Sky and water reflect, blue on endless blue.
Little birds nest in the sand while a vulture spreads its broad wings. Two humans walk maskless when others are far enough to be the size of ants. Behind the dunes, the sand is mushy and feet sink. An elephant seal calls out sounding like gurgling water in rusty old pipes. Barnacles cover cement and wood pushes itself into sand. Salt and grit whittle away at the skull of a whale that has found eternal rest.
Sky and water reflect, blue on endless blue.
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 have a couple different paths I normally follow when walking in the town where I live. These are not designated paths but repeated wanderings that are now routine. On this day, I veer off onto a hill that normally only gets a bit of side eye. I turn any direction that sends me further up. The landscape gets a bit more wild and the homes more hidden. My legs get that wobbly feeling they get when I am at great heights. To me, this is not a fear but an involuntary reaction, my mind just reminding me not to stumble into some great unknown crevasse. I imagine my legs like rubber bands when this happens and giggle quietly about it.
Navigating these narrow, no shoulder, roads can be a bit tricky at times. Mostly it is just me and the trees, but when it is not, I am an awkward walker. To create distance, I trespass into strangers driveways to let other parties pass. Other times, I am trapped, too close to an oblivious unmasked individual. Then, I can be found, back turned, staring into some shrubbery, hiding my disgust and shielding my masked face. The higher I climb, the less people I encounter. Redwoods create a feeling of otherworldliness and calm that I welcome.
As always, I prefer to find my way without a map. This works until I want to attempt to get home. I do get out my phone and ask the map lady to send me down the hill a different way than I came. In the spot where I stand, there is a narrow hiking path, a driveway, a residential street and the seeming end of the street I am on. I do what the map lady tells me and the dot runs along the wrong street and shows me eventually back up the hill. I turn another direction and hit a dead end. I return to where I came from and look for what I might have missed. Ultimately, I backtrack, taking the long way home.
One thing that this pandemic has taught me is that the slow, long way may seem cumbersome, but in the end allows for greater reward. I've always been one to lose time due to wandering, but what I gain is invaluable. It's never dilly dallying if it is made of dreaming and delight.
Fires recently engulfed the area surrounding this beautiful beach. I watched the progress and air quality daily and expected to now see it charred and withered. Instead, there is evidence but not ultimate destruction. Nature finds a balance as long as we don't stand too headstrong in its way.
As we walk, a raven is in lockstep with our movements. We say hello as he skips beside us. It is delightful and quite charming. As I reach for my camera, he doesn't exit the scene like most of the corvids usually do. Seeing my curious glance, he does a little dance and pauses for a snack or two. Every time I look for his wings to be outstretched, he is just strolling at a safe distance.
The beach is sparsely populated, so we are able to breath freely at least part of the time. The salt air smells good and my lungs fill, crisp and clean. Various sea birds flit about feasting on what washes ashore. This is a good mid December morning, in the year 2020.
It doesn't always matter where I am if the sky is that mesmerizing hue that makes all things sing. It is not the deep grey blue of melancholia but a clean, bright blue I want to jump into and swim, diving deep, toes pointed, fingers outstretched. When I tire, it carries me, weightless, floating and serene.
I visit an area of the city where I worked when I was in graduate school and was living in the Bay Area for the very first time. The shops are empty now, devoid of tourists. It is nice but also haunting. In regular times, I still come here to visit the birds that eat the seafood behind the facade of fanciful fisherman themed trinkets and sourdough bread. I also come to drop coins in the machines at the Musée Mécanique and to visit the sea lions.
I want to venture to all my favorite places in San Francisco, but I don't; I won't. I hang mostly on the edges to be in but also out. I find myself looking in locations I have not looked before. The sense of discovery delights me. We are at the height of the pandemic and in lockdown again. I have not faltered in my cautious state, and this is my logging of time until we see the end. After the end, it will continue.
The beach is beautiful as always, but it appears that the birds have been suffering a bit. There are more than a few carcasses in the sand. Perhaps these mark the end of well lived, flight filled days - but perhaps not. I'd like to ask the ravens, but they are busy feasting on the feathered dead (disturbing but true). They also dine on watermelon and french bread.
Mist rises and falls, forming temporary clouds on the surface of the water. Surfers dive in and out of wide waves. One loses his board which finds its way to the sand, resulting in a passerby becoming a good samaritan. I lose my mind to salty daydreams.
I don't put any rocks in my pocket today, but that doesn't mean I'm not looking for treasure. I recently read of an abandoned coal mine here. I count the gaps in the rock, guessing where the void falls deep. With my camera, I collect images of what shall be left undisturbed, the shared space of critters and man. I thank the winged ones for letting me walk among them, because it is we who have taken way too much.
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.
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.
Venturing away from the realities of current days, we teeter on the edge of what will become - or what will be our demise. There is so much damage that needs repair in a wounded tired country.
This once vibrant military base is one of a few in the Bay Area. It is now quiet and isolated, a ghost town, really. There are still some active parts of the shipyard, but overall it is a skeleton of the past. The rust coats heavy steel and wood slowly peels. The air is dry and turkeys wander.
An eagle is stuck in perpetual launch, encased in glass, protected from passing time. A wooden box calls to me like unearthed treasure. I imagine the beautiful objects hidden within. I know it is not real, but the momentary pretending brings me joy.
THE DISQUIETED QUIET
photography and writing
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