Walking on a hill amongst the dead, I picture myself on the bus. I passed this place hundreds of times on the way to my art studio. As the bus drove by, I could see glimpses of gravestones and thought, I would like to visit. For some reason, I never did. 

The pandemic brings me to locations I have neglected, or places of which I was previously unaware. I love cemeteries, however inappropriate or odd that may seem (but not a far stretch for most artists). I enjoy the peaceful, natural setting. Surface patina and flower fade are my muses in the garden of the departed. The statues are an outdoor museum of angels and saints. 

Now here, I am gleeful, albeit not quite sure if I am "allowed". Alone at first, I finally notice some dog walkers. These aren't just any dogs, but seeing eye dogs for the blind. The training school is not far from here, another place I have previously seen from the bus window. I wonder if the dogs realize the good service they provide, and the undeniable companionship. 

This cemetery is charming but poorly maintained. Many gravestones are in ruin or disrepair, fences fallen. Enamel portraits are cracked or have evidence of bullet damage, faces obscured. Were these individuals purposefully targeted, or is it just haphazard hooligan shenanigans? The grounds are left mostly to the elements, not overly planted with that golf course green grass. 

Recently there was a murmuration of starlings here. It went on for several days with much excitement and observation. One would think the birds would have brought me here then. Instead I chose to come at a time when the gatherings of those staring at the sky are absent, and the birds have flown away. 

I venture off to take photos of a hole in the ground, one I had stumbled upon once before. Finding the previously empty reservoir now being turned into a park, I am pleased but also a little sad to see the emptiness filled. 

I wander around the neighborhood near my old art school. I knew the area was affluent, but it is amazing how that affluence can go unseen and untouched by a scrappy young student. The affluence is no more attainable now than it was then, but when noticed is more amusing than disturbing. The older one gets, the more one learns that money makes daily life easier but happiness is found by more simplistic means. It is not constant but is important to celebrate when clearly present. 

This week we have a lot to celebrate. It is hopefully the beginning of the end of the horrific path our country has been on. We may have to continue to maneuver around in masks for a while to come, but at least there is hope for a semblance of somewhat normal life again. Basic human decency is nothing to be taken for granted. Fragility of stability is to be on constant watch. We are and must be stronger now. 

I zig zag and climb up and down, circling around and repeating. I can feel my legs working and my breath deepen. I remember and create anew. I step and pause to reflect and see my shadow looking back at me. A hummingbird flutters near my eyes, not taunting me, but bringing me peace. This day is a good one, but never more important than all the rest. 

Walking between two towns in the East Bay, I am pleased and also puzzled how quiet it is. I stay between two shopping districts on the residential streets, eventually landing in a cemetery up on the hill. Here, among the gravestones, it is calm and the view is sweeping. 

I spot a headstone bearing my name, and I think, "Damn you! I am not done yet." I look back over the water to the vastness of the Bay Area and I am thankful. I see the cranes that rise their heads one block from my old art studio. I see the mountain that rises above my current home. I flash to my grandmother's back deck and how blown away I was the first time I saw the glorious view. In the decades of my adult life, I have stepped into and out of this coastal land many times, to visit family, friends and to make a home. I wish I could sit with my younger self, to grab a cup of coffee and have a long chat. She would have a hard time believing what we have gone through in recent days. She would also tell me to stop fretting so much, to live fully and completely, no matter the sometimes uncontrollable parameters. I would hug her and say thanks. 

After strolling around the grounds of many lives lived, I turn back to where I parked. Along the way, I spot a ball in the grass, boldly printed with the name Wilson. Oh, I remember him! He starred in a movie with Tom Hanks where he played the best friend. I slyly take his picture and introduce myself. I have plans on how we can now be best friends. He is somehow immune to the virus, so we don't have to worry about masks. He is staring at me unflinching, and I realize he is unamused. I scurry away, laughing at my own goofy fantasy. 

I don't feel much like exploring but know it is for my own good that I do. I have a particular destination in mind but find parking to be sparse. I drive around until I find an easy spot, then set out on foot in a bit of a mope. The longer I am outside my mood is lifted and my spirit less blue. 

I walk down the hill all the way to the Great Highway. It is closed to traffic now, with four lanes open to pedestrians and cyclists. The wind is gusty, so the humans are hibernating. So many times I have come here by bicycle and had to fight traffic to enjoy my ride. It is wonderful to have so much space here now.  

Just over the wall at the beach, there is a dog playing chase with a raven. The dog leaps high and the raven dips low. They frolic, both willing to dance with danger in order to have a little fun. I can almost hear them laughing. 

When I turn to go back up the hill, a strong aroma penetrates the four layers of my mask. It is ham, the kind we used to eat during the holidays when I was a child. Oddly I savor it, even though I have not eaten meat in over thirty years. It is a comfort I will not partake in now, but it is the feeling that it evokes that is my keepsake. 

I get out my phone and record some thoughts. It is not something that I do. I am alone on the street and no one is listening. Is this what I have become? A wanderer who babbles nonsensically to herself? Whatever the reason, I am laughing for now. This is what matters most. 

