I see Frida Kahlo in a window and imagine us as friends. I wonder if she can see my subtle limp, as hers is not so subtle. Together, we paint the day.

A bottle of used hot sauce is weary, worried it is responsible for the larger heat and fire.
Tea cups are arranged for a party, but pebbles promise to get stuck in eager teeth.
A blue bump tries to remove itself, leaving a gaping wound.
A fence bulges and bends, containing the invisible. 
A child's hand reports the air quality to those looking for clean inhalation.
Wayward white paper has been crying, its message lost.
A tree strapped tries not to waver from the growth it has before it.
Caution cones are weary as their job is never ending. 
A tiny stage begs for its performer and audience on an empty lawn.
Jagged and scraped, orange and white attempt to emphasize yellow.
A strange man makes a moldy announcement, mouth agape. 
Behind the fence, this is where the fire sits.   

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.  

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.

Since my current camera hit its demise from tiny grains of sand, I use my camera from 8 years ago. It has dings and scrapes on the lens from the bicycle accident that broke my wrist. This camera, although damaged, is an object of value. I add a few more photos to the thousands it has helped me create. The quality is not my focus as much as the act of seeking and understanding, the space and time moved through. Objects give clues to intangible consciousness, an ebb and flow of chance circumstance.

A man looks at his phone while walking a dog, a zig zag of unawareness. I hopscotch through the street guessing his next step. "Pick a side", I think loudly. I look around for an opening with no humans. I take my mask off one ear to breathe deeply, then quickly wrap the ear strap back around my ear. I am tired of not walking with my mouth naked and haphazardly ajar, for no other reason than it is how things used to be. I ponder when breathing unencumbered will be safe again. I am frustrated with these repeated thoughts, but it is not about me. It is about all of us working together for the wellness of humanity. I know this needed wellness extends way beyond simply wearing a mask. 

I walk past an apartment building where two men are chatting while smoking cigarettes. One yells to me, "Great day, isn't it?!" I yell back, "I guess as great as it can be!" I feel bad for my lack of enthusiasm when his energy is upbeat. He yells back, "It's always great when you have rock stars!" I am not sure what this means, but picture myself at a rock concert, standing right next to the stage. The men continue chatting and I walk on. 

I pass a honeysuckle vine again. This plant, I can smell through my mask. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My eyes well up, but I do not let the tears drop. I let the plant signal a feeling of known comfort and continue on, finding courage in the perplexing present. 

My legs feel wobbly and my knee aches. I crisscross the streets and sidewalks to keep the distance. This distance weighs on my mental state. I fight this and keep walking (limping), disposition in tact. Eyes darting left and right, up and down, I take pictures, breathing through thick fabric. There is an absence of activity that usually fills these summer months. The humans are getting restless. 

I get lost, but not so lost I cannot find my way back. Adrift, in place and state of mind - this is how I process being. I find beauty and darkness and the balance between. Vibrancy of color imprints on my mind, saved for when the fog rolls in.