Fog

It was foggy this morning, but just like every other day, by 11am there was blazing sunshine. Not just California sun, Berkeley sun. Sun that leaves it at a perfect 26, that leaves the air dry. Not too hot, but hot enough to sunbathe.

It was foggy this morning, my head. Still integrating duvets and dreaming of foreplay, lounging and hiding, holding on till the last moment of possibility. Fuzzy sets are real things you know.

It was foggy this morning, and in the morning cool I trotted off to class. Is this why I'm here? Rumor has it that most of the probability faculty will leave soon... do I care? Why am I here? With no staff there would just be the town, and the yanks, and the frats, and the co-ops. And me.

It was foggy this morning, when I left my halls of residence: International House. Half foreign half American, half undergrad half grad, half Cripps half Docket. So many people here are just in Berkeley for a semester or two, forming blips in the four year path, temporary friends like the woman on the plane who arrived here in '69.

It was foggy this morning, not like London fog hugging the streets, but far overhead. Not like London at all with its pervading nihilism, the party to end the world. Here the history is not long enough to create an identity, so the identity comes from the Dream for the future, not the horror of the past. The fog here means that you can't see the bay down the hill and it looks like you are on a floating island, far above everything. I am back in a bubble town.

It was foggy this morning, but just like every other day, by 11am there was blazing sunshine. Every glorious fucking day.



more sensible posts will follow



but I need time



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