The Power and the Fog

The other night I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep. My window was open and the complex was spectacularly silent. So silent that I noticed two things: 1) I couldn't hear the fog horn, and 2) I could hear louder-than-normal buzzing sounds from the large, nearby power generators. My mind started to wander--as it so often does--about how these two details would play out were my life a novel (remember, this is something I do).

I love the fog horn. It is used on some nearby, very-close-to-shore islands. The sounds make me feel like I'm living off of a some rugged, mist-shrouded coastline where lonely sailors must be carefully guided to shore. Of course the reality is much less romantic. I think the islands have something to do with oil drilling. But nonetheless, I find the fog-horn lulling, and I like the nights that are punctuated with those deep tones better.

I do not like the power generators. They hang from tall, splintered dark wood columns and are connected via large thick cabling that stretches out to streets and communities beyond. Their hums have come to symbolize for me all the bad things about industrialization. And I can't help but wonder if their crackling sends out negative energy that settles upon us and colors the happenings of our quiet little neighborhood.

A couple blocks up from our apartment there is a Buddhist temple. I am not Buddhist, but I like the little I know about their beliefs and philosophies. Sometimes I see the monks strolling up our street. They always smile and wave and I like their presence. They make up for the power generators.

There are some other interesting facts about my street that would play out in the novel of my life. Firstly, we almost moved to this street when we first moved to the LBC over three years ago. We liked one of the apartments about two blocks from where we now live. And P, my fling from our Cabo trip last year, actually did live in that very apartment complex.

And it's interesting how we found this apartment. I was driving back from a failed surfing attempt early one morning. I was tired and cold and worried about finding a new place to live. I decided to drive home a different way and took residential streets instead of the main one. I looked back and forth each time I crossed through an intersection, without finding much and without expecting to find much. As I approached my current street I looked at the name of it and had a good feeling. Not sure why. At this time, I didn't realize it was the same street P lived on and the same one we almost moved to three years prior. I looked first to the right and happened to swing my head to the left just before it was too late to see down the street. There was a big banner advertising a place for rent. What I saw in that instance didn't impress me, but I had a feeling I should go back. I drove up, parked under a big tree and called the number. The rent and the timing and all the other things we wanted in an apartment (at that time) were right. A week later we signed the lease. A month later we were living there.

I know I do not live in a novel. But if I did, a setting of an apartment complex like ours nestled between the coast and a Buddhist temple, bathed in the hiss of power generation and soothed by night-time fog-horns would be a good one. We almost lived here before. And I met, and once liked very much, a boy who did. And then we ended up moving here. All these things were unconnected but maybe there's some greater reason for us living here now. Or maybe it's just all coincidence. Either way, it's been an adventure.

I hope tonight is foggy.