-I have done a considerable amount of scanning this weekend and hope to add new images to my website quite soon. It has been a somewhat time consuming task as the scanner I rented can only scan medium format film one image at a time. I wish my Canon scan could do medium format and 35 mm but that just isn’t the case. It will be a little time to select my shots and play with the color balance, etc. before I can effect change to the website.

-My sister, her friend and one of her daughters stopped by to see my house for the first time. It was nice to have the company. My sister’s friend is very funny and her two daughters have posed for me a number of times. They are even on my website. A few years ago, they posed for the first time to help me develop my portraiture skills. The first work I did with them was purely available light and then it became a sort of annual event to do their portraits sometimes using available light and sometimes studio strobes. At the time of the first portrait shooting, their father had just died after a very nasty battle with a rare form of leukemia. They and their mother, along with their two brothers, really stuck together to handle the loss including the resulting financial burden. I was happy to have been able to do something for the two sisters by photographing them and providing them as well as their mother with a great many custom B&W and Color prints. They love their portraits.

Anyhow, I was very sad to hear about the current situation that has befallen the youngest daughter. In addition to having been found to have cervical cancer, she is in a terribly destructive relationship with some loser. Evidently, her boyfriend, with whom she lives, is the type who likes to keep her isolated from her family and friends. She has lost her friends, her connection with her family and just sort of sits around. She lost her job a while back and when she has looked for a new job, her boyfriend always objects to it.

Once so thin, she has become very overweight and isn’t even allowed to join a gym or lead a more active life. Meanwhile, she has to chauffer this shmuck of a boyfriend around because he has already received three DUIs. Christ, she really doesn’t deserve this sort of treatment. Her mother and sister sadly recounted this tale to me and I felt so very bad. They went on to tell me about how she has always suffered self-esteem problems and this resulting situation is perhaps not a surprise.

I can recall that, while doing photo shoots, she was very quiet compared to her more extroverted sister. She was a real natural when it comes to modeling in front of the camera and I often told her that she should consider trying to get into doing some modeling work because she has a rather unique look and such a comfort in front of the lens. Still, when we were not shooting, I could always tell that she had an unsettled silence about her. It was something that I could totally read but there was a definite undercurrent beneath the still waters.

I know her mother and siblings are there to support whatever she decides in life and her mother has already urged her to get away from this guy but I do not know what the outcome will be. I only hope she is able to somehow navigate this bad patch of life and without receiving too many long lasting scars.

Life really does seem to be nothing but a lot of cruelty and abuse, “short and brutish…” as Hobbes would say. I realize that is very cynical but it seems to be true.

Just looking out my bedroom window.

Thoughts:

Similar to taking smokers to visit a cancer ward, I have an effective means of dissuading teenagers from getting pregnant; expose them to Saturday mornings at a local coin-op laundry. Eagle Rock appears to be much more yuppified or is in the process of transformation. I mean, there is a Trader Joes and Starbucks and whatnot, an indication that nervous white people are moving into the area. Everyone sort of looks alike, talking on a cell phone, stomach or back tattoo at the pants line that is cute now but will likely look hideous at the age of 40. Everyone has children named Ashley or Caitlin or Trevor. But, what the hell, it means greater possibility for my property value to increase so I guess I should celebrate these patterns of change.

My brother stopped by my house after doing some work. He bought me a little Swiffer that has a vacuum on it. He was so excited. I asked him if he had one and he gleefully replied that this was the third one he had bought. He proceeded to pull it out of the box and quickly assemble it. If it hadn’t been for the battery needing an initial charge of 15 hours, I believe he would have been running about the house trying to vacuum things. He is such a nut. I suppose it runs in the family.

I awoke about 2:30 this morning with a terrible anxiety attack. I haven’t had one of these for quite some time. I handled in my usual manner, pacing back and forth in the dark, talking to myself. Eventually, it passed and I sat looking out my bedroom window for a while. I could hear an owl in the trees (shit, I still don’t know if it is really an owl or not but I’m going to pretend it is until the Audobon Society tells me otherwise). I went back to sleep for a couple hours more and then got up and made coffee.Several years ago, I went through a period of terrible panic attacks that were really screwing around with my life. A high dose of Imipramine for a couple months really helped me and the problem has never really returned except for occasional one night attacks such as this one. I think attitude is important as well as brain chemistry. When I get these attacks now and I think I am going to die, I just start telling myself, “So, maybe you’re going to die right now. What does it matter? Someone will eventually find the body and isn’t as if the fate of the universe depends on your existence.” In essence, I just sort of dare the grim reaper to take me and, by doing so, I stop worrying about it.

