Floating leaves

   I took this picture yesterday during my morning walk, and was struck by the amount of leaves floating on my beloved Stow Lake. The leaves were in the northern most part of the lake, near one of the two areas where I would normally see turtles sunning themselves during the warmer months.
   The way that the leaves floated there made me think of animals that had perhaps perished below. Maybe it was their grave markers that had floated to the surface to remind us up here that they were no longer with us.
   As I write this, I realize that it may sound that I may be a little focused on death to see the leaves in this way, but the scene didn't strike me as negative, more of a somber reminder of lives lived and now gone.

Fall colors

   My wife Fernanda and I were recently in Portland, Oregon for an extended weekend vacation. It rained a lot when we were there, which was nice to experience as a break from parched San Francisco, where we live. It's said to rain quite a bit in Portland, and one can see it in the lushness of the vegetation; I think you could confidently call it a leafy city. I imagine that the plants and trees are happy to be there.
   From a previous visit and a smartphone weather application that I check regularly, I knew that Portland has a wider temperature range than San Francisco (I assume that most places do), and while I understood that would certainly mean hotter summers (which I don't like), I didn't think about how the colder and warmer temperatures would affect the color of the leaves.
   So, on our first day here, we took the TriMet number 20 bus eastbound on Burnside to walk around a neighborhood that we read might be interesting, the Kern district, and while getting a bit lost, came upon some quaint, quiet streets bursting with fall colors. There were oranges, greens and yellow ochre leaves on the trees and ground, and although the skies were grey and overcast, I could not imagine the scene being lit any better.
   Although it didn't occur to me consciously at the time, being in the midst of all these colors seemed both very new, while also familiar to me. I spent many years in New York City, my hometown, admiring the richness of colors like these before the frigid winters would set in, but have seen very little of this during the last ten years, living in San Francisco, which has about two seasons. Seeing such beautiful colors again felt more like I was seeing something in person that I had only seen in pictures before than something that I had just not seen in a while.
   It's amazing that the memories of my first forty two years of life can seem so distant, but at times one day to the next can feel like that too. I know that I cannot expect all days that I live to be great, or maybe even good, but I hope that I can at least have some beautiful moments of vibrancy on occasion during them.

Just one kind of vibrant moment

Ocean Beach

   This is exactly how I like the beach; empty, except for me.
   I can't recall why I seemed to be the only person here when I took this picture, as it was quite clear (no fog), which usually signifies warmer temperatures and more people than when it's windy and cool, which is the norm here. It was probably early on a Friday morning, and I'm guessing that it wasn't as comfortable as it appears below, although I don't recall the weather specifics. I like it when it's cool and a bit windy in the western part of San Francisco, because those conditions generally keep people away from the beach who don't go regularly, and also usually means that there are foggy conditions, conditions which I find beautiful and a bit mysterious, and have written about previously in this blog.
   The expansiveness of the horizon (where my eyes convince me that the sky meets the ocean), and seeing the sandy beach stretch off into the distance, makes me feel like less confined by the world I live in.

Graffiti

   I took this picture yesterday during my morning walk around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. I had seen this graffiti the day before, and was both bothered and interested by it, though mostly bothered. The graffiti covered an area of the northeast section of the lake, and was sprayed on a concrete curb, some wood logs which enclose a small garden area (visible partially on the left side of the picture), and on the bench seen below. I find it incredible that someone would choose such a beautiful, peaceful place to 'tag', but also know the feeling of being clouded as to how my actions might affect others. On one particular area the words "high as fuck" can be seen; I find this statement both telling and informative.

   The interest that I find in the graffiti, and the reason why I took some pictures there and am writing this blog entry, is in the meeting space of this very personal act of defacement and the very green place where it occurred. I find something beautiful in the feel of these two seemingly contradictory acts of creation (Stow Lake  and Golden Gate Park where very much created, built many years ago on very un-green sand dunes). Although the graffiti seems at first to be out of place (maybe because it is new to the area), on second thought its' status changes; it's not as if it belongs there, but more like it doesn't not belong there.

   In the picture below, the writing seems so perfectly placed, so correct, it's as if it is describing the scene beyond it. 

