The fog tries to mask the blue sky, but the sky shines through. I'm dressed for summer, but summer in San Francisco is like early spring elsewhere. And, it is not summer yet. I decide to enjoy the crisp air rather than be cold. 

I tell myself that I am so grateful to be here. Of all the places I could be, this is where I chose; this place makes me glad. Although I rest my head a bit north of here, this city has drawn me in for a very long time. The hardships it brings are rewarded in the diversity of the landscape, the wildlife as well as the people. 

The pandemic has weighed on me. Like many, my time has been my own - and yet not. I am less than a week away from being fully vaccinated and past the wait time. I look forward to having a semblance of a normal life after being the utmost of careful. Although I greatly value the time I have spent taking these photos, I miss people and real interactions. My outings have been like an extended game of dodgeball, quick weaving and wandering. 

My primary form of expression the past several years has been painting. If anything, this past year, I have gained a renewed love of photography. My walks with my camera allow me to enjoy my external world rather than retreating into the internal. My eyes are constantly searching, my mind cataloging my surroundings. A narrative unfolds but it has its own buoyancy, follows its own direction in spite of any baggage I might bring. It is freeing, always rewarding and keeps me completely present.  

Barriers surround a sinkhole in the middle of the street. Workers scurry about, taking care that it gets resolved. I inquire if this has occurred naturally, and am told yes. I stare at it wondering if the world might be turning inside out. Is this the portal to an alternate universe? I am tempted, but decide not to try to find out. 

Green Xs mark the sidewalk for a good block. I (wrongly) assume, green marks are intended to indicate location of communication lines. Is this where we will receive messages from the alternate universe below the sinkhole? A dump truck pleads with me to be quiet, as if I was telling secrets I promised not to tell. In my imaginary conversation with an inanimate object, I say, "Relax man, I was just adding some apocalypse to my pandemic pretending." 

Bees swarm, forming a large mass between two trees, bringing me back to reality. I get as close as I can without getting stung. This is fascinating and a bit dangerous, but they seem more interested in swarming than the human passerby. 

I stroll along the hilltops in a neighborhood I have never explored before. It is peaceful with distant sounds of urban activity below. From this perspective, the city seems new again. Sutro Tower stands tall in the distance. As the fog envelopes it, it becomes a ship, floating into the vastness of the blue beyond. 

On the edge of an island where the Navy once made base, San Francisco calls out in the distance.

Spring pretends to be summer, while I pretend to be carefree. Happiness is a wave that before it peaks is glorious. Once it curls overhead, it is exhilarating. Then one can be found underneath, kicking to swim back up again. The trick is to kick hard and fast enough, to not take in too much water, to rise again, laughing. 

A masked face breathes hard and sweat drips. If anything, the last year has left us all with either a high tolerance for discomfort and chaos, or with an extreme lack of patience and ill will. The boundaries created have allowed us to redefine or reestablish what is true and what is full of falsehoods. 

As I walk, I spot a woman down low, arranging trinkets around a tree. I know this to be a 'gnome home' or 'fairy garden'. I shout out to her, "I will pretend to not see you, because I know I am supposed to believe the gnomes built that". She laughed and made a joke about not really being there. I could almost see her fade away. 

I float away on my own daydreams, enveloped by the waves that carry me forward. No matter how deep I might venture, I always swim back up to blue. 

On the wall is a photo mural by the artist, Michael Jang. I dance from street to sidewalk to accommodate passersby. I admire the images and the subtle touches the artist added after the rains washed away some detail. Having not stepped into a gallery or museum since this pandemic started, I am so delighted to be here enjoying these wonderful photographs. They celebrate the artist's extended family, and for me, celebrate the diversity and uniqueness of the city I love. 

Walking into Golden Gate Park, a ferris wheel reaches for the sky. I immediately put this into my post vaccine agenda. I love Ferris wheels, and they are my go to ride at any fair or amusement park. The change in perspective is freeing, and all else falls away. In this state, I am gleeful, a bird on a circle in the sky.  

