“Fog everywhere. Fog up the river where it flows among green airs and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city…. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.”- Charles Dickens “Bleak House”
I woke up early on Sunday morning. The fog was really thick. I could barely see the building across the street. I knew I should grab the camera and go out but I was feeling lazy and Sunday morningish so I kicked back with the New York Times. Around Noon I finally got some energy and headed down to the river.
The fog had lifted a bit
At around 95th Street we have tennis courts run by the Riverside Clay Tennis Association. They say these are the only red clay courts in the city. Sandy flooded them and dumped a significant amount of Hudson River mud and…on them but they reopened in 5 days. It is December but the players are out
Is that Nessie? Has the Loch Ness Monster come to The Hudson?
Sadly, no. It is a diving duck. Not being a birdwatcher or Ornithologist, I can’t tell you its name.
“The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of each other. It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt damned peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.”
― Eugene O’Neill, Long Day’s Journey Into Night