Orange ball

   I took the photograph at the bottom of the page a couple of days ago during a walk in Golden Gate Park and was drawn to what appears to be a dog toys' beautiful and vivid colors. I had seen it the day before, but did not photograph it until the next day. The weather had been unusual those days here in San Francisco, being both cool and clear (cool usually means foggy), reminding me of the fall season that I experienced every year growing up on the east coast. When I think about it, I recall with warmth the feel of those cool days, sandwiched as they were between the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter, and in particular I miss the spectrum of colors that the leaves would turn before falling from the trees and crisply crunching as I walked over them.
   There is no fall season here in San Francisco to speak of, so when the weather cools a bit or a strong wind has blown, I relish in walking on the leaves, even though the color variations are minimal and the crunching under my feet barely discernible. Many of the trees here do not become bare at any time of the year due to the mild climate, but the ones that do look vulnerable, appearing more sensitive and in tune with their environment.
   So as I think more about the ball in the picture below and why it's colors resonate for me, I am reminded that I usually am not a big fan of the orange-blue color combination, as it reminds me of the old Shea Stadium in New York, which I would pass by car occasionally over my years spent in New York, and whose exterior (featuring the colors below) was perhaps the ugliest architectural exterior I have ever seen in person. Despite the Shea Stadium association, or perhaps triumphantly overcoming and replacing it, this special ball has helped to remind me of some beautiful memories of my hometown, and the season that I must do without because of the mostly even, though lovely weather in my not so new home.

The original Shea Stadium exterior

The new and improved orange-blue association

Nest

   The nest below has been perched in this tree for the last six months or so. I remember seeing it being built by what seemed like multiple red-tailed hawks (it was definitely at least one), and when it was being constructed, the builder or builders seemed quite hurried and determined in their construction, yet I have yet to see any activity in it since that time, nor have I ever seen any chicks near it.
   Every day, when I walk the loop where the nest is, I pass it three times, and although I no longer expect to see any activity there, I often marvel at it's beauty, and sometimes think about it's apparently vacant status. It is so beautiful how this loose material has been put together in such a way that it has remained relatively unchanged since the time it was made, and although the lack of rain has, I imagine, contributed to its' longevity, I am still excited by how long it has lasted. It seems to me to be a reminder of the possibilities for beauty and creativity in the world that I live in, and I certainly need that reminder.

Entryway

 When I passed this tree early one morning, what I saw at its' base looked like little more than a shadow, a slight indent in the base, so I kept on walking. After perhaps fifteen more steps, I decided to go back and look a bit closer at what was actually there. Although I didn't lean in or bend down as low as I could have to get the best view possible, I saw what looked like a small entrance, almost door-like, as you see in the picture below.
   The idea of a door or entryway, real or metaphor, got me thinking about ways to think, or perhaps experience things a bit differently, as a door allows us entry or exit from one space to another. I thought about why I hadn't chosen to get much closer to this tree to see more clearly what I was photographing, and realized that I probably hadn't wanted this vehicle for my own possible transformation, even if momentary, to be interrupted by specificity.
   

What is that?

Nature rescue

The two pictures below were taken at the time of, and morning after an upsetting altercation of sorts with a family member. In the top picture, we had been eating here in San Francisco at a restaurant located near the bay, and I needed to leave the restaurant for a few minutes to collect myself and take in what had just happened. Luckily for me, this city has many beautiful places to admire nature in a peaceful setting, and this particular location was one of them. It was around seven o'clock in the evening, and the warmth of the day was quickly giving way as the wind propelled fog swept in through the golden gate. There is still something almost magical to me about watching the marine layer form in the sky here, even after seeing it for more than nine years. To me, there is little that can equal it for being, well, so organic.

   When the bottom picture was taken, I was taking my morning walk, still upset and unsure of exactly what had happened the evening before, and what my part in it was. I often times berate myself and feel guilty for things which I am not responsible, and when it comes to family matters, this can be especially tricky. As I walked, the exercise and beauty of the place helped me get back to a more peaceful, neutral place, at which point I saw the slug below. Seeing small things that are alive helps me to focus, and the very act of looking closely at things often puts me in a kind of meditative state.

   Beautiful, natural things have for years allowed me to better remember what I find truly important, and I try to put myself in these places as often as I can. Often, being in these environments is a kind of preemptive strike against feeling distraught at later times; sometimes, it's the specific cure. 

