12.30.13

Point Richmond

sf from n. bay

Lovers

Lovers

12.29.13

Tree at Delancey Foundation screening room

electric tree - Castro Valley

Miette cupcakes

 

Hayes Valley

 

Football at the Irish Times

12.25.13

Door Greeter

Christmas tree

Daly City food court

Christmas eve at Lucky's

Christmas crab legs

Filipino Christmas table

Macie Suey on Christmas day

12.23.13

early a.m. in SF

kitten crowd at Macy's

shutterbug lurks behind a tree

posh home in Piedmont

bay bridge

12.21.13

Moon Star

     A frantic rush to reach the end, running lights along the way, past alleys hungry with lust, but craving Love.  They filled the road with shifty forms that skittered about, warily prowling in shadow- pleasure pricks on the hilltop, frosty cement in the gullies.  Who knows to stop at red lights, who among the people knows?  Turn to the left and to the right at blazing speeds with music lifting the body, guiding the way to the place encircled by marble columns, arched by scenes of sacrifice.  Power attained, but disguised as eternal love?  Their edifices fly past, hurry away downcast and ashamed.  Their vulture necks stretch toward the frozen soil, nails scratching for hidden seeds not buried deep in the earth.  Ride soul ride along protective song, fend off animal need, turn away this heavy moon, look up to the pins of blinding light.  It lasts a moment, just.  They wait for hours, shoes glued to their spots.  Their hands tied behind their hips, their eyes tied to the old trees that hold together the world.  Who knows when strength will fail them?  Strength inevitably fails.  The power hungry look down at the tree through melting glass.  They see their walkways cracked and skew up and down.  Their thoughts sit in their heated cars and wait for the battle cry.  Shoulders acquainted with brushing off rules, mouths also ready to snarl, throat growl.  Uneven all of the forms.  When, the perfect moments?  Where, the eternal present?  A baby sleeps under a starlit tree, dreaming of his father's love.

Rocklet - 6th street

     Why is this rock here, on the corner of 6th and Howard Street?  Why has the city made this effort to protect it?  They can easily move it, but they do not.  There must be a reason this rock must not be moved from its designated spot.  Perhaps Googling this rock will provide answers.  It is a mystery, and the rock is very strange.  No one seems to notice this rock in the road, no one appears to care, or even give it a second look.  The rock is big, and looks heavy.  People should look at it, of sit on it.  The rock is perhaps a chair.  Is this considered a parklet?  Rocklet must be it's name.  

12.19.13

Trumpeter playing beautifully at Civic Center Bart

     They hurry along the corridor, their shoes with heels that hammer the cold white marble, the swift beat echoing down at a runner's pace.  With shut mouths, and eyes focused on thought A and Thought B, who can stand still and watch for their children?  In hostile laughing teams they come, carried along by fluffy clouds of youth.  The stench snakes up their nostrils, into their sinuses, but they cannot smell anything but the sound of their own entertainments.  Scents of soldering rubber wrapped wire.  Glass panes shield their eyes from the sight.  Notes made of plastic bury their ears underground, where minds filled with culture's song dress and groom.  Whoever lords it over them lies died, layer upon layer they stand straight and tall atop their chalky bones.  Layers of quiet glares muffle the sound of the trumpeter who plays in solitude, with eyes screwed into the floor and feeling every subtle difference in gait and hunch and paw.  His music pressed aside and back into the walls.
     Hears one, lifts into the ears, yet sees the other, plummeting from the sky.  Turns to look because he feels the sliding of despair cut undertoe, again.  Cranes the neck, yet cannot see, yet cannot fix the gaze on understood moments. Peels all asphalt up between the seat facing ahead and that facing behind.  Locks this thing, pins down that, knowing they can be real.  But what is most cherished, what is most precious and true, suddenly fades away and vanished into itself.  Try to hear a beating heart or place a finger on its soft pulse, you'll see into the void of ego love.  A man plays beautiful song, a man falls from the sky.

12.18.13

valets waiting in a lot at night on Potrero Hill

A holiday event at Dolby's Potrero office, where the film Her was screened.  The guest of honor:  Larry Ellison, accompanied by a very young and beautiful woman.  His security men covered the area well before Mr. Ellison's arrival.  He is much older than imagined, and appeared to stumble as he stepped out of his car.  Shorter than imagined, as well.  Did he produce Her?  Can't imagine.  These fellows don't care.  Warmth is central to the task at hand, warmth and battery life.  Five Teslas sleep in the shadow of a hidden Safeway facility that is impossible to detect from either Potrero or Division.  It gives off a low buzz charge to a small fleet of delivery trucks.  If plugs can be had at very low risk of electrocution, then plugs would be had indeed.