I am quite happy to see other Blogger’s visiting my site. I suppose, now that I have a profile up, I will have some more interaction. I think it is fantastic that I have visitors from foreign lands that happen to share a common tongue (well, within reason).

I actually love reading English as written by British and Australians as there is a wonderful difference in the use of the language stylistically as well as through the use of different colloquialisms. Sometimes, I think that American English has less flow and grace to it; however, this may just be a novelty factor. I am single so any British women who want to visit L.A. can contact me :) (as long as you aren't soccer hooligans).

Actually, I went on a date with a British woman that I met through my favorite place, Craigslist. She seemed interesting…on the phone but, upon meeting, I soon found that what was once interesting was soon to deteriorate into something twisted and strange. She was a theater director and soon began telling me about all the details of her job, in detail. She droned on all night and did not let me get in a word. Being that I am not very extroverted, that isn’t hard to do but this was to an extreme. With her British accent, I soon found myself imagining this to be rather like some sort of Monty Python sketch. Unfortunately, nothing comedic happened to end the night swiftly (i.e. black hole appearing to swallow her up or her head exploding) so I just sort of spaced out and nodded my head as she spoke.

Finally, the night crawled to a halt and upon saying my goodbyes, I happily shut the door of my car, realizing that solitude, while less than perfect, is a veritable heaven when compared to a number of alternative hells.Again, I will look into the Tindersticks music. I am a real lover of things ethereal. I am a huge Cocteau Twins fan. I liked Lush and Dean Can Dance.I also really loved the Sundays. Since they broke-up, I have never hear anything from their lead singer, Harriet Wheeler. That is a shame. I love her voice and actually saw the Sundays at a gym at University of California, Irvine (my alma mater) where I was able to stand right at the stage while they performed. It was really great.

Around 6:00 AM, on Olive Street, just south of 8th, I noticed a Coca Cola delivery truck parked along the curb. The driver was on the sidewalk, golf club in hand, practicing his swing.

Today, our entire department had to attend a safety meeting to discuss...safety.

It is one of those annual requirement things. People don't realize when they get out of school just how much time will be devoted to the pointless and inane once they are working at a company, especially a large one. This particular meeting discussed subjects ranging from safe driving to disease vectors to office ergonomics. At one point, the host of the meeting asked us if we all had new, ergonomic chairs to which we all nodded our heads in the affirmative. He then asked if we had the additional training for using the chairs.

I looked around the room with a puzzled expression and furrowed brow. Chair training? What the hell is chair training?! Our host gave us a quick rundown on some of the important points related to our chairs so we can return to the office and sit proper. Leave it to humankind of the 21st century to complicate sitting your ass down.

The other fun part of the meeting was the video regarding our building security and all the special emergency stuff they have at the building. I liked the part about elevator failures and the assurances that the elevators are built to prevent free fall in the event of an outage. I also enjoyed the enactments of fires and earthquakes. They urged us to maintain neat desks in order to ensure a safer immediate environment. We all laughed since most of us have desks that look like a papermill exploded.

The absolute best part of the meeting was that it ended early in the afternoon and, given that my car is still not ready for pick-up, I decided to drive to the County Museum since the Diane Arbus exhibit is set to close at the end of this week (see Blog above).I feel as safe as a bug in a rug.

Diane Arbus Exhibit

I have never really been that familiar with Diane Arbus and her work but, following this exhibit, I have come away with a greater appreciation of her work and the message that came across in her photographs. Arbus is known for her work done on the streets of New York where she photographed people.