   

Alone island

I took this picture a couple of years ago while visiting China Camp State Park in San Rafael, California. It was quite warm that day, and being new to this particular park, my wife and I explored the area by car, looking for interesting things to see. About half way around the park loop, we saw something small in the distance, difficult to determine, which turned out to be the small island that you see below. We drove towards it, parked the car, then found a place to sit nearby.
   We sat under the hot sun on the edge of a hill and thought about what we were looking at, Was it man- made, and if not, how did it end up all alone there in the bay? It struck me as more alone than lonely at the time, and this feeling is for me still strong after visiting it again and thinking about it quite a bit over the last two years. There is for me a stoic quality about how utterly by itself it appears there, but there is also a strength and dignity to it. It seems like it's comfortable in it's solitude, and I admire and would like to attain that kind of peacefulness in myself.
 

Odd duck

   I don't know very much about ducks, but I enjoy watching the ways they interact with each other, and admire that they are able to survive without seeming to know where or when their next meal will come, or how the rest of the day, or their lives for that matter, will progress. It's also quite interesting to me that they seem to mostly stay together as a group (despite the occasional territorial squabble), yet when there is food available, they appear willing to throw their cohorts aside without care.
   I took the picture below a day or two ago during my daily walk, but I have noticed this one particular duck for at least a week, as it stands out from the rest (which I believe are mallards) in both size and color. I was drawn to this scene because I like the idea that this apparently different animal not only seems to be accepted by the others, but that it accepts the others in return. Perhaps it is just desperate for the comfort of the group, but it is also accepting of the group, something that I feel conflicted about in my own life at times.

Joking around

   My friend Jim took this picture of me in a store I like on Castro Street while we were waiting to see a movie at the wonderful and historic Castro theater here in San Francisco. The store carries quite a few cute and odd things, including a number of small hats like the one I am wearing in the picture below (they also had a cowboy hat and at least one other type that I can't remember now). I should add that it was entirely my idea that Jim and I should start trying these hats on, and that we should save them for posterity's sake by photographing ourselves wearing them. I am not trying to take away anything from my friend by saying this; I do this only to point out here that I tend to be more silly than the small group of friends that I have.
   If I was nothing but fun-loving, humorous and of good spirits, I would not be writing this blog piece, but I most certainly am not, and often times alternate between being nervous, angry, sad or depressed. During these times, I am usually anything but fun, and humor and silliness are far from my mind.
   I often think about these aspects of myself because they seem so far apart in spirit, and sometimes when I am feeling very happy and humorous, it occurs to me that I may be somewhat bipolar. It just seems like maybe my ups and downs are too dichotomous.
   There are plenty of times of course when I feel happy but not ecstatic, but it doesn't seem to be too often that I feel only somewhat down; these times don't seem to register and stay with me the way that the more animated emotions do, and I probably pay a lot more attention to the negative readings than the positive ones. I know all of this in a rational way when I think about it and the experiences that I've had, but it's certainly not something that I usually consider.
   Besides thinking of myself as bipolar in my extremes, I sometimes wonder if it's not just that I can sometimes just be truly happy; that this part of me is as real and genuine as the darker one, and that they coexist inside of me peacefully. I hope that this idea is a true one, even if I don't feel as peaceful as much as I would like to.

Mr. Silly Head

Making one's own way

  I took this picture outside the side employee entrance to my job. I see many beetles slowly moving in this area, particularly during the warmer months, and recently, have been seeing quick glimpses of quite a few mice as well (their many holes in the ground are much more visible than the creatures themselves are). All these animals help me to prepare for the work day ahead, as I find myself dreading entering my job at times. I find looking at the beetles particularly helpful because their small size forces me to look at them closely and intently, helping to free me from the negative and cynical ideas which can flood my mind quickly and pervasively.
   The beetles long trek across the concrete path that you see below is particularly moving for me, as they slowly make their way in a world which would seem like a terrifying world of giants if I was their size.

My hero

Fog

   We've had some summer-type days here in San Francisco, where the temperature reached around seventy degrees, and the skies were pretty clear, on some days in the morning time, when the marine layer usually dominates. 

