I am walking around in an area that exudes incredible wealth. Even though my mouth is covered, it is agape, as I cannot fathom living in one of these grand houses. The funny thing is that I have lived in the Bay Area a long time, and I have never truly studied this neighborhood. It is largely residential so not one of my regular destinations. I have, however, frequented these types of neighborhoods for walks during the pandemic, and they tend to be quiet and calm. 

I stand in awe of one very modern house that looks like a New York gallery. I have my camera aimed at it as a gentleman walks to the car in the driveway. His uniform indicates he is an employee rather than a resident, and he looks at me uncomfortably. I try to casually ask if an art collector lives there. I am not sure why the words come out of my mouth and now feel like a stalker creep. I turn to walk away and spot a well endowed robot sculpture across the street. The absurdity of it in this rather buttoned up neighborhood makes me laugh. 

One house that I find particularly intriguing is adorned with a placard from the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition. Many of the tourist destinations of San Francisco are from that time. I wonder what purpose this mansion served and daydream about the sights and sounds of that era. I come back to earth, with one toe stuck in the past. 

Finally we are collectively breathing a sigh of relief and feel there is still hope to be had. Although faces are mostly still masked, I can tell most people are smiling and stepping a bit lighter. I hear laughter, lots of it. I can't recall when I last witnessed real glee, but it is palpable. My eyes well up with grateful tears. 

On the way to my destination I blast the music in the car and sing along. This is one of the joys of driving. It doesn't matter if I know the words, if I sound totally off-key, or even if I truly love the song. What matters is the release.

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge the morning fog engulfs the bridge itself. I can see enough to get across and make my way to Baker Beach. Once there, the fog remains thick. The atmosphere is ​mysterious and somewhat magical. The mist from the fog and the ocean mix to make a salty spritz. 

Fishermen dot the edge of the water, casting rods into raucous waves. One gentleman has built a low barrier wall and moat to protect him from the water. I compliment his set up and he grins at me, sans a few front teeth. He gestures to the sculptured sand and says something I can't quite decipher over the sound of the ocean. I smile back anyway, then realize he cannot see half my face covered in a mask. I give a friendly wave and walk on. 

A man waves a metal detector over the sand. He has a little basket to filter the earth from his treasures. He shakes the basket and then puts something in his pocket. This is a modern day gold digger. I hope his search proves fruitful. 

I wander to the edge of the beach where on a clear day, the view of the bridge is quite breathtaking. Today I like feeling like I am on another planet. I'm happy here where water fades into sky, and sand finds a home between my toes. 

I kick the walk button at the corner and wait to cross. Everything is set up for hand control, but I have started to think we should set more things up for feet. When the light changes, I venture into the street a little distance from the actual crosswalk. Fellow humans are walking from the other side and I am just playing it safe. A man turning right at the light has to wait for me to reach the other side before he can press on the gas. He leans toward an open passenger side window and hollers at me. I can't quite decipher what he says. "You know that mask isn't helping. Why don't you go to hell? Why don't you go help them? Hey, nice skull mask."

He maybe said one of these things or none of them. I rearrange the sounds in my mind to make some sense of what words went with his urgent expression. I have no idea and am not interested in asking him. I frustrate myself by wasting anytime trying to figure it out. I walk on, returning to my daydreams. Then his 1980s machismo car drives by, and I hear him shout out the window again. I am walking the opposite direction of his previous turn, so he had to have changed course to get his mumbling point across to me. Too bad for him, his words are lost on me again, and I am almost home. 

The blue sky has returned from the orange haze that blocked the sun for days. The air is no longer thick with ash, and hearts are no longer quite so heavy. I walk on a street that has been blocked to allow for car free pedals and strolls. I am happy to be among humans again. Isolation can stifle ones soul and creativity. Being able to move around with other people, even at a distance, even without interacting beyond a hello, is a gift. 

I park near my favorite restaurant which has the best bread and butter I have ever had. If it was the last thing I ever ate, I would be fine with that. A few doors down is one of my favorite coffee shops. The owner is an artist with a way with words and coffee beans. Beyond that is an art supply store with beautiful paints and a desirable collection of paper and pencils. This is not why I am here, and I am still not venturing into my old haunts, open or not.   