She did most of her work in the 50s and 60s. She killed herself at the age of 48 in 1971. She had a tendency to look for eccentric people, carnival sideshow people, transvestites and other people that tend to be characterized as sub-culture. The work shown here was all black and white and taken either with a 35mm or a 2 ¼ square. I loved how Arbus allows the subject to tell their story. The people feel so gritty and real and, while they are often not “pretty people”, they come across with a refreshing honesty and their own unique story to tell.

In one exhibit, they had several of Arbus’s diary entries and notes. One particular line just jumped out at me and it has stuck with me: “The world is full of fictional characters waiting for their stories.” That line really described much of her work and also how I found myself perceiving it. It wasn’t until the end, though, that I found myself deeply impacted.

One of Arbus’s last projects was to photograph the residents of an institution. The residents were mostly older women who were mentally retarded. On the particular day of the shoot, the women were celebrating Halloween on the grounds and nearby area of the institution. In many of the shots, the women wear silly masks, mostly homemade and outfits that resemble gowns or ghostly sheets. The images are rather haunting, the light is grey and a bit dreary. Still, the women are not presented as freaks, unhappy institutionalized prisoners or wanting for sympathy. Instead, they are generally happy, laughing and seemingly enjoying their night of celebration.

It is strange that the images evoke such sadness and melancholy. I was deeply impacted by these photographs and stood staring at each of them for the longest time. After a while, I realized that I was beginning to cry (I tend to do that at the most inconvenient moments). I kept finding myself wanting to know who these people were, what was their story, were they happy, did they feel safe or satisfied with their life in institutions and how did their lives end? As I looked and pondered these questions, I noticed, out of the corner of my eye that this one woman had entered the room and walked briskly from photograph to photograph, muttering, “I hate this part.”

I just shook my head.I realized that part of my emotions stemmed from my sense of identification with these people. I know that I am not retarded and never spent my lifetime in an institution. Outwardly, most would think me very normal. I have always felt marked, though, even if my “Scarlet Letter” is branded on the inside. It doesn’t have an extreme impact on my work and finance duties but, when it comes to intimacy and relations with others, it is painfully obvious that I am abnormal or retarded.

Maybe another reason for my reaction to these photographs had something to do with existential issues. As I mentioned, I was thinking the whole time about these people and their lives and it brought to the fore my search for meaning and how photographs and writing are a way for me to create and leave something that defines me. Photographs like these show these isolated moments in someone’s life that was defining of their life. Somehow, it saddens me that someday we will disappear and be obscure characters in old pictures, no one knowing who we were or the story of our lives.

Speaking of photographs, I decided to nail a few photographs up on the walls even though I will be repainting in the near future. In my bedroom, I hung two old photographs of my parents. One photograph shows my mother when she graduated from college. Another photo is a studio shot of my dad in his younger days. I like those old photos. I put them up and looked at them for a while. I fucking wish they both weren’t gone. I don’t have anyone. It gets so lonely.

The trouble with Patrick Stewart

I was organizing some items in my home when I came upon a cardboard poster commemorating a performance of “A Christmas Carol” by Patrick Stewart.

Several years ago, Patrick Stewart used to perform a one-man show of Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol” on an annual basis. Before this show became popular, he used to perform at a small auditorium on the campus of Cal Tech. For a while, it became something of a Christmas ritual for me and my brother to watch this performance. The auditorium was small and intimate and Stewart did such a great job of playing all of the parts and bringing the story to life.

On one particular year, an anniversary of the publication of the story, a small poster was provided to ticket holders. The poster displays a caricature of Stewart performing the role of Ebeneezer Scrooge. Following the program, my brother and I were exiting the auditorium when we noticed a small group waiting near a side door. We reasoned that these folks were waiting to greet Patrick Stewart and obtain an autograph. My brother and I decided to wait with these people. The wait was rather long and the weather was a bit chilly.

Finally, Stewart emerged from the side door and greeted all of us. Everybody asked him about the show and other stage productions with which he was involved. Finally, before he was about ready to leave, people began to ask him if he wouldn’t mind signing their poster. At this point, Stewart held up his arm, displaying a brace and informed us that, due to carpal tunnel syndrome, he would not be able to sign autographs. Everyone was discouraged as Stewart walked away, climbed into his Jaguar and sped away.

