On the road with a camera

Fog drips across the hills. A few dark shadows soar over the lake, while a small boat zooms over the waves. The wake is like a silver streamer that slowly disappears into infinity.

Near the city of Three Rivers, the highway wraps itself around the mountain like a lasso. It winds through cut mountainsides, and moves over elaborate vistas of cottonwood trees and long plains of uncut, smooth emerald grass. The hills are bunched up, scrunched together Scottish-like, heads trying to peer over the harsh valleys of the Sierra Nevadas, to take a longing glimpse at the hidden Sequoia trees, put away in their tiny little valley in the heavens.

I drive along, stopping here and there, snapping pictures. I pull off to the side of the road, the gravel rumbling under the tires, row down the window, receive a face full of dripping rain, and snap my picture. There is a small farm squatting on the hill, and an RV parked down the road. I aim my camera upwards, taking a horizontal picture of the hills and smoky clouds.

Among valleys

The sky spans. There is grass on the hills. The earth prods at the sky, reaching for the clouds. Trees line the hilltops in boulevards. The scent of fresh moss hangs from branches, dripping in wet fragrance.

A trail carves through the hill, wrapping around the golden mound like a belt. Solitary figures walk over the trail, mere shadows against the encompassing heavens. There are figures seated on the white grass, legs propped up, eyes glued to the daylight stars. Some wear backpacks, eat sandwiches, drink bottles of brewed water.

This land has lived for a thousand years, barren from the world. The trees commune with the wind, yet the chorus of birds fades, long echoes draped between calls, the shadow of a wing a rare thing. The woods are quiet, silent, devoid of the largess of life. Something is sleeping in these woods, under the gray boulders and the burnt grass, behind the tyrant sequoias and above the sunlight cast off the Pacific.

Time slows to a halt, here. One could imagine sitting beside an ancient oak, and watching as the clouds drifted in fantastical shapes, while the outside world came and went. Heartbeats rise to ride the earth.

Subway sublime

The sandwich shop sits on the corner of Solano and San Pablo. Inside, the walls are covered in paintings of old New York subway tubes; some of the pictures are of people waiting for the subway, some standing in the subway, and ancient blueprints and subway maps. An older man sits by himself, his mouth gaping and crashing closed as he chomps at his sandwich. Pieces of lettuce and pickle dribble out of the bread.

The door opens to a biker who is wearing a stylish, yet thick, winter sweater. Cars zoom by outside. An old lady hobbles by using a silver, plastic cane. A young lady crosses the street, her mangy, white pup leading her through the all-too nice traffic, which slams on brakes and waves kindly to the nice lady and her dog, while cars pile up behind, a train of SUVs, Mercedes, and Volvos.

The biker walks to the front of the restaurant, and aimlessly ignoring the line of seven people, asks the cashier for a free sandwich. She looks at him, her expression caught between befuddlement and amazement, and then replies a moment later, I'm sorry sir, I can't. He pretends to puff out his chest, looks to the line for support, and asks if he can have a free sandwich again. She shakes her head, that sorry look pulled out of her managerial training in desperation. As if for a final hurrah, he asks again, this time figuratively getting on his knees, while he clasps his hand and tells the whole restaurant how he has got no money and would really appreciate a free sandwich.

By this time, the line has become irritable. The customer buying her sandwich quickly tells the cashier, with a polite smile on her face, Just put it on my bill, whatever he's getting. The biker beams at the customer, and tells her how pretty she is about two times, until the customer looks so embarrassed she grabs her sandwich, gives the man a quick nod, and dashes out of the restaurant.

Breath of morning

It feels like a room, like any other room. There is a computer, some bookshelves, a bed, a closet, four walls, and a floor. Yet there are things which make it indescribable. The lone silk scarf hanging from a nail in the ceiling. The plush tiger-stripped chair. Maps, from the West Indies to Illes Balears to Switzerland. Books stacked upon books, lining the walls, separated into categories. Bibles in ten different languages.

Nailed to the front door is a painting done by a street artist in Vancouver, who would stand over the canvas and in thirty seconds, create a space scene, complete with a giant planet, a towering jade pyramid, and a cold, forsaken tree. There are collages scattered across the four walls, some of photographs of trees and old buildings, some with cut-out magazine faces.

An old LP rests on top of one of the bookshelves. It doesn't work, but was kept for memorabilia, and the one-day hope that the spindle can be found, which was lost during transport from Chicago to San Francisco. A blue, steel-stringed guitar dozes off quietly, leaning on the LP. It can't be played, for no one knows how. Yet there is a dream there, just as in the opposite corner of the room where the notebooks filled with unpublished manuscripts are stacked, and the collage filled with plane tickets to places across the globe is nailed.

There are visions here. Outside the room, the house is cold. It is early morning, and the heat has not been turned on yet. The alarm clock beeps, and the two giant black dogs next door get excited, their voices resounding like hammers. The dawn sun lets some thin beams through the shades.

