failed urban literature
The city was sick. Water was taking it away.
This uniquely multi-colored, North American city, so dependent on shadow and warmth to express itself, was being smothered. Ten days of wet and rain for a hundred miles with relief coming twenty miles east of the capital city. The shoulders on either side of the bay hunched under The bay was an industrial swamp. A comfortable place for the anonymous foreign steamers to wade their way to the steal womb of Port Oakland. Purple pollution trails, garbage, long dead Asian flotsam, all seemed more inevitable and unmysterious. Streets had been black with wet for ten days. The hills and valley of it were a uniform gray. Tops of buildings disappeared as everyone looked down, scouting for puddle-traps. The gutter canals transported garbage efficiently to loaded sewers. Potholes filled quickly and auto tires emptied them slowSweating rain and chilled for ten days. the tenth day without any real sun. Reliable, inevitable Californian sun. The The kind that ages buildings imperceptibly and . Wind and rain swirl through the heights of downtown, up Market and over the hump of the Height, and al At first thHidden in their offices, resigned unwilling to walk far for lunch. Under awnings. In the entrances to BART. In bus shelters. At home and putting off errands yet another day. It is a siege. With each gray, wet day fewer people are on the sidewalks.