Up in the Berkeley hills, I look for a different perspective and point of view. I pull over to walk next to a park used as a practice site for rock climbers. A few hang precariously, fingers and toes hooking into this hard earth. The view of the Bay is vast and wants to bring tears to my eyes. This is an involuntary act. I am on top of the world in this western landscape, ocean salt covering my shoes, wrinkles growing around my eyes.
A sign beside the sidewalk begs, "don't give up". I feel strong, but worry wears itself on my brow. It is beautiful up here, houses of varying styles with plants aplenty. Every home has a glorious view, and I peek between them, straining to see what I am not meant to afford.
Two midcentury modern homes stand out from the crowd. I imagine myself living within them, one for art making and one for entertaining an eclectic group of friends. I fall into fantasy of what the life of an artist should be but never is. I am thrown back onto the street where I stand, to continue walking. This is the artist's real life. It is not luxurious or full of absolute whimsy. It is a drive that goes on in spite of anything that would try to stop it. The maker makes, no matter the circumstance.
Lost in self analysis and willful wanderings, a doe approaches from the adjacent slope. I stop in my tracks and gasp, for chance encounters such as this should be cherished. I am quiet and watchful, camera up to eye. I know the moment will be fleeting. I think to those who hold guns up to such beautiful creatures, and no amount of explanation will allow me to fathom why. In a residential area, this animal passes through what once belonged to it. Run away friend, find a place of refuge.
I wander the hills wanting to get lost but knowing I will always find my way. The more I step, the more ground I cover. The more ground I cover, the more I am firmly planted here.
A sign beside the sidewalk begs, "don't give up". I feel strong, but worry wears itself on my brow. It is beautiful up here, houses of varying styles with plants aplenty. Every home has a glorious view, and I peek between them, straining to see what I am not meant to afford.
Two midcentury modern homes stand out from the crowd. I imagine myself living within them, one for art making and one for entertaining an eclectic group of friends. I fall into fantasy of what the life of an artist should be but never is. I am thrown back onto the street where I stand, to continue walking. This is the artist's real life. It is not luxurious or full of absolute whimsy. It is a drive that goes on in spite of anything that would try to stop it. The maker makes, no matter the circumstance.
Lost in self analysis and willful wanderings, a doe approaches from the adjacent slope. I stop in my tracks and gasp, for chance encounters such as this should be cherished. I am quiet and watchful, camera up to eye. I know the moment will be fleeting. I think to those who hold guns up to such beautiful creatures, and no amount of explanation will allow me to fathom why. In a residential area, this animal passes through what once belonged to it. Run away friend, find a place of refuge.
I wander the hills wanting to get lost but knowing I will always find my way. The more I step, the more ground I cover. The more ground I cover, the more I am firmly planted here.
