Adieu 2010

Image the diabetic being handed their favorite tray of glucose coated sugar bon-bons or the Jewish man's plate filled with delicate sliced pieces of pork that squeal non-kosher: this is the holiday season to me. I call it my favorite holiday, yet I fear its annual arrival of stress, time and money jingles. On the verge of sounding cliche, every Christmas I look forward to being with my family. Being raised to praise the lord on his birthday didn't feel as sentimental as drinking eggnog around an Oregon fur log on fire while shredding clearance wrapping paper to reveal my newest/greatest pajama set. The three folk that make up my family are always so understanding of my disappointment or over excitement of a gift.

This year being my first year away from them brought on a dark blue black dark grey cloud of sadness: I was going to be steaming silk dresses, serving whiskey sours and delivering office mail for Christmas. Worst part- I thought this was an okay way to spend a holiday. Thanks to a friend who I have considered family for the majority of our friendship, this sad supplement was quickly thrown out and homeward bound I went, just in time to curl up with two fluffy lap dogs and have a piece or two of beyond mouthwatering pumpkin pie.

Christmas gleamed brighter this year than ever before for me, as a time of self understanding and love (thank you Ken). Getting to see where I came from and who granted me the buoyancy I have in my current swim was the greatest gift of all. Last night I was walking through the down poor of a San Francisco storm, attempting to drink my americano at a hour unsuitable for coffee while wondering if my boots were worth keeping on as they now were two tiny bath tubs. Each time I went to sip the cup, the rain water collected on top of the lid poured into my mouth. I laughed and kept laughing as I felt like a soggy lost soul walking to a bus that I later found out is no longer in service. All I had aside from Ray LaMontagne on my iPod was my mind. I retreated to my Christmas break and the time to come in Oregon and the stories I have gathered in California. I thought of him, the person that makes me smile before I have opened my eyes in the morning and of her, my best friend who is beginning a new life of prosperity and health. With the simple reminder of what makes me pulse, I was warm and dry, capable of crossing any puddle between the sidewalk and myself. A noteworthy close to 2010 to what I hope to be a "paragraph worthy" 2011.

Table No. 9

She asked for another one and made sure it was the biggest glass she could get.
She slid her pale fingertips into the soggy cardboard box and pulled out the ninth cigarette of this hour.
"Long day?" I asked.
"Long life" She replied.

Patience, now a verb.

I almost forgot about my soul while searching for something instantaneous. A recent discussion with a life long companion hit home for me. I explained to Kyle the similarities between life and running and how he and I should learn from our previous experiences. The life side of this analogy is two twenty (and some change) year old kids attempting to get our best foot in the door (his being a Sperry), find a hand worth holding, possibly a residence large enough for our macs and basil gardens- and a growing numerical number attached to our Visas. Being ex-captains of our sporting teams, prom king/queen as well as past school presidents, an actualization was clouding our heads of when the grand scheme of post college life was going to fall into place like our childhoods once had.

A runner's race is pure strategy and commitment. It is trusting in the training you have done; the long hours and conditioning to mold a body and mind willing to perform. This was when I realized that similar to life, starting the race at a full sprint and wanting to hit the finish line before the first mile marker was no way to earn your blue ribbon. Upon telling him this there was a understanding in the telephone wire that we were both pushing for something that is coming and quite possibly unreachable until life's route says so. If I could list the tangent job searching I have gone on the past five months I would want to burn it in disbelief of my inconsistency. Like a swimmer who feels the loss of buoyancy, they panic and begin to dog paddle. This was me forgetting that in order to float one must relax and believe in their own abilities. I started out this race thinking there would be a finish line in the forecast- something to measure any ounce of success. It has become apparent to me that there will not be a finish line as the journey itself will provide all the satisfaction necessary. Let us be patient and keep sailing.

And then there was one.

Until this fall, I could count the number of taxi's I've hailed in my life. I have officially lost accuracy of goofy jumping expressions, arm flailing and intoxicated stumbles on a curb for the yellow submarines. In the midst of the (hopefully) short rides, I always manage to strike up a conversation with my lucky (20% tipper) driver. Most of it is small talk like, how is the night? What's the score of the Giants game? What is your name and where are you from? One driver hauling me from an interview to the next that I had 5 seconds to get to, informed me that no matter how bad a day may be- "it ain't as bad as that guys" (pointing to a homeless man screaming at a brick wall). This advice stuck with me.

But this weekend- a ride that left me mentally exhausted and emotionally confused. The cab driver came from the middle east in the 90's. He left behind his family and friends to make a living and decided within the first 10 years here that he wanted a middle eastern wife... so like all wants and needs- he ordered one.

His wife and him now have 4 children and he "sometimes talks to her when they must." There was no "dating" as we Americans call it. He did not choose a thing except for her arrival. I may have been riding the gin train but I could hear in each syllable this man's sadness. Not admitting to any further depression, he stated his life and wife are okay as the sedan continued to crawl along the dim streets.

As a young adult, more so female... this everyday occurring cultural process does not even come to mind as to where will I end up. Do I want my coffee hot or cold today? Do I prefer to walk or ride a bike to work? Do I give the last quarter in my pocket to this person or put my head down in ignorance?