The ocean calls to me the way it always does, but I challenge myself to walk the other direction. It is unusually warm for San Francisco, but summer here generally does not start until fall. I've lost track of time. I click and step, click and step, never letting go of my camera. I walk up 27 long blocks, avenue to avenue. I walk back on a parallel street, 27 blocks in reverse. My pace is slow and contemplative. I try to take notice of everything. 

Time is mysterious and safety from disaster is no longer a given, if it ever was. This day is a reminder to never take the blue sky for granted. Never dismiss the ease of breathing. I try to smile to others under my mask, as I know we have all been in a collective state of panic. Realizing they cannot read the smile from my eyes alone, I wave an awkward wave, and continue clicking. 

Simply being can occasionally be enough these days. It isn't always important to be poetic, profound or hardworking. It might be better to be genuinely awake and aware. In times of pause, one is an observer, a quiet wanderer, gathering energy to propel firmly forward.  

Today I use another old camera, and I can't recall how it was broken or why I quit using it. All masked up and with a fully charged battery, I venture out. I quickly learn the screen on the camera is dead. Not only can I not review my images right away, but I cannot change or see the settings. I resolve to aim the best I can and cross my fingers. That seems to be the way things are right now anyway, uncertainty with a need to still be optimistic. Swimming in a sea of melancholy is tempting, but I would rather float and see where the waves take me. I can tread water if need be.

Bent over a bottle cap I am happy with the simplest of found treasure. I am unaware that a woman has halted her stride to wait for me to take my photo. I apologize and am thankful she has kindly waited. I pick up the pace to give her room only to drop my hand sanitizer and apologize again. I remind myself not to get too lost in the looking. Working alone in an art studio for years has prepared me for this social isolation. Only now, I imagine all other humans are zombies, because humor is necessary solace.

I watch crows eat garbage and attempt to get close. I find the zoom on the camera is also faulty and the birds get wise to my spying. The lookout tells the others of my presence, and I have sadly interrupted their feast. As I return to the sidewalk, from the alley I have entered, I see a policeman hidden beside a building, lurking. I venture on, masked and anonymous.

I wear a homemade mask. As I walk, the mask feels hot, and I long to breathe the fresh air, the way we did before March. I look around for a window of no humans, so I can inhale and exhale, unencumbered - even if just for a moment. I pause in the new reality and accept the strangeness. It is in the uncomfortable moments that we learn the most. 

Wandering through an open field, redwoods surround. I admire their proud stance. I follow the connecting road and attempt making friends with a crow. I think about the fox that visited the backyard, three times now, and wonder when he will return. I pretend I am a butterfly. 

I walk though the honeysuckle sweetness of childhood innocence and feel great comfort in this far away but deeply implanted memory of place. Over two thousand miles and decades from my hometown, I am planted in my old backyard watching sticky droplets fall like jewels from open mouthed flowers wanting to sing. Wide-eyed under the glow of flitting fireflies, I climb to the top of a tree. It is here that I do my best thinking.
  
Middle-aged, I wear a mask to protect myself and the passersby from what still seems ill defined but frightening nonetheless. I zigzag swiftly from one side of the street to the other remembering hating how aggressive dodgeball used to be. I much preferred the parachute we fluttered and raised, giggling as we ran around underneath. I was too young to understand this parachute was a remnant of war. I just knew I liked it as much as any kid could. And if this was gym class, it was about as good as it was going to get.

I sweat through my shirt as the camera clicks. The sun is high and bright; the sky is bluest of blue. I might cry about things I cannot control, but I am also smiling. This is my natural state. At home, hot water is temporarily cold, but my shower is refreshing in its briskness. I plow through pictures and stay up until night turns to early morning. 

Now, I post these pictures but they insist on picking their own order. They fall oddly and nonsensically into places I do not put them, as if someone else is shuffling my deck of cards when I am not looking. I decide that the spontaneity I seek is also seeking me.

Note: I initially created this blog post on another platform. On this one, I honored the order the images had fallen there. This time, my text deleted itself over and over again. Something is trying to grab my attention here. Is it the crazy dog? Whatever it is, I'm listening.