No time to be sorry.

This wasn't the post I had planned to write. But it was one of those instances where I felt I really should get this recorded before I forgot what actually happened. I wanted to keep a little of the magic before I lost it in the normal course of forgetting things.

I was standing in line at the bank yesterday, holding a plain white envelope with a check in it. I hadn't looked at the check, but it was one I was expecting since I had apparently overpaid some taxes back in 2004.

I didn't open the envelope before I got to the bank, knowing that this money would really help me right now, and feeling like I didn't need to see the amount. I didn't want to spoil it. I felt so relieved to be able to deposit some money into my account.

As I was waiting in line, the man was sitting near the entry way, waiting for someone. He looked at my shoes, little faux patent leather flats with buckles, and said, "I wish I had someone who would run up to me with a nice pair of shoes like that."

I half-listened to him, as I opened the envelope to get the check ready for the teller. I think I smiled at him distractedly, not really listening. He repeated his comment, as I looked at the check, my heart sinking.

The check was for $8.33. Not even enough to buy dinner with the friends I was meeting. I was glad I was wearing my big black sunglasses. They hide a lot (tears, frustration) and I was hoping that the disappointment from receiving this dinky check was also hidden by the lenses. All my anticipated relief had instantly been dashed to pieces.

The man said to me, "I don't have anybody."

Then I heard him and snapped out of my stupor. "I'm sorry to hear that," I said to him.

Then he smiled, revealing a few missing teeth, and said, "Don't ever say you're sorry. Life's too short to be sorry. You're too pretty to be sorry."

And then the teller called me, as I had a lump in my throat, to cash that silly little check.

***

Outside the bank, I saw the man again, this time walking with a woman who he introduced as his sister. He said to me, laughingly, "So, you're following me, now?"

I said, Yes, because you give such good advice. I'm going to listen to what you said and live by it if I can.

Then he stuck out his hand to introduce himself. "I'm Jomo," he smiled again and shook my hand with a firm, warm grip.

"I'm Julie."

Then he pointed at the camera hanging around my neck, and made an imaginary movement with his hands, as if to fine tune a lens. "Stay focused," he said, laughing.

We parted ways at the corner, after I asked Jomo if I could take his photo to remember him by. He wished me well, and I was glad for the $8.33, and the advice that came unasked for but was worth so much more.

portent.

Seen, touched and left for another. On a sidewalk in an alleyway in SOMA, somewhere between Folsom and Howard.

***

Function: Noun
Etymology: Latin portentum, from neuter of portentus, past participle of portendere
Date: circa 1587

1 : something that foreshadows a coming event : omen, sign
2 : prophetic indication or significance
3 : marvel, prodigy

***

"Omens are the individual language in which God talks to you. My omens are not your omens." ~ Paul Coelho

I came across that Tarot card on a forgotten sidewalk about a week or so ago. It was in a random alley somewhere South of Market, and now I can't remember exactly where.

Even without picking up the card, I knew it was from a Tarot deck, even though the image is not from a traditional deck. Upon examining the card, I saw it had no recognizable suit or arcana that I could relate to.

I smiled at the thought of a message I could not understand, and put the card back on the sidewalk, hoping the next passersby would glean a little more from the portent than I could.

***

In times past, I would have taken a random occurrence like that to have some vast cosmic significance. I searched for omens and signs and indications everywhere. It made me feel like I wasn't so alone. That the universe had plans for me, as insignificant and terribly mortal as I might be in the great scheme of things.

It was a charming and colorful phase of my life, sometimes devotional, sometimes dark. And sometimes I was just going through the motions, to believe that a message was intended only for me, if I could interpret it, even though deep down I knew it was like playing make-believe. I had my guides: my corners, my directions, my crystals and sage and oils and incense and chants and ragas.

And then somehow, it became easier to just live instead of trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out what will happen next in your life is stressful, and looking for portents is not a very good way to go about it.

Now, even though I slip up from time to time and utter "well, all things happen for a reason," with a wink, I'll catch myself and try to enjoy the magic of a random happening that has no import at all, only if I give it such.

The magic has gone out of my life in a way. Or perhaps by magic I mean whimsy, with a generous touch of delusion. But it has been replaced by a sense of the groundedness I thought I was giving myself all along.

***

When I got home from my walk, I googled different kinds of Tarot decks, because I still wanted to find out what that card meant. It's from the Zen Oshu deck, and the card I stumbled upon is The Creator.

THE CREATOR

There are two types of creators in the world: one type of creator works with objects - a poet, a painter, they work with objects, they create things; the other type of creator, the mystic, creates himself. He doesn't work with objects, he works with the subject; he works on himself, his own being. And he is the real creator, the real poet because he makes himself into a masterpiece.

