mad Max.
Banjos, fast food.
Auntie with the gay pistacchio hued hat was doing walkies this morning, and deaf as a post uncle who always wears sunglasses was about also. A few dog walkers, some joggers, and people with cups of coffee bought at Starbucks because they can't make their own.

A bowlful of C & D Anthology to start the day. At this rate I'll have to open another tin soon. Perhaps I should check out what's in the shipping boxes from two years ago. I had shoved them in the hallway closet, to save for a rainy day.

Precipitate fog is "rainy", right?



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