The saving grace of San Francisco is fog.
Blisteringly cold days and nights have found their way to our peninsular place, but only on the edges of cold where warmth may meet and create precipitative wonder. Moist air rapidly chilled, heated, chilled creates a loving blanket of surreal wonder… light diffusion and asphalt reflection. Photowalks at night become de rigeur. Silence finds its way to the thoroughfares… nature always has the power to quiet us, and the city is transformed (once again) to someplace else that it always is, just now, not then.
However, fog can also be deemed pejorative, as in a clouded mind. If such the case, a foggy year has been had.
Two-thousand and nine will be seen in retrospect as a year of chaos in the future of my aged sight. Carefully constructed dreams of success and well-placement now lost into the illusions they came from. Honesty, truth, came.
A short year ago I was optimistic for the golden parachute, held in the hand of a man with snake oils and business manuals in his backpack. Today, I am optimistic that having faced truth in his many coats, even in the presence of little deaths, a brilliant horizon remains… one now a little clearer.
Challenges withstand. Weak economies, failing businesses, frustrations… the structure has changed little but all the scrims are different. We are all full of illumination and our charge as humans is to contain it in ways that we shine light within ourselves to see the path through life, but to poke holes wisely and let the light out for others to share and use on their own journey. For myself, liberation has come in the efforts of letting much light through, reflecting it off the urban nature and organic construction that lives in unison in our fog-endearing city. Artists are people who were born to share their light.
It is all an illusion. A prayer revisited religiously.