Since that fateful evening, my brother has held this degree of animosity towards Mr. Stewart. Being that my brother is a specialist in the area of rheumatology, he refuses to believe that Patrick Stewart suffers from carpal tunnel syndrome citing, in particular, that the brace he was sporting would normally be worn at night during sleep. He mentioned some other technical reasons which I will not bother to describe or attempt to explain. Essentially, my brother accuses him of using the brace and said medical condition as a ruse for getting out of signing autographs.

My brother goes on to fume about Stewart’s character, stating that he is a failed Shakespearean actor who never would have obtained fame if not for his part in Star Trek. By this time, I am usually laughing at my brother’s tirade to which he responds by accusing me of forgiving Stewart’s deplorable behavior because I am a fan of science fiction and what a great fool I am.

I considered throwing away this little poster but decided to keep it only if for the future opportunity to pull it out in the presence of my brother and watch him launch into his amusing diatribe.

Various thoughts that invade my day:

There was an interesting looking man on 5th street waiting for the bus. He had on a blond wig, blouse, skirt and pantyhose. He was wearing some makeup on his face. He did not make a very convincing woman. At first, I question whether I am in the midst of filming for a movie or commercial but considering how well worn this man’s clothing appeared, it is unlikely that Tootsie II is being filmed in front of me.

There is a man in an old car that drives up and down the various streets of my new neighborhood. He is extremely punctual, driving about at the same time every morning. I know since I too tend to be rather predictable in my time of departure each morning. At the appointed time, his car races up to the end of the street, hazard lights blinking, and then races back down and then on to another street. I can only hypothesize about the purpose but I believe that he makes daily forays into the neighborhood in search of trashed items to scavenge. It is somewhat like a scavenging animal that awakes at dawn to survey its territory in search of dead or injured prey. In this case the animal is replaced by an old car and the prey is some hobbled table or dead kitchen appliance. I should leave something out such as a box or something and see if he stops to investigate. I’ll peer out from my living room window. It will be just like a wild animal program on the Discovery Channel.

I was discussing with a Canadian office mate the meaning behind Victoria Day (today). Evidently, it is Queen Victoria’s B-Day and an excuse for getting another day off from work in Canada. From what this fellow told me, Canada is rather liberal with the holidays. I especially like the holiday, Easter Monday. I commented, “So, in Canada, Jesus took four days to rise instead of three?” I think a couple of people who overheard me were less than amused by my remark. I sometimes forget that people are serious about religion. Oh well, I’ll be going to hell anyhow. That’s where any decent god would send his mistakes and I was a big one; many will attest to that.Actually, if there is a god, I think he walked away and forgot about us eons ago.

The early morning was spent wandering about Elyrian Canyon Park. I am fortunate enough to live on a street that dead-ends at a Nature Conservancy. The trails are narrow and there is a great deal of brush and trees, particularly Black Walnut Trees and sage grass. It is more or less surrounded by residential streets but, once inside, it is easy to get comfortably lost. There is actually a ranger station and a ranger that lives on the site. That seems kind of odd given the size of the park but I suppose that he must also keep watch of surrounding hills for fires, etc. There does appear to be a good bit of poison oak so it is wise to be careful of the brush. There are also warnings about snakes but, then again, snake warnings go for any wilderness area of Southern California. My experience has been that snakes are usually not a problem as long as you don’t go looking for them. Strangely enough, I worry more about strange people that might be lurking about than wild animals. But, that’s why there is pepper spray.I keep hearing owls at night but I am not sure that they are owls. So, I keep hearing owls or owl-like creatures.

Laundry Day

I was doing a bit of laundry at the coin-op on Figueroa. After placing my articles into a washer, I realized that I had forgotten to bring a book to read. As such, I had to entertain myself in a different manner.

At one point, I decided to take a stroll through the strip mall and investigate what other manner of business is conducted here. There is a dry cleaner, located next to the laundry mat. In addition, there was an odd little market that was closed although the hours posted indicated it should have been open. There was also a WIC office for dispensing money to disadvantaged parents. Located next to the WIC office was a strange manner of store that was called something like the “Family Nutrition Center” or close to that. The store was very clean and tidy and had various tables and places to sit. Behind a counter in the front were glass enclosed refrigerators. The refrigerators appeared filled with milk, orange juice and other sundry items. According to the sign in the window of the store, the employees working at this place do the shopping for you so you will not have to worry about getting the wrong sizes or brands. I thought it curious that such a store would be here in Highland Park.