   Even though I've now lived here more than nine years, I still tend to forget that there are warmer clear days at all. My wife and I reside closer to the Pacific Ocean, in the north midwestern part of the city, we are more vulnerable to the chilling winds and moisture that it tends to help form. It still is odd for me to be out in the morning and witness clear, blue skies, when those don't usually appear until mid afternoon, if at all.

   So after a few clearer days where the temperature thirty miles east reached one hundred, the fog has returned to my neighborhood, and this morning it was dense and beautiful. The fog blankets the landscape with a blue-gray light that is thick and moist. When I am out in nature, I tend to prefer it to the light of brilliant sunshine.

Welcome back

Claw

   This is a picture that I took some days ago in Golden Gate park, near Stow Lake. It is the claw of what I believe to be a crawdaddy, who has met an untimely death, probably at the hands of another animal (most likely a pelican). There it was, in the middle of the walking path, looking strange being dismebered from the rest of the small body it had come from, The rest of the body was nowhere to be found, and was possinly mostly being digested at that very moment.
   At first, I was saddened by the this sight, because although I had previously seen this creature in the mouth of pelicans, seeing the severed claw seemed more disturbing to me, till I realized that its' death provided food for another animal, and seeing this image was really only a visual manifestation of an occurence which I trust happens often and regularly at this location. In a way, it gave me hope by reminding me that the world is such an organic place, that life ebbs and flows, begins and ends, with or without me.

Dirty mouth

   The Canadian Goose pictured below had momentarily finished munching on some grass when he looked at me suspiciously as I passed. These animals can be nasty, and I always steer clear of them as I walk in the park, and was careful when photographing this badass as well.
   I was drawn to this particular goose, obviously, because he has a piece of grass hanging from his bill, which it may or may not be unaware of. It made me think of human beings in my culture, and how we rely on others to tell us, if we're so unaware, if we have food in a culturally frowned upon place. I admire the fact that this goose is not constrained in the same way that I am.

You've got something, uh, there.

In or out?

   I took this picture at the Presidio in San Francisco. The body of water you see here, called Crissy Field Marsh, often has some interesting wildlife in or near it, so I was looking for these things as I walked by it earlier today, when this unusual sight caught my eye. I looked at it first at the angle that you see here, then walked past it to get a better look at what was there to see. I was trying to determine, firstly, if the chain attached to the small metal pole sticking out of the ground was actually attached to the large wood trunk, and secondly, why it would be attached at all, which it was.
   It initially looked to me like a piece of art, a sculpture, because it didn't appear to have any other reason for being than that. I then thought about it a bit more, and realized that it must have some other relation, though it's not at all clear to me what that is, which is why I'm writing about it here.
   Is that small chain and pole trying to somehow hold that large object, trying to keep it from ending up in the marsh? Or maybe it's like a boat's life ring, giving the trunk something to grab on to, though it has no arms (the wood actually is shaped a bit like a four-legged animal's trunk with severed limbs). I looked around me and saw many dogs both on and off leashes, and wondered if it wasn't a bit like a pet.
   After ruminating more about what is in the picture and writing about it here, I'm still not really any closer to understanding what I see; possible meanings come and go in and out, and it's this quality of mystery that I find so moving in the world of objects.
   Come to think of it, I think it may be the very type of art that moves me after all.

Cowlick

   This is a picture that I took at my job some months ago, and it got buried deep beneath other pictures that I have taken since, so I had forgotten how much it moved me till I unearthed it earlier today. In it you see the hair on the back of a a Peruvian guinea pig (if I recall the breed name correctly), and the normally very long hair on this one has been cut to remove numerous knotted-beyond-repair areas, thus revealing this endearing cowlick (I should note that I work in a nursing facility, and this is one of a number of therapeutic service animals that live there). This breed has long hair, but it does at times need to be cut because of the tendency to knot, and although this often forms a cowlick, there was just something about the way this one was cut, stood up, and changed color sat the cowlick that attracted me.

   I recall in the films of Sergei Eisenstein that the director would often show close up camera shots of the tops of workers hats and heads as a way to (in my opinion) have the viewer empathize with them, focusing on their humanness. This picture strikes me along those lines, though it wasn't intended to. I did hastily crop the picture after I took it to better highlight the cowlick, but never intended to talk about it with anyone, let alone ruminate on it here.