I can't say I've ever looked at my left hand ring finger as a piece of ownership or real estate...

For some it is just a ride. For me, it is a 10 minute chance to learn more about the symphony called culture.

Make It A Double

The Two Gallants, a title referring to the story Dubliners (James Joyce)- functions as much more than the original that inspired the band. The book it references focuses on Ireland's national identity quest, marking a historical period in the early 20th century. The band's music could correlate to this as it is a quest of two gentlemen from San Francisco possibly writing their own chapter in musical history. Adam Stephans and Tyson Vogel formed Two Gallants in 2002 and have been writing music together from childhood. When I first opened ears to the kind chords strummed by the young men, my attention surrendered to what it was they wanted to tell me. The vocals are full of distinction, death and love. At first sound, it may rub you differently than any other indie rock melodia. I think this is what makes Two Gallants gifted. Two humans, one sound- and a lot of work to get their current tour on the road with another favorite artist, Blitzen Trapper. Lead vocalist Adam's sui generis coax of the mic is one that sticks in your head long after you take the ear buds off when you get to work. Judging by the stories that unravel in the lyrics, we the listener may have a thing or two to learn from Two Gallants. And if the words don't get you, the harmonica will.


And a night-cap-glance at photos from the 2010 Hardly Stricken Blue Grass Festival...

I Cut Like A Buffalo

"To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go."


Jack White- keep it coming....

Bon Iver and a Boy

The lyrics of your life should paint a visual masterpiece. I recently met a person-and realized upon a smile that there was a part of my spontanious, independent life that required sharing. We shall see what type of orchestra can come from this two member band...

And on to Bon Iver... quite possibly this decades most talented folk artist that glues eery rifts to prismatic melodies. Songs are few and far between (roughly thirteen tracks in two years) making each track a true delicacy to savor each note. Bon Iver translates to "good winter" relating to the albums writing and recording of "For Emma, Forever Ago" which primarily took place in the woods of Wisconsin. The band consists of artists Michael Noyce, Sean Carey, and Matthew McCaughan.


Listen and possibly be liberated.

The SeedStore Sprouts

A dynamic dyad sisterhood fuses old and new for San Francisco’s latest design boutique.



Americana dust meets avant-garde class at Cynthia and Jennifer Huie’s SeedStore in San Francisco. The storefront sign is constructed of steel and recycled wood, crafted to drip rust when weathered. With original teal and red concrete floors illuminated by energy efficient lights, an ambience fills the space. The walls, like that of an old lodge, house a cardboard buffalo head; it sits, ensconced, by deer damask wallpaper imported from Italy. Textured wall coverings such as Super Fresco serve as tactile art and are highlighted with glass ornamentation. The store is adorned with pieces handpicked from garage sales and trunk shows, offering vintage charm to the modish apparel. Motif of the SeedStore reflects roots of an old mercantile store with the sprouting of a sophisticated spirit. A must see store for those hunting a visual blend of what has been and what is- complete with bamboo incense and melodic folk rock.

Mac, PC, or Kale?

A stranger is not required to be an out lander. The transient brunette on the bus may just actually be someone worth striking up a conversation with making the rancid bus smells less potent. Or the gentlemen dressed in a fur coat and a white wig running through the parking lot at 8 am in fish nets could teach you something. Point being: we are all in this together. The drifter can easily become the native to your life.

On my flight back to the city this week, I was sat in THAT seat on the plane. The "B" one that rests between A and C meaning little to no bathroom escapes and twice the amount of conversation. I was fortunate to have two outspoken gentlemen on either side who carried the conversation the entire flight south. According to my muted headphones (sneaky aren't I?), one of the men was from the middle east and the other from Chicago. They were all about "the business." While taxiing, they got to know one an other's current stock worth and car key make. Once this was established (1500 ft. in the air... seat belt lights off) they began to discuss sports. The voice fluctuation stayed relatively moderate and continued over to cameras, banking, colleges, politics, stock reports and back to sports again. The captain announces we will be landing shortly and the true brawl erupts: one man had a iPad,the other a HP laptop. The discussion of Macintosh versus PC climaxed to a head-on clash. The argument over what was better, the life span and clarity of a product, left the two men in absolute silence. It became very clear neither respected the other now that they stepped out of the computer closet. I had to sip my cola to keep myself from laughing at their technology war. Asides from a comical 90 minute trip, I would give them a blue ribbon for getting to know each other. Maybe they don't go home as friends or prospective business partners, but they sure as hell don't go home as strangers.

I eat kale salad. More specifically, Whole Foods kale salad. It has to be one of the most succulent prepared dishes of pure nutrients that makes carnivores consider green. I recently had an encounter at the kale spot in the salad bar line. Reaching for my portion my reach was greeted at the tongs by a male. He too was seeking the herbaceous plant. As we collided with our hungry eyes we decided to laugh about it and say hello. When consuming that same salad, I met another stranger at the dining table that became an acquaintance after a hour long talk about photography and genetic research. One expensive salad and two encounters that I am still thinking about 72 hours later. It was not the kale that was creating dialogue- it was the absence of withdrawal.