You are carrying a masterpiece hidden within you, but you are standing in the way. Just move aside, then the masterpiece will be revealed. Everyone is a masterpiece, because God never gives birth to anything less that that. Everyone carries that masterpiece hidden for many lives, not knowing who they are, and just trying on the surface to become someone.

Drop the idea of becoming someone, because you already are a masterpiece. You cannot be improved. You have only to come to it, to know it, to realize it. God has himself created you, you cannot be improved.

Old habits die hard.

That message made me smile.

***

"He will put money in your hand," the old woman said to me.
At the bus stop yesterday, 6th Avenue at Clement

***

Yesterday I was waiting in the bus shelter for the 44 O'Shaughnessy and eating a little piece of crispy Chinese pork, which I had bought across the street, along with a few pieces of dim sum. Crispy pork is my new favorite pork discovery, although I'm sure the Chinese have been enjoying it for thousands of years.

An old Chinese woman walked into the bus shelter, looked up at the NextMuni sign and saw that we had 9 more minutes until the next bus. I didn't notice her pulling out the cardboard with cheap jewelry stuck to it, but before I knew it, I was getting a not-so-subtle sales pitch.

$2 earrings. No thanks. A jade cross pendant on a suede string. No, really, thanks.

Then she shows me the jade Buddha.

"Four dollars," she says. The woman looked chagrined, as if this piece was a bit too expensive. "But he will put money in your hand."

"Really? He'll put money in my hand?"

Because I could sure use some money in my hand these days. Living la Vie Boheme wears a bit thin at times.

She nods.

Then I notice her old plastic shoes with holes in them, and her dirty bag. How many pairs of $2 earrings must she sell a day just to buy a plate of crispy pork and dim sum? How many people say No Thanks until that happens?

I don't believe the Buddha will put money in my hand, really, although it's a lovely thought. But I do think the Buddha (if he ever existed and somehow was watching this transaction) would be pleased if I gave this lady four dollars, which I have (I have six dollars).

So I buy the Buddha.

And that is a story. Without magic, but a nice true story nonetheless.

Sometimes it takes so little...

...to make a person happy.

Sometimes I wonder why it is so hard for those of us who have so much?

Meet Chewie, Little Fluff and Patricia.

If you are around Polk Street @ California, you might see them on the corner. Give them a dollar or two if you can. Stop and pet the cats for a moment. They love company and a kind word.

More later but I'm so dog tired. I wish I had someone who could take dictation and type my blog for me. Any takers?

***

Long story very very short, I was in a boutique today with someone who will be featured in i live here:SF very soon. She said to the boutique owner that I'm a photographer and the woman said, "Hey, you want to have a show here?"

Just like that.

Could it really be that easy?

Yes. I guess it can.

More on that too if there's something to tell.

Wherever your red shoes take you.

Hey lady, he calls to me from his seat on the bench. He squints in the morning sun. I like your shoes.

I look down at my filthy red sneaks and say thanks.

I hope wherever your red shoes take you, you have a great day, he exclaims confidently. Then he sees my camera.

And that you get some great photos today!

How did he know I already had?

***

I usually wake up between 5:30 and 6:30 in the morning. Even though I don't have a job to go to at present, old habits die hard.

I used to try to leave the house early before work so I could take a few photos before the boring grind of the office day began. Just spending even a half-hour outside the office felt like a very important time, even if I only got one good shot out of it. I felt like I had accomplished something important just for me.

So it dawned on me yesterday that I am literally wasting dawns. I could be up and using that amazing morning light and instead I'm lazing around.

So this morning I decided to change all that.

At 6:30am, I took the 71 Haight-Noriega all the way down Haight Street to Fillmore. Got off at Fillmore, walked to Oak to Laguna and then walked all the way back Oak, to Masonic, to Haight and through the park.

And here's what I saw. All that before the day began, and was I glad.

Early morning on an empty bus but still uneasy neighbors.

Thanks for the ride, 71.

I love the thinking about how many mornings these old houses have seen.

No one will steal your trike if you park it over your door.

This one's shy.

But now they're having a bit of a chat.

I loved the yellow bee man and his matching goldenrod taxi speeding by.

I call this the Dog House. This is the first time I've gotten a good shot of who's guarding the stoop.

I like that Tom Johnson, Sr. used so many tacks to keep his name on.

This is one of my i live here: SF postcards, which I stealthily leave around town. No one's contacted me yet, but I keep pretending they're like Golden Tickets in Wonka Bars, and someday someone will say they found my postcard lying around and thought it would be fun to see what my project's all about.