Professional shopping services are usually a luxury that people in Beverly Hills would employ. I am wondering if it has some connection with WIC since part of the overall WIC program is to essentially make sure that teen mothers do not raise their little offspring on a diet consisting of corn chips and soda. Perhaps this place is here to make sure that said teen mothers use their WIC funds in a WIC-responsible manner.On this particular morning, the “Nutrition Center” store was deserted. Perhaps Saturday morning is not a day for picking up such staples.

Oddly enough, a donut shop is located right next to this headquarters for nutrition. The donut shop was doing brisk business.

The Aveo

Due to some unplanned repair work being performed on my car, it was necessary for me to rent a car for the next two or three days. The good people of Enterprise Rental paired me with a Chevy Aveo. Funny but I had never heard of such a car before this day. I hypothesized that this was some model originally targeted for a foreign country like Romania or Khazikstan.

Failing to lure the potential car buying citizenry of these lands, the cars were shipped back to America where they were subsequently dumped on rental car agencies to be lent out to vehicular challenged souls like me.The car is far from sumptuous and drives like any small compact. I was fairly indifferent to my driving experience on my way to work.

Once I pulled into a space in the parking structure, I was suddenly faced with an unexpected dilemma. The gear shift, located between the driver and passenger seats, resisted all my attempts to move it into Park. For a second or two, I went through the checklist of requisite steps for shifting transmissions on modern day cars; the brake was depressed, I was off of the gas, doors closed, etc. The usual precursors to stopping and parking had been flawlessly performed. After a couple of minutes in this increasingly embarrassing position, I read a small note located near the gear shift informing me that I must “depress the lever when placing into Park.”

I still didn’t quite understand and looked desperately for some sort of unusual lever or button which I could depress. Finally, it dawned on me that the gear shift was the lever and, not unlike some childproof medicine bottle caps, the shift needed to be depressed while simultaneously being shifted. This monumental problem solved, I was able to park and wander off to work.

Except for some moments of uncertainty regarding where to position the shift for engaging reverse, my egress went without a hitch.My experience brought to mind how often I read about elderly people mistakenly shifting a car improperly or hitting the gas instead of the brake which often results in some rather embarrassing misfortunes. I concluded that the Aveo is clearly a geriatric accident waiting to happen.

Another depressive episode is beginning. I felt it yesterday but it is more pronounced today. Ironic that I will be seeing my psychiatrist today for my med check. Does it even matter if I tell him I am in the midst of a bad depression? It really doesn’t help. He will just tell me that is to be expected and that I will get over it and “Have a nice day and, oh, don’t forget to give your co-pay check to the receptionist.”It really is a pointless life with a pointless job and no sense of hope for something better in the future. I don’t have any redeeming qualities to me. I know it and the people who come in contact with me know it.

I recall an evening in the TV room at a particular mental hospital. There was this little girl who was diagnosed with undifferentiated schizophrenia of some sort. As I sat on the sofa, the girl, carrying her Teddy Bear, walked over to me, lifted the Bear to my face and said, “He doesn’t like you.”I responded by just staring at the TV and acting spacey, an acceptable means of behaving when one is in such surroundings.Later that same night, as I lay down to sleep, I could hear her screaming and crying down the hallway. Subsequently, I discovered this was the norm for her. Evidently, she had spent most of the eight years of her life in institutions; her parents rarely paid her a visit. On successive occasions, when she cried late into the night, I would listen and then, I too would begin to cry.

“Medication can benefit social interaction.”

At least, that is what the pamphlet said as I thumbed through it while waiting to see my psychiatrist. There was little else to do in the waiting room. I should not complain. This psychiatrist has a much better waiting room than most. I have been in some that had little more than a couple of metal chairs that appeared stolen from an old government office and a small boom box providing musical entertainment.