Theater-going-gone

The floor is slick with what seems like sweat. The theater is filled - men and women, bright eyes, hungry mouths, gunslinger fingers, a carpet of speech, a hundred different speakers playing at once. Some lean back in chairs, chatting amiably, others are silent. There are old ladies with purses and grandma hair, young ladies with cell phones and dark eyeliner. Some young men stand by the door, looking out into the theater hallway, while talking among themselves. The older men are seated comfortably in their chairs, staring at the flashing screen.

An insurance ad. A beautiful woman, her hair like fresh gold, with perfect pearl teeth, giving a thumbs up.

A black screen with a purple movie reel and a question in bright yellow: What was the special racing coupe used in the movie The Italian Job?

A drink commercial, complete with splashing black soda and a bright red cup, with an arabesque design in white lettering. Coca-Cola.

The lights dim. The chatting overtones become mute. Eyes are fixed. Breath is drawn. Beneath the silence, the crunching of popcorn and the rustling of paper bags. The theater is hypnotized, a dance of light lit upon faces, reflected by the slick floor and the movement of eyes. Statements are made, empires rise and fall, the heaven shatters, and people shrivel up and are reborn again.

The lights rise. The members of the army are pronounced, and the chatting resumes. People are confused, elated, sad, thoughtful - and the doors open, and the breath of life escapes into the world.

Singing alone

Cloistered halls. Old ghosts. Silence.

The library is to the left. Within the glass doors, a young man stands behind a desk. He is wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses, and also a long, brown braid of hair, that swings over his shoulders and as he turns, his attention is drawn downward.

A lone bicycle appears from behind one of the cloister openings, and then disappears just as quickly. The sun is fading, drawing to a close, and a patch of heavy, gray clouds sit on the roof of the world.

Quietude pervades all. The lives behind the veil are hidden from sight. The rigors of the world take forms, in the girl sitting on a block of cement, reading a book, her legs crossed as she leans back, to the man pumping his legs up the cloister to attend class. His arms swing by his side, a small black case hanging from a closed fist. He turns back and looks at me, his face for one brief moment like a stormed turned to stone - his cheeks are high bluffs, while his eyes like dangerous clouds flash in blue and white. As he walks away, his face turns away, and his eyes are drawn towards the horizon.

The wake of angels

The view is great from up here.

Kelson Kel Andrews wears the look of a man seized by the anxiety of modernity. As he speaks, his words come from his mouth like embers from a burnt pile of wood, spitting into the air, but falling to the earth, dead and silent. He is from the older generation of San Francisco immigrants, originally one of those nameless and faceless thousands that moved to the peninsula for a better life, but realized too quickly of the stagnation already erupting here, destroying the mountains from within.

Being an older man, he shows signs of his age, including a forming belly that dips into his belt, a pale unshaven face, and two glossed eyes hidden by thin wire framed glasses. He wears a button up shirt, but has opted not to wear his silk tie that he bought specifically for the office, and because of this today he has felt oddly naked. He remarks to himself that this is a good feeling, a feeling he has not felt for a long time.

The city sure is ugly though, a woman says, sitting across the table from Kelson. Her name is Veronica Duderly. She is around the same age as Kelson. Her long brown hair is heated to waves, and falls down her neck like a beautiful river, and within the capture of hair is a slightly chubby face, with plump cheekbones, kind eyes, but a disapproving brow. She works at the same office as Kelson, Johnson Insurance, a new startup insurance company with the idea that insurance on the internet will soon take over formal paper heavy insurance.

She is wearing a pink blouse, with a tiny gold necklace hanging around her neck. She wears an ankh ring on her right hand, and fingers it tenaciously as she scans the city below. She decided to join Kelson on this lunch at a revolving restaurant at the top of one of San Francisco's premiere hotels, only because one of her girlfriends in the office told her Kelson had an eye for her, and she wanted to tell him out of the office that she was not interested. It had bothered her for some time that she always saw him staring at her during work.

Outside, a wandering cloud passes by, and a flurry of birds shoots out of the cloud, diving down between two close buildings, and reappearing like a flock of silk. As she sees the birds, Veronica follows them, and for a moment thinks of beauty, although she is still bothered by his eyes probing her over just in the past five minutes.

The elevator dings. Kelson turns to look at the new group of people to come to the to, but something catches his eye. A man dressed in a clown costume comes out of the elevator, wearing a jesters cap, and holding in his hand a long glass rod. He swings the rod, and speaks to one of the waitresses. Her eyes are seemingly puzzled, and she stares at the rod and the hat of this odd man.

I'd like a table for twelve, he says, but Kelson notes his voice is like water, and as he hears the words, there is almost an echo of sound. Its as if this mans voice blended in with five other voices, and when he spoke he sang.

The waitress freezes. The man smiles, showing her a mouth full of golden teeth, and at this the waitress picks up her red phone and speaks into it. A few moments later, the manager comes out, and politely asks the strange man to step into the elevator, as he is bothering some of the customers.

The man swings his rod, and suddenly he is gone, vanished from the very place he stood, but also the manager and the waitress is gone. Kelson continues to stare, not sure of what he just saw.

Veronica prods him with a long nailed finger.

Hey. You're all spaced out.

Kelson turns back to her, and doesn't know what to say.

She saves the moment. Look, I'm really not interested in you. Thats all I wanted to say. Ok?

He silently eats his fish.