I wonder where she went.

Life is UR canvas. U R the artist.
As seen in Golden Gate Park.

Wherever your red shoes take you.

***

Red shoes or not, I hope your feet took you somewhere interesting today.

An Intimate Eye

"I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy." ~ Anaïs Nin

From yesterday.

I am wandering around in yesterday's images. I've had one of those yucky migraines from when I woke up this morning, so this day has been a total shambles: just cat naps, drawn shades and Excedrin.

But in the in-between moments, when I can stand a little light, I come back to my computer, to the images of yesterday (was it only yesterday?) and they make me feel better.

***

I am realizing more about my project. There is a subtle intimacy with the subject, a knowingness that comes after a few minutes, or many, when there is a letting go, that the subject surrenders to me, to my wishes, without shyness, without embarrassment.

I had not expected this. I only expected to take their photographs.

It is all ended when we shake hands and I put the lens cap on my camera again, saying goodbye and thanks. But the residue is there, when I revisit the images. Why do they let me do this?

That is the next question to be answered.

Whilst Trespassing

It's not every day that, while you are trespassing on private property taking photos for i live here: SF, you are discovered (i.e., caught) by the food editor for Esquire magazine, who just so happens to be visiting San Francisco for a few days to research some places for her next article, and then you happen to mention (i.e., blurt out) your favorite sausage place in the Lower Haight and highly highly recommend the bratwurst and the German potato salad, and then she gives you her email address so you can send her some information about it. And then when you get home and tell your Boy about who you just happened to bump into while you were trespassing on someone's private property, he gets a little miffed because if this certain sausage place gets famous due to some slight indiscretion on a person's (i.e., my) part and this certain sausage place is "discovered" by denizens of Esquire magazine readers, then when we want to go there, it will be terribly crowded and overrun by strangers, and the sausage place will have run out of German potato salad, and that unfortunate situation will all be my fault.

However, it is for precisely reasons like this that (a) I love San Francisco-- because it's the kind of place where you never ever know when something wonderful will happen but it will sooner than later, (b) there is a sausage place so yummy that I can recommend it to the food editor of Esquire magazine just in case I happen to bump into her, and (c) why I hate Mondays.

My life begins on Free Friday.

***

SAN FRANCISCO STREET CRED QUIZ

Without using The Google or wikipedia, who can tell me which famous San Francisco series of stories was inspired by the locale pictured above?

The i live here: SF project...

Sometimes you have just part of an idea rattling around in your head, and then all of a sudden --whoosh! --the pieces fit together. Many thanks to ~K, namastenancy and Soad for saying the right things at the right time that tied it all together. And as always, a thank you to Brittney at Eye on Blogs, who is always so supportive in her shout outs and recognition of what I post here.

***

I can't say that I walk around like this all the time, but it happens enough of the time to know that it's not a fleeting thing. Plain and simple, I just love living in San Francisco, for all the reasons I write about in this blog, and for a thousand other reasons that I might not fully be aware of, or for reasons that just don't get written down at all.

And I keep meeting interesting, talented and fascinating souls that inspire and charm and intrigue me. Their faces and their stories make me want to meet more of them, even if our encounter is for the briefest moment, in the time it takes for me to snap their photo. Regardless of our economic concerns now, our fears and worries, I think we all appreciate a genuine human story and image.


So I'm embarking on a "real" project, the working title of said project is:

i live here: SF

This blog is a platform for whatever this larger thing turns out to be, but for right now it's photographing the people of San Francisco. The images shared here are willing collaborations between myself and those pictured because I feel that the photos I take in partnership with someone else are the ones I like the most and to which I am the most connected. The people being photographed can share their story with me, maybe something about why they live in San Francisco and what they think about it, or remain anonymous.


It is my goal to share some of the spirit and fascinating layers of this city through the eyes and visages of those who live here.

***

Because this is a participatory endeavour, you can be a part of it, if you want to. In a nutshell, if you'd like to have your photo taken for this project, or know other people who might, or can help in any way by forwarding this post, mentioning it to a friend or posting it somewhere, please do. I'd really appreciate it.

If you live in SF and want to have your photo taken, contact me (email's in the sidebar) and we can talk about it.

Or, if you don't live here, but know someone who does, someone who you think might want to share in this project, then by all means, put them in touch with me. You know where I am.

Thank you all, and be sure to check in at my other site. As things progress, I hope to have lots more to share with you there. I don't know what the final result of all of this will be but sometimes the surprise at the end is the best part.

Backtrack: a story of meetings

I'm going back to last Free Friday, to a group of photos I took. A late afternoon, in the Tenderloin, downtown.