This waiting room has no music. Although, there are various framed art posters on the walls and old issues of Car and Driver and Fit Pregnancy, eclectic choices in reading matter but not quite to my liking. More interesting were the display stands sporting pharmaceutical literature on various mood altering drugs.The particular pamphlet I was reading extolled the virtues of drugging your ADD child. The paragraph that most captured my attention explained (and I paraphrase here) that your child, being predominantly preoccupied with setting fires, torturing small animals and acting out, is possibly lacking friends. Supposedly, by taking this drug, your child will become sufficiently pacified to bond with his fellow, similarly pacified chums. Together they can while away their time quietly playing video games and feasting upon microwaveable snack foods while mom has another gin and tonic and bitches about her ex.

Other displays about the room provided literature on Depression and Alzheimer’s. It suddenly struck me that the displays, taken in their entirety, demonstrate an entire lifetime aided by drugs. We begin with the pamphlets picturing fidgety kids in need of ADD treatment, depressed and phobic sad-sack middle aged people and finally confused and dazed but mildly dignified old people suffering from Alzheimer’s.

No matter the phase of one’s life, there is a drug to cure what ills. My sudden revelation was a little shocking and disturbing but then I realized, I just need to take my medication and all will be well again.

I had to drive to my dentist this morning. As I ventured on to the freeway, I was struck by the quality of the sky, the dark clouds and filtered sunlight. It felt very unlike Southern California perhaps because the recent weather has been so sunny and warm. My thoughts harkened back to my travels across country.

I thought of the different regions and their unique characteristics of landscape and weather. I recalled the long stretches of freeway where, for periods of time, I would never even see a fellow traveler as I drove, “days between stations”. The radio often played nothing but static. Sometimes strange broadcasts could be heard in which people discussed local politics that seemed as peculiar to me as that of some foreign land.

Mostly, I drove in silence and, while it may not have been identical to the experiences of which writers like Exupery wrote, I could at least appreciate some small sense of the greater emotion.A little later, a song became known to me and has since become the best song I know that describes the feeling when traveling, at least my feeling.

Song About Traveling
by The Innocence Mission

"A man said Why, why does travelingin cars and in trains make him feel sad,a beautiful sadness.I’ve felt this before.It’s the people in the cities you’ll never know,it is everything you pass by,wondering will you ever return.The colors of rowboats, the greens and the blues.Orange grove side streets you only see halfway.And beaches in winterand when kites are flown.It’s the people in the cities you’ll never know,it is everything you pass by,wondering will you ever return."

Night On The Promenade

Sunday night, I joined a very attractive and striking woman for dinner at a restaurant on the Promenade. It was not my first pick for dining but, we were tired of wandering and this place seemed like a reasonable choice.

The only really distracting part of the dining experience was the odd, dreary and ponderous music that seemed so at odds with the restaurant and its location. Overall, it was not too bad of an experience. My date for the evening was a very interesting person with a sharp wit and no compunction about telling you exactly how she feels. She was very refreshing and, while she may give into impulse, she wears it well, figuratively and literally.

So, while it was a pleasant evening and good to just get out, I don’t think this will go beyond a “friends” relationship. I somehow think that I am a bit too boring for this woman. I have a feeling she is accustomed to more worldly, sophisticated and outgoing men, something which I am not. “Friends” is fine with me.

The night also allowed for a good bit of people watching. Actually, at times, it seemed that there were too many people. I liked that, at one point, my companion remarked about the noise and the fact that it felt as if there were too many people. I often feel that sensation. It actually affects me a great deal but I don’t always mention it because most people just seem to think it is just another of my “crazy traits”. I mean, we should always love being around lots of people, right? There was one incident that stuck with me more so than any others during the evening and occurred while my date and I were seated in the restaurant. We were seated at a window which afforded me a view of the outdoor tables. At one table, there was an elderly couple with a young Down’s Syndrome girl. I assume that they were her grandparents. Throughout the evening, as I was having my dinner, I would occasionally glance at them as they all had dinner and then dessert.

Following their meal, I recall the young girl sitting and smiling as she watched the people passing by on the Promenade. The elderly couple spoke little as they glanced at one another and at the young girl. At one point, while they both looked at the girl, the man extended his arm, placing his hand in his wife’s hand. The expressions on their faces really struck me. There was compassion, warmth, contentment but it belied a sense of sadness, a sadness borne of acceptance of fate and the unchangeable. Their facial expressions remain with me.