As we get closer to an exit from this alternate reality that we failed to plan for, I have found my salve. The simple act of walking, wandering and noticing is enough to flip a switch in my busy brain. As long as I am able bodied and own a camera, it will continue. When social distancing is no longer critical, I may still find myself quietly reflecting on things seemingly unsubstantial, but still splendid. On the inhale, the camera clicks, creating the image that lives forever in the exhale. 

Walking around one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in San Francisco, I ogle the many mansions. They astound in more ways than one. I know I will never live in one, but this is a pastime I enjoy when I am feeling frivolous. I spot a few empty ones and laugh at one with celebrity cardboard cut outs in the window. From a distance, they do look real, but I dare say they would not deter an intruder. 

I find a wide set of stairs and wander up to see where they lead. Around a short wall, a cow greets me, still, and of concrete. I admire her for a short while. There is nowhere to wander from here, so I return to the street. Tagged in the sidewalk, is TOFU. I picture a block of tofu wandering the streets at night looking for wet cement to scrawl into. 

A tree has two elbows. Is it a professional contortionist when it is not standing watch over the sidewalk? A blue light beckons on an adjacent wall. To what or to whom does it signal or summon? 

A rose adorned skull is painted on a bright yellow sign, marking the dead end. Orchids catch the afternoon light and their softness comforts me. They are much more unwithered than I. 

An abandoned coffee cup makes me want to sit in a cafe and mindlessly whittle away the hours, but I don't. I won't. I see a mustache shape on the sidewalk and try to align it to the shadow of my face. It is all askew. 

On a ramshackle stoop, a policeman is talking to a woman in a wheelchair. He grabs hold of a large painting of a tiger that festoons the steps. The tiger is wearing glittering accoutrements. He tugs and pulls until the tiger meets its demise. I wonder the reason for this altercation with the imaginary. 

I have been reading a book that reveals much of the history of San Francisco, its wild years, its untamed land and heart. It is hard to imagine what it would have been like back then, when women were few and the sand blew briskly along a totally different coastline. Ships lie beneath parts of the city from a time when gold brought prospectors by the thousands. 

The gold that brought me here is of the sun. It is of the golden gate that is not really gold but 'international orange'. It is of paint that adorns the victorians sprinkled about town. It is of fresh baked bread with the slightest hint of sour. It is the sight and smell of ripe lemons. It is flowers dotting the hills in springtime. It is the ginkgo leaves my grandmother collected to help her hang on to her memories. 

I walk in lines and loops, exploring street after street. I become parched and spent, but I keep walking. Today, the earth vibrates under another magnificent blue sky. I step until my feet sting from stepping. This day is golden like all the rest. It is simply a matter of following the light. 

The camera is bored, its human repeating known steps. Vision is always new, but some days lacking energy borders on disillusionment. Movement is necessary to progress forward, to swim through the incessant slog of this strange time. 

Of all my days painting indoors, being out in the world with the camera is where I am most at home. This is what I have found. This is what I am reminded of, time and time again. It is a continuous conversation. My surroundings speak to me and I speak back. We speak in quiet whispers, not necessarily needing to be heard. It is the act of doing that is required at the moment. The image acts as artifact, a reflection of experience in color and form. It is much more than that, always so much more. 

I must forgive the quiet, savoring the contemplative. I walk, slow mile upon slow mile, never tracking distance or time. I am a wanting wanderer looking for a sign. 

Exploring steps untaken
Spots familiar
Lead to ventures new
One corner turned
Another skipped
Looking with fresh eyes
A heavy chest breathes deep
Energy renews
Houses dance in pastel hues
Flowers bloom from recent rains
Cardboard tightly bound
Empty of yesterday's sustenance
Clues to the ones still waking
Quiet now
Danger signs ever present
Cannot untether the excitable soul
Inquisitive mind
Propels a hungry heart
Out in the avenues
The sky so blue
Voluptuous clouds 
Afternoon rainbow
Colorful grin of the sublime

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.