Homeless person camped out at Potrero & 15th on a cold December night

Christmas light display in Castro Valley

12.17.13

SF's City Hall at Sunset

     The view from the Asian Art Museum, standing in place and noticing with surprise the amount of foot traffic passing behind, that it is considerable.  People speak very brashly, from inside their heeled or unheeled shoes, from inside their disabling wheelchairs, from beneath their tufts of hair.  A woman in sunglasses stood at the end of the line and asked mocking questions.  A casual bet with her father that seemed not some kind of dare but performance arty.  That perplexed the general community.  At first, they ignored her presence, but once she persisted in line after ten minutes, realizing she may not leave Fuk politely asked her what her business was.  She explained herself with a smile.  Her excuse seemed reasonable and harmless, so Fuk left her alone.  After a few more minutes standing in line, she walked away.  Her father joined her, and they entered the Asian together.

Crowded Bart car reminding me of Tokyo

3rd & Geary Blvd. SF

The Dream

Eucalyptus trees down at Stanford

12.7.13 recent photos

Berkeley movie house

 

Oakland, Ca.

Bart #16

Bart driver

bus riders on the 38 Geary bus, SF

12.2.13

motorcyclist on Thanksgiving

     Cold today.  Do not think any heavily laden outdoor excursion would be soul warming.  Tea may be the infusing thing when skies are gray.  Tea spiked with ascorbic acid, tea shared with paperback books.  Literature, cook books, mysteries, social anthropology, books about recluses, books written by recluses, picture books.  Literature's unassailable clutter.  Think about attempting to spreadsheet this violent psychic array, for a few moments, and then be torn apart at the seams, threadbare.  The ideological burden deflects every single attempt at attain a systematic or organized form of understanding.  Turn every corner.  Who knows what words may mean, when laced with feeling?  Expressions fly into the room, float above our brains, weave intricate cobwebs into all four corners, cling to moldings and figurines.  A moment later, a window opens, winter gusts rush in, rolling it all up into a sticky ball of thoughts, then into a cinnamon bun, then into clots of dust.  They leave with the wind through windows when they came in, just a moment ago.  A moment passed, or was it years?  Was it years ago?

Thanksgiving turkey

     Crouch on hands and knees, with aches in a wrist, calcium gathered in unwelcome layers into frigid black earth below, wires coiled tightly around both shoulders, twisting into the flesh under newsprint colored skin.  Maxwell states that if you ease off on all regimens, physical, mental, emotional, digital, spiritual, and the rest you are at leisure to name, in relative terms, naturally, and if you just enter into a pilates inspired pose, with both legs shot out before you, but with hands and arms parallel to the earth, forming right angles with your rigid spine, then believe me, then believe.  Your tribulations will end.  They end.  You need not swallow your heart in order to have two hearts with which you can finally love half as well as others with just their one allotted heart.  Pilates, in accordance with the Rule, and arms will fling open.  Revolving doors aside, they swing open for you and invite you in with toothy blinding smiles and slow wave gestures of a hand.  They hide their palms, however, and give just enough to catch your eyes on the shine in their just combed hair.  It's brilliant.  

     But there you are, and there he is.  My ankles bound with copper wire, they must have used ten whole feet to do such a job.  It must have taken all those minutes accrued over the past years of months to store up so much poisoned steam.  The devil lurks in roasting time recommendations, he said.  Once you get it in, nothing can prevent the charred, black, crusty inevitability from ruining your Saturday morning.  Sit patiently, pretend that you can see through the glass, don't look them in the eyes or smile back.  Wait patiently, take deep breaths, wait patiently.  Escape does not exist at year's end.  Wait, and do not worry.  Everyone gets used to the smell of their own carmelizing skin at some point, sooner or later, if you live long enough deep among the dunes.  They rise up these walls of sea and twist and claw and rut, delivering up it's harvest of sad mouthed sardines while all this time those forgotten little pickets of hothouse steel sleep a restless sleep, submerged in their silent ticks, awaiting.

cousins giving Thanks

 

     But there you are, and there he is.  My ankles bound with copper wire, they must have used ten whole feet to do such a job.  It must have taken all those minutes accrued over the past years of months to store up so much poisoned steam.  The devil lurks in roasting time recommendations, he said.  Once you get it in, nothing can prevent the charred, black, crusty inevitability from ruining your Saturday morning.  Sit patiently, pretend that you can see through the glass, don't look them in the eyes or smile back.  Wait patiently, take deep breaths, wait patiently.  Escape does not exist at year's end.  Wait, and do not worry.  Everyone gets used to the smell of their own carmelizing skin at some point, sooner or later, if you live long enough deep among the dunes.  They rise up these walls of sea and twist and claw and rut, delivering up it's harvest of sad mouthed sardines while all this time those forgotten little pickets of hothouse steel sleep a restless sleep, submerged in their silent ticks, awaiting.

sunset Bart