Me. My Dog. My Lake. My Night.

Jack and I took a three-mile long walk around Lake Merritt tonight. We circled it once. It was dark, with only a slight breeze, the air crisp. It felt like fall.

It's placid, the water rippling slightly, the reflection of the Oakland Tribune building casting wavering red light on the black lake.

I don't know why, but something about moments like these make me nostalgic. Nostalgic for what, I cannot tell you. But I feel an overwhelming sense of calm as I look at the silhouettes in the lighted windows of the lake-view appartment. Silhouettes of lamps and potted plants and people. Sometimes people are having parties. Streamers hang in the windows. Sometimes people are sitting outside on the balcony, overlooking the joggers, the walkers, the girls walking their dogs.

I never knew people actually fish in Lake Merritt before tonight. But they were there, a dozen of them, maybe, casting their lines into the murky depths, placing their catches in the dingy white buckets they brought along. The men sit on the concrete sidewalk, their wives or girlfriends sit nearby on a bench, talking in some language I don't understand.

A late-night community. When there's not enough time to squeeze everything into the daylight hours, some find solace in the relative safety of the Lake.

I wonder what is happening in the various office buildings with flourescent lights still blaring on in the darkness. Yes, much of it must be so boring. But I like to imagine important, exciting things happening. Deadlines being met, stories being told. But I am glad to be on the outside. Outside the fluorescent lights. Outside with at least the illusion of fresh air, which is sometimes tainted with the distinct smell of algae.

And I think of home. My house may have a view of a cemetery instead of a lake, but it's mine, with my silhouettes.