   Besides the hair belonging to an incredibly cute guinea pig, the cowlick represents to me an imperfection, a wildness, and a laid-back quality that I wish that I embraced and possessed more of.

Untamable

Seal Rocks

   I have always loved the beach, especially when it is not hot or crowded. As an adult living in New York City, getting to the beach wasn't very easy, and so I rarely went. When I would go, it was generally with a group of people, and even if one of them had a car to take us there (instead of schlepping on the train), it was still a trek, and because this group would generally go doing 'beach season', the traffic was usually horrendous.

   Where I now live, I'm just a little more than two miles from the beach, yet I haven't been going there of late as much as I have in the past, yet when I am there I usually ask myself why that is so. The cool, sometimes cold air invigorates me, and the open expanse imparts to me a feeling of temporary freedom from the limits that I set on myself and the world I live in.

   In the picture below are a group of rock outcroppings called Seal Rocks, located at the western edge of Ocean Beach here in San Francisco. Although there are never any seals here that I'm aware of, I'm told that this used to be a favorite spot for Steller's Sea Lions and California Sea Lions. I now often see Cormorants here in large numbers, and this is also the place where I tossed my half of my father's ashes after he died (my sister is in possession of the other half of his body).

   In his will, my father asked to be placed by the sea after life, and I couldn't think of a better place to fulfill his wishes. I also can't imagine a more scenic grave site to visit.

Formerly for seals, now for my father

A Great Highway

   I took this picture earlier today as I was driving up from a place near the beach where I had gone to try to see passing gray and killer whales (I had overheard a conversation of a man who said he worked as an artist near the beach, and had been seeing them regularly during the day there over the past couple of weeks). Unfortunately, I didn't see any whales today, but will try again tomorrow, and I did get the opportunity to take this picture as I drove north towards my apartment.
   I've driven this road many times, and it rarely fails to instill in me a feeling of freedom and openness. It's usually foggy and cool (to cold) here, and when I'm in my car with the window open a bit, the chilly air rushing in makes me feel like I'm on vacation.

A week for blooming

   I hadn't been to my usual Golden Gate Park spots for one week after having surgery on my toe. During that time (and in fact during the entire winter) we've had very little rain here in northern California, and the temperatures have at times been unseasonably warm. Yesterday, when I returned to my beloved early morning spot and slowly rounded one of my favorite corners I came upon this sight, which you see in the picture below. The (what I believe to be) apple blossom trees there, especially the one shown, was suddenly in rather spectacular bloom. Although there are sometimes pretty wonderful changes that can occur here on a nearly daily basis, especially after a good rain, this one I found quite remarkable.

   I sometimes feel emotionally that when I am 'out of the loop' for awhile the world and its' people are or will pass me by, and will become something that I don't know or recognize. I know rationally that this is not usually so, but it seems that I may in fact mistaken.

   

Life abandoned and life taken

   During my morning walk in Golden Gate Park today I witnessed so much life;  I also felt the allusion to it. I saw animals hunting, the remains of animals who had been killed (apparently for food), and heard the sounds of the world around me waking and starting the day.
   In years past, I might have found the sight of the dead body of a Muscovy Duck to be too sad to take a picture of, but now I have what I think is a better appreciation for the ebbs and flows of existence. I believe that my advancing age, my daily walks, and the work that I do (where I am so aware of the sometimes fragile state of the living) have all contributed to a more comprehensive understanding of mortality.

An egg left at the side of a walking path

End of the line for one and a meal for others

Behind the bison paddock

   When I first came to live in San Francisco almost nine years ago, the bison paddock in Golden Gate Park was a refuge for me. I loved to watch these animals, admired how docile and peaceful they seemed, loved how tourists would come to see them, but not so many that it would disturb the quiet and peace of the place. I would bring visitors to see them, and even managed on one occasion to leave ecstatically with a clump of their stinky fur that had become wedged in one of the fences containing them. I also saw my first wild red tailed fox here.
   Over the years I have become enamored with other parts of the park (especially Stow Lake), and have visited the bison less, but over the past year or so have regularly been visiting the North Lake, which is just west, across Chain of Lakes Drive East, and crossing back over east, one finds themselves behind the bison paddock, as pictured below.
   It was here that I had my longest encounter with a coyote, and I regularly hear owls calling when it is nearing dusk. It's behind a paddock, and outside of it my mind tends to run freer than usual.

