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.  

Natural city

   I grew up in New York City, where buildings dominate the landscape, making the sky and ground seem like afterthoughts to the plans and needs of the roads and grid. When it would rain, the moisture from the sky would only seem like an annoyance, and the changes in the shape of the ground would be counteracted by the needs of the city (as when the uptown-bound IRT subway comes above ground at 125th street so the electrical current can continue to flow where the earth dips in that area).
   After living for eight years in San Francisco, the shape of the hilly terrain still seems to me to dictate to the city built upon it, and when clouds roll in, or rain falls, there is a strong sense of the movement overhead, a realization that I am here on a piece of the planet, and all that is around me is moving and fluctuating. My own powerlessness in this scheme is somehow reassuring.

Sutro Tower in the distance, photographed from a balcony in The Castro. 

Duck and egg

   Two days ago, as I was walking around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park, I noticed this duck perched on top of a gravel heap. It struck me as odd that it would be there, so I moved closer to it. As I did, it moved a little, wary of me, but then stopped, at which point I took this picture. It wasn't till later, when I uploaded the photo to my computer to see it larger, that I noticed that there was an egg at its' feet.

The next day I returned to the spot, and the egg was still there.

Cinematic rescue

   This is a photo from the San Francisco Chronicle of a rescue of people from a capsized boat off the coast of San Francisco after dusk on January 27th, 2012. Although I don't generally enjoy the dramatic in visual arts, this image here just astounds me. The illumination of the scene (even though it was probably produced by a powerful light), seems to come from nowhere. It's as if this is a historical painting, with Jesus Christ being carried from the cross instead of a fisherman from the Pacific Ocean.

Horizon less

   I took this picture at Ocean Beach this morning. I really love the fog: it can provide a gentle haze around objects, or completely oscure them from view, as it has done here. There is really something very special to me about feeling the cool air and hearing the sound of waves breaking in the distance, without being able to see the source. All that violence and power subdued by that murky layer.

   Off to the right there is an outcropping called Seal Rocks, where I flung the cremated ashes of my father towards nearly five years ago. I can't see them, but I know they're there.