Sunday, 22 August 2010

Soft City

It's getting darker. The fog rolls in and everything seems softer. Buildings and cars, people who walk at the far end of the street. The whole financal district appears strangely vague. The upper floors are transparent, almost ghost-like. God knows what kinds of transactions they're dealing up there.

It's getting lighter. We're anchored somewhere in San Francisco, but I'm half asleep and half dead. There's music in the fog horns. The deep basses work their way through the sea and the city. Single, unadorned notes. A mystical minimalism. It's serene, and it reminds me more and more about the composer Arvo Pärt. There's a meditative quality that sinks in, somehow religious.

It makes me think about a church consert back in Norway. How the conductor held the silence in one of Pärt's compositions for maybe a minute after the last note. The audience fell apart in total silence. Our minds fell apart. The church fell apart.

Yes, we're anchored in Aquatic Park. The morning mist is dense and blue. We can hear the distorted echoing from sea lions barking underneath the breakwater. It's like iron clangs.

And there are other sounds around. We hear the soft splashes from people swimming. The morning is very cold, still there are swimmers everywhere. They are strangely low in the water. These are long distance swimmers, and we once met a couple all the way down at Coyote Point. It was a six hours swim.