On this day, I have come to the beach to remember an old friend who left us one year ago this month. I brought with me a candle made by another mutual friend in her honor. I envision myself with the candle lit, walking in the sand, with her spirit beside me. However, to light this candle, I have brought matches I got at a bar over 30 years ago. They are from a place we went together when we were too young to be in bars. These matches, marking the year we met, need to light this particular candle. But they don't. I use every match. 

As the last match is blown out by the wind, I laugh and feel my friend laughing with me. I stop to pick up stones, except they aren't the moody dark stones I normally reach for. They are bright white with hints of green, like moss growing inside snow. My friend is choosing them; my hand is hers. I continue to enthusiastically reach for them until my pocket is heavy and wet with rocks. The unlit candle sits in my other pocket. I feel the weight of absence alongside the joy of the moment, the shared love of the ocean.

Out here the houses are close together and have great character. The lack of front yards either leads to sparseness or it results in an over zealous attempt to plant as much as possible in a tiny amount of dirt. I used to do the same when I lived in San Francisco years ago. 

A twenty something me excitedly planted flowers inside a square of concrete. I had planted them a few times before. Each time the small space got filled with trash and dog poop. My love of flowers kept me optimistic and I continued trying. My upstairs neighbor, who was fond of having parties and throwing cigarette butts on my backyard flowers, accused me of being a martyr. I resented his bitter critique and scowled as he walked past me on the sidewalk. The raccoons fought me on the other flowers I planted in the shade between houses. It was the beginnings of what would become a greenish and stubborn thumb. 

Now, on my walk, I notice several dilapidated old vehicles with an abundance of character. I imagine them new, tanned youngsters behind the wheel, following the sun that ends where the fog begins. Today they are held together with tape and rope, and dreams of what once was. They hold story upon story of where their wheels went and of the days they sat still. I admire their sun soaked and salted patina. 

Moving past memory and present day pondering, I cherish the blue sky. I seek and find a state of calm. When the shadows become too long, I seek the brightness that created them. My camera documents while I do this delicate dance. Time circles around itself and feet are firmly planted, except when they are not. Squint, click and step. 

The containment of the fires grows and the smoke has more breaks between. However, we are now in a heat wave and PGE threatens more power outages due to expected high winds next week. 2020 is relentless and California is in a state of fatigue. An early morning walk offers a bit of respite. 

I look at a familiar apartment building in the neighborhood, called Capri. We went to the island of Capri once and rode the chairlift for the best views. I dangled my feet, kicking them back and forth the way a child might. I love ferris wheels, chair lifts and swing rides. I rode on a swing ride in Vienna once that was said to be the highest chained carousel in the whole world at 383 ft tall. No one I was with would go with me. It felt rickety and dangerous but I was determined. It was also night and the city was lit up. I could see the stars. As the swing dipped and turned, my teeth dried out from smiling. My hands cramped from holding rusty chains. It was the best sensation, and while it lasted, I was on top of the world. 

I walk on and see a street sign that reads, "Florence". I have never been there but am happy to continue with the Italian theme this block provides. I imagine myself eating good cheese and bread and drinking red wine at a local cafe. Surely art viewing will be part of the day and hopefully a local flea market. This is my imaginary vacation prompted by a couple visual clues in California. On a good day, I am very happy to be here. When the Golden State suffers and wails, I escape into my mind where all things are possible. 

Grass coats my boots. I wore them knowing I would be avoiding any designated pathway in favor of what lies adjacent. I remember that as a child, I cut the grass barefoot. The cuttings slowly gathered between my toes. I ducked to push the mower under young trees as junebugs flew into my forehead. When my brother mowed the yard, he talked to himself loudly. I could hear him outside through the closed windows. He seemed happy, so I never bothered to ask him what he was talking about. 

Today I am close to the beach but do not linger for that is a popular destination. I long to lazily linger again, to lollygag among the masses. Maskless runners pass by as I hug the trees (not in the literal sense, but in terms of my close proximity). 

I wander into the private part of the parking lot, where I know the great blue herons nest. I have missed the spring when they are in the tops of the trees. I still am lucky to see two fishing, one in the marina and one in the pond across the street. 

At the tourist destination close by, there are normally newlyweds getting their pictures taken, but not today. It is a relic of a 1915 exposition and is an iconic destination in San Francisco. It holds a certain magic and I fall for the facade and fantasy every time I see it. Wandering around its artificial lagoon, I admire the birds that call it home. 

Beneath the bridge that carries me back across the bay, this city gives me pause. It adds to my character, and on very rare occasions takes it away. Wherever I land, I will always be fond of San Francisco. Like New York City, many people long for what it once was. I understand that inclination and believe many things in both places have been lost. However, the more you explore, the more you find the hidden corners, the stories untold, the grit that holds it all together, the more you appreciate what it is today. Having lived on both coasts and in between, I lean toward the sunny side, even when the sun is covered in the summer fog.  

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.