It's both easy and hard at the end of the day -- easy in that I just lose myself in my photos and it's like I never went to the office (I just forget everything, even what time it is), and hard, in that I'm tired because it's been a long day -- but I have to go through the images, and even if it's just to find a few that make me happy. And then I can stop and go to bed.

***

I realized the photos I like best tell stories. So here are three.

Part I: The violinist

It's quite common to hear a variety of music being performed in the metro stations. Ordinarily, I don't stop to listen because I've yet to hear music that's worth stopping for. In my humble opinion, that is.

I understand (and you do, too, I'm sure) what it's like to enjoy something so much that you have to close your eyes to experience it. I did not have my eyes closed, but the slight, long-haired man, dressed all in black and playing the violin... his eyes were closed.

He played that violin like nothing else in the world existed except for him, and the violin, and the music.

The music was etheral, and haunting, and I couldn't quite place what I was hearing and for once, I didn't want to leave the station immediately. I remembered a recent story I had heard about virtuoso Joshua Bell playing his violin in a DC Metro station (imagine that!) and how barely anyone even noticed. If you haven't read this story, you should.

When the musician stopped playing, we talked for a few minutes. The piece I was playing he had improvised (that amazed me just in itself, what a concept) and that he was visiting from Atlanta, before going on to LA. I was already sad to know that he wasn't a local and I wouldn't see him in the metro station again.

We talked about his violins and his CDs, and a little bit about Venice. I remembered the violin museum I had gone to in San Marco, a place he would have loved more than any normal person. He's never been to Venice. I hope he gets there someday, for that city and violins are good friends.

***

Part II: The man on the street

Coming up to the street, I saw the Truth Building again. I know it's a repeat from a previous post, but it's a photo I really love.

The sun was hanging lower in the sky, drifting into late afternoon.

The man gently helping the little boy on his bike, with training wheels, made me smile. Against the hard backdrop of this gritty part of town, you realize that kids still need to learn to ride their bikes.

Near the Hibernia Bank, at the corner of Jones and McAllister, the clouds were filling the sky with an end-of-day fullness.

Even the neon lights had something to say.

***

he says: hey lady, take my picture.

then he starts goofing off, wiggling around and striking crazy poses. which of course makes for a terrible photo.

i say: stand still and just act normal. otherwise i can't take your picture!

he says: act normal? i haven't done that in my whole life!

he laughs. and stands still.

and then i take his picture.

i tell him he has nice eyes. he does.

and then he can't help it... boys will be boys.

***

These old buildings must have so many stories to tell. I guess I'm not too sure how many of them I'd really want to know without them weighing down on my heart. But even in their present state, I find these places quite beautiful in their way.

The light is starting to fade to night. And my lens isn't wide enough to take it all in.

Contrasts appeal to me. I love finding unique juxtapositions ... and seem to notice more of them when I'm toting a camera around. Next to this men's club (and what Obama has to do with the club, I have no idea) is a rescue mission. Both the gentleman's club and the rescue mission were locked tight. No escape and no solace to be found in either place.

I wonder what this mural is really trying to tell the people that see it. I'd like to think that it's something like: there are more good people than bad people, and not this, which is seems pretty vague and not very inspiring. People living in this neighborhood need a little bit more than ambiguity.

***

Part III: The artist

Here I am, sitting and waiting for a new friend who, when I meet her, feels like an old soul. The air in the restaurant is thick with rich, delicious smoke from the tandoori oven, and I feel like I'm at an Indian barbeque. I've come in off the street to wait for her, since standing outside the restaurant was starting to get me admirers I didn't want.

I wish I could be in this neighborhood, invisible, to observe and take photos, but I can't. Standing outside waiting, a man who looked very much like the one I took photos of earlier, lurches towards me, an open beer can barely concealed inside a brown paper bag.

He smiles at me and says, you're so pretty. You're like an angel. Before I know it, he's reached out to push some hair away from my face. I wish I was braver. All I could say was thank you and then turn inside to the safety of the restaurant.

Indoors, away from the dark and the street, my new friend and I talk and plan. We talk about Cairo, where she was born, and the Mission, where she lives now. We talk about veils and makeup and photography and paintings and dance.

Three meetings. One afternoon.

***

While I was working on these images, I was listening to Paul's music, so I made a slideshow to share with you. The track is from his album, Ghosts, and the piece is called "Under The Direction Of St. Teresa VI."



You can learn more about Paul Mercer, listen to his music or order CDs on his myspace page.... http://profile.myspace.com/paulmercer

***

ps.: you can see this set of photos on flickr and leave comments here, too.