As I sift through the hundreds of photos from our most recent trip, I can’t help but remember how often I mentally constructed a shot only to realize a white van sat inside the frame. Occasionally it’s grey, or less often, black, but a van is a van when it’s taking up space in front of the perfect architectural contrast of old and new that I find so striking. It’s what disrupts the vanishing point of a village lane, or an interesting streetscape. It’s the marshmallow like box of a vehicle often emblazoned with neon logos, dot coms, and slogans–all necessary, of course, if one is in need of the services provided. Who am I to suggest they shouldn’t be where they’re supposed to be, attending to clients’ needs or headed from one job to the next?
continueCategory: Photography
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Kickstarting a new routine
Mid-week taking stock of things reveals I’m here and for the third day in a row, writing. And clearly, writing here means I’m not writing my book, but it’s not going anywhere. It will be much better waiting for me to establish a routine — even a glimmer of one before I sit down to finish it.
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Green Grass on the Other Side of Road Trips
The solstice is still two days away, yet it seems summer has been in full swing for weeks in spite of skies so thick with the seasonal grey we’re accustomed to it’s been misty from time to time. We began celebrating college graduations and finished doctoral work mid-May, then educator friends’ wistful counting of days remaining until the school year ends mingled with cheers for three of our nieces and nephews recently graduated from high school.
//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.jsSomewhere in the shuffle of events, the MoH and I made a quick road trip to San Francisco to collect the RT and his meager belongings. His second semester in college was under his belt and planning for how we’d manage transporting the three of us and his stuff back home became a sort of puzzle considering we no longer had the space my old Acura afforded us. Instead, a MINI would have to get the job done. I thought about it long enough and decided it was possible as long as I could put the MoH and RT on a flight home and I could drive the belongings back to San Diego by myself.
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Go ahead. Lock me up.
I spent half of yesterday thinking it was today.
Pathetic. Does that mean I’m wishing my life away, that I’m becoming forgetful, or that time flies when I’m having so much fun I can hardly see straight?
I vote for the last one.
So much loveliness.
I could be under house arrest and be thoroughly entertained.
You know.
Like Martha.
She probably loved it.
But I’ll bet her house was shiny.
Organized.
And had labels on shelves.
A crudless keyboard.
But I have an azalea that blooms all year long.
Amazing, isn’t it?
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Just call me Ansel.
My husband and I went for a long hike yesterday. In high weekend gear, as usual, he stated that he wanted to go because I had been with a couple of friends the week before, and he thought it sounded fun. So, in the brilliant late afternoon sun, that’s just what we did.
It felt good to get out and move around, enjoy the fresh air and be less than pleasantly reminded that I am horrible when it comes to hiking—that is, hiking when hills are involved. Yes, I know that hiking isn’t really hiking unless one has donned large boots with thick treaded soles to trudge up and down hills, climb rocks, and perhaps swing from trees.
You’d think I’d been a smoker all my life for all the gasping I did. My husband barely worked up a sweat the entire time. How is that even possible? The guy is a desk jockey who doesn’t exercise—unless I count the times he jumps off the couch and rushes the television when he thinks there’s been a bad call made against a player who’s on his Fantasy Football Team. Pushing the buttons on the remote absolutely does not count.
It’s not fair with all the walking and swimming and stretching and complaining (jaw exercise…?) I do. One would think that I’d be the athlete in the house.
The determination behind this particular hike is that once you’ve dragged yourself up the enormous hill, wandered off the main road and down through the winding paths, then schlepped back up the crude steps built into the hillside, you get to trek down, down, down to the ocean. At least someone figured out that there should be some redemption for people who think looking at indigenous scrub on eroding bluffs after months with no rain is not beautiful. “Oh, look honey…A black sage. I wonder if its twigs ever have leaves on them?” Or aren’t too thrilled by the concept of waiting for a rattler to spring out and chomp on your ankle for interrupting his afternoon nap.
Sarcasm aside, I do think the landscape is quite interesting in all its unique beauty, but it definitely falls into the acquired taste category—at least at this time of year. Now, I would be interested in coming again when it rains. If it rains. I could also be convinced to think differently about returning if I didn’t have to concentrate on how to keep air in my lungs. It sort of takes the fun out of trying to remember all the botanical names.
Yes, thankfully, there’s an ocean at the end of it all. You get to rip off your shoes, peel off your sweaty socks, and walk through the refreshingly clear surf. Very nice, and more than motivating.
It’s such a stark looking reserve at this time of year; most of the native plants look quite dead. The occasional pine’s long needles add a bit of green to the scenery, and termites busy digesting fallen trees uncover rich shades of gold within the trunk. But dust covers everything, and I can’t help but wonder how anyone would have wanted to settle here like they did hundreds of years ago. You know. The people who anchored their sailing vessels off the coast and decided to call this home. Not a palm tree in sight. Just the torrey pines, wild sumac and other plants that magically eke out an existence in the arid environment that is Torrey Pines State Reserve.
I did seize the opportunity to look a bit through Ansel Adams’ eyes and examine the contrasts of light and dark created by the sun. I know little about photography, so can’t tell if any of my photos “work,” but it was a pleasant change of pace and I do like a few of them.
As we approached the shore, the saltiness of the air refreshed our dusty nostrils, and my attention was directed to the interesting striations of color in the bluffs. As much as erosion is rarely a good thing, the effects of it can certainly be beautiful.
The tide was nearly at its lowest by the time we ventured down the stairs, so we knew we could hike back to our car from the beach. Good thing or my husband would have had to call for an air lift. I was exhausted.
The beach is firm and flat, and the waves push gently toward the shore, so it’s easy to walk in the water and cool down. Smooth rocks and shells lie here and there. Birds with long beaks search for a briny morsel to eat.
A man and a woman walked toward us in their bathing suits, eyes averted as they passed, no doubt wondering about the layer of dirt on my upper lip stuck to my sweat. Or maybe it was that I’d thrown myself belly first into the water, kissing the sand much like Kevin Costner did as Robin Hood after setting foot in England once again.
It must have been the dirt mustache.
No matter. At least I got my exercise in for the day, and I’m thankful for my husband who is ever so tolerant in more ways than I can count.
And this is what it looks like in color. How could I change it to black and white, Ansel? Tell me what you would have done.