There are bison yonder in those fields

It's stuff dreams are made of

   I took this picture at a place called the Sloat Garden Center here in San Francisco. The combination of the writing on the man's shirt, his back, and his ponytail appearing from below his baseball cap formed a message with I found, and still do, both funny and obscure . On the one hand, it seems amusing because the dreams that the shirt is referencing seem from this rear view of the man seem to be about his style, which seem to me more like a nightmare; but the 'dreams' may also be a kind of half-sleep state where the kind of meaning being offered in the picture may only be imagined in that state, leaving me with an overly simplified reading.  

   I hope that the very act of my trying to understand the image helps me get closer to the the second type of understanding.

Tree top

   This is a picture of a tree that I pass almost daily, and when I do, I invariably find myself looking at the top of it. I do this partially because much of it's lower portion is obscured from my sight from the angle I generally see it, but also because this very obscuring steers my eyes up into a different visual field, a view illuminated by the early morning light. This time of day produces colors that I find soothing and beautiful, no matter the weather.
   I wrote in another blog earlier about my shoes, and how they are significant for me in the space where they connect me to the ground. This picture illustrates for me a similar feeling, in that it suggests another meeting point, one which feels less personal and more ethereal than where my feet meet the ground, but no less significant. It points to the difficult relationships between objects in the world that I see.

Feathers

   This is a picture I took of the back of a Muscovy duck, near Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park. The Muscovy duck might appear to not be incredibly attractive to many (initially to me, as well), but I find  the way that they interact with each other endearing. Upon close inspection, their feathers are pretty great as well.

What to trees do at night?

   When I arrive daily in Golden Gate Park for my walk, it's often pretty dark, depending on the weather and the time of year. The two trees that you see in the photograph below are located near the southeast corner of Stow Lake, and I am often drawn to look at them, partially because of their shape, but also because of their place on a very small island in the lake. As the sun is just beginning to illuminate the area, it looks to me at times like these trees have been kind of guardians of the lake, and as corny and hippie as this may sound (and I do find that somewhat embarrassing), it's the way I feel.
   If myself and many of the animals found there have been sleeping when it's dark, what have these trees been doing?

Empty House

   It was raining rather hard when I saw some people ahead of me glance over at what looked like a large leaf on the ground. I didn't want to get very wet and spend the rest my work day in wet clothing, so I continued on. As I passed by it again before getting into my car, I looked at it more closely; its' color and design were so vibrant that I figured that it must be made of plastic, and nudged it with my foot to turn it over. I realized that it was the shell of a turtle, empty but for a bit of its' former occupants' tissue. I was exhilarated and saddened when I thought about it later, and remorseful that I hadn't taken it with me.

The allure of the ocean

   I live about two and a half miles from the Pacific Ocean. When my wife and I first visited San Francisco close to ten years ago, one of the first places that I dragged her to was the beach. I grew up in New York City, and although I was never technically very far from the ocean there, getting to it seemed like a tremendous hassle, and going to a beach which wasn't busy with people seemed even harder, and potentially dangerous if going in the off-season.

   Although I don't go to the beach as much as when I first moved here (partly because I've found so many secluded, beautiful places to see in nearby Golden Gate Park, partly because I'm sometimes not in the mood to lug through the sand), I still find the allure of the beach wonderful. There's something about seeing the ocean in the distance that makes me feel like i'm approaching freedom, even though I don't always feel that way when I'm actually at the beach. Like many things in my life, the allure is often more satisfying than the actual thing.

Slowing down

   I took this picture in Golden Gate Park after some especially heavy rains had fallen the day earlier.
I was walking very slowly, and intently looking closely at things which would normally go unnoticed by me had I been walking at my normal pace. I decide at times to walk this way to help me slow down, and when I do so I really feel connected to the world around me. This little creature moved very slowly too, and together we seemed to relish our respective places in our environs at that moment. With the help of my wife days later, I learned that this animal is a type of Woodlouse, and it generally thrives in moist environments. We both like the park when it's moist.