This morning I drove over to Union Station in order to catch the Amtrak down to San Diego for an all day meeting.I like Union Station for its Deco, old Los Angeles look. After purchasing a cup of coffee and wandering the place, I settled into one of the leather seats and people watched.

As I sat there, I began to think about the difference between a train station such as Union Station and an airport. There is such a distinct feeling. Train stations and trains are Earth bound, part of the Earth and somewhat easier to comprehend. Air travel still seems unnatural. The idea of tons of metal floating up into the sky, while obviously technologically feasible, still seems a bit incomprehensible on a gut level.Air travel also makes me think of distant travels and trips with no impression that the traveler will return in the near future. Airports are always a little cold.

Train trips seem more in the spirit of day trips, school children being escorted on field trips or a weekend outing along the coast. The train ride there and back was uneventful, a little tiring. I did like seeing little snippets of life as the train moved across the landscape.Someone told me that they are uncomfortable being in a seat on a train which gives them the impression of moving backwards while the train is in motion. I never really noticed any difference. In some ways, I rather enjoy going backwards. There is something kind of cool about watching the scenery receding into the distance. It is as if everything is red shifted, a sort of visual Doppler Effect.

I had a blind date last night. My friend decided I might be right for another of her friends. I called this person a few times over the telephone and we had decent conversations and I got the sense that she was intelligent and prone to a bit of sarcasm, always a plus. Finally, we decided to meet in Pasadena for wine and appetizers.

Upon first meeting, she was quite attractive and we had no problem with initial conversation. We spoke of photography, the fact that both of us were or are in the process of moving to another place and other topics. After wine, we strolled about Colorado Avenue for a while. I think that I must have run out of interesting things to say.

Towards the end of our time together, as I showed her to her car, she said, “Are you always this quiet?” I find that that is usually the “kiss of death” when dating. One is always supposed to have interesting stories and things to say and I confess that I was drawing a blank, perhaps due to nervousness. So, at the conclusion of all of this, I didn’t get a real good feel for how she felt. I suppose my friend will probably be able to tell me as she sees this other person quite frequently where she works. Oh well, I guess at least I tried and that should count for something. I’m just not a charmer.

During our evening walk, one memorable incident did occur, worthy of record. We happened upon this dark complexioned man of slight build who, with a confused look upon his face, in broken but understandable English, explained that he was from Panama and how can he get to Palm Springs. He asked me this as he was pointing his finger down the street, as if it were a few blocks away. I told him he would probably be best served by discussing this with a bus driver to determine a route. He said he had spoken to a bus driver who told him to walk there. He then pulled out various maps and an address label with Palm Springs written on it and said that he was staying with an Aunt. He then went on to state that he had spoken to the police who told him that they could not help him. Some of the more interesting lines were: “In Panama, when someone is lost, the policia will drive that person home. Here in America, the policia will not help you. America is very different. The people do not care. The policia told me to walk but said that I must go through East Los Angeles and that it is not a good idea to do this at night.”

At this point, my date and I decided to wander away as it was all getting a bit too weird. A little later, we saw the same man, all of his maps and whatnot pulled out, speaking to a group of four women. It was funny to see all four of them, heads cocked, a glazed and confused expression on each of their faces.I wonder if he is still walking towards Palm Springs this morning.

Walking along Figueroa, just South of 6th Street, two bicycle cops were writing up a vagrant for pissing against the wall of a building. A trail of pee, from the original puddle, had run down the sidewalk and was quickly drying in the hot, noon day sun.

Tonight I have to attend a banquet. My Company is giving a few little scholarships to some students so a couple of us have to be there to pretend we care. Actually my boss will be there so I can’t be as much of a smart ass.

When I awoke this morning, it was still twilight. Outside of my bedroom window, the fog was hanging over the grasses and trees on the hills below and above. The street lights shone mysteriously, surrounded by halos caused by the moisture laden air. The roosters were crowing. It reminded me of Middle Earth or some sort of village in a foreign land. If I had had the time, I would have shot some pictures. Maybe it will be like this over the weekend and I can pop out the screen and commit the scene to film.