Your steps take you in a direction for purpose. Consider that the people around you have a similar purpose. Maybe it is simply to breathe or quite possibly become your life long companion. Look around you; The time gifted to a stranger is greater than any iPhone application or organically washed lettuce.

Caged Elephants

These concrete walls will create combustion. A beach native briefly lost touch of her inner chi. Thankfully, I had a free Sunday and a great friend willing to un-cage me for an afternoon by heading North of San Francisco.

German auto windows down, feet up, kombucha bottle in grip, ciao concrete jungle. Driving North towards Marin county brought a flight of emotions correlating back towards my childhood. The snaking roads hugged the Pacific ocean's body with a scape of forever blue. We arrived in Point Reyes seeking a hike and ended barefoot in the hot granulated sand. Walking along the ocean reminded me that not all paths of accomplishment are solid. For the moment, the earth was all I wanted to feel.

Families enjoyed the short lived summer rays of Northern California while dining on home recipes served from a wicker basket. The shore line screamed jump in and the hillside whispered take a load off. I acknowledged both and continued my trek through the dark sand, challenging my legs to remember the exhaustion a beach could provide.

Headed towards Bolinas we passed Drakes Estero and the Limatour Estero Reserve. The rolling hills give mercy to the bodies of water cooling the dead grass they surround. The roads are narrow as foreigners catch themselves drifting due to the distracting scenery. We arrive in Bolinas mid afternoon ready to enjoy local cuisine. The Coast Cafe located on the main drive catches our eye with its bright painted building and blink worthy yellow tables. As we approach we are greeted by a tall gentlemen who informs us it is BBQ time- grab a seat! A spot in the sun sits in line of the smoke brewing from behind the big BBQ pit. The kind fellow creating all the sizzling, delightful smells asks us what we want. My partner in crime yells for the slab o' jack (a yellow tail tuna dish). I ask for the wild Oregon shrimp ceviche (naturally being from Oregon). Our food arrives within minutes and we feast on some of the most delicious seafood of our lives. Simple, explosive, and fresh all while conversing with the chef about traveling to exotic lands. I could not have been more content with the dynamic solitude offered on my paper plate.

After a fulfilling meal at an excellent price, we head towards the beach to catch the locals soaking up the salt water on their eight foot boards. The sands push energy into my heels begging me to remember where it is I belong. This summer has made me distant from what it I I truly love- nature. Being carried by coastal breeze and being cushioned by grass that surrounds mountains; Breathing in local roots and dining on made for YOU food; A parking lot awaiting your arrival and a restroom that has no mirror while relying on natural sunlight instead of electricity. This cannot be found on every corner like a Starbucks or on the elevator shooting up the Trans America building while pacing nervously for Monday's briefing.

In the words of Matt Berninger, "So happy I was invited, give me a reason to get out of the city. This pricey stuff makes me dizzy."

Driving home after this brilliant day of relaxation created a great cloud of fear: returning to the daily grind. I recognized this sense of actualization and tucked it in my pocket for future reference. Note to self: must leave city as much as possible. Caging an elephant should be a crime, and caging myself is a crime.


The Coast Cafe is located at Lat N37.5494/ Long W122.41090 in Bolinas. They serve lunch and dinner featuring Pacific calamari frite, BBQ pork ribs, crispy catfish sandwiches, and BBQ oysters. Call (415)868-2298 for reservations. Bon appetite!

The "woah" effect: those times when life is occurring at its regular pace of 106 mph and an outside force steps in front of your fragile overloaded freight of shit. The "woah" effect will sometimes be spoken out loud (wh-O-ugh) or passively felt within the mind. Regardless, there has been an intrusion on your programmed agenda for that particular moment in time.

Case in point, today I am walking... speed walking... from my internship position to my night time cocktail serving. I am doing a mental check of all the things I did not do by 3 pm on a Friday and how badly I needed a stick of gum. It was at this point as I am crossing the Embarcadaro with hundreds of sports cars whizzing by, that I listen to my surroundings.

Six fine young people stood in the center walkway playing music. I turned to watch the man singing and felt his lyrics wrap around my wrists and pull me towards the band. Between the banjo, guitar, and cello, I was a helpless victim of pure southern folk that traveled from Mississippi just to grab what felt like my heart.

After one song I wanted one more and another. I said woah aloud and felt my eyes water from the beauty that was flying into the air from pure pressure and lung control of human beings. Their hands moved angelically making every motion a symphony of sound. These six people obviously had talent- further more they had power. I looked around seeing more San Franian's stopping from their "woah" effect. The music was a gift for us all- a break from life. A chance to look at the surrounding details rather than the blurring lights passing us by. I picked up their CD before I continued on. One of the boys (Jason) told me of a show they would be playing that evening in Oakland. I wanted to reply with a yes, see you then! Instead I informed him it was back to the work life for me, maybe even at a 130 mph pace since I was now running late. I tucked their album into my bag, awaiting the moment I could unravel the compact disc "woah" factor.

We may control our own accelerations in life. But we truly cannot control the outside forces that make us stop in our own tracks. We live the life, and the impact of others further define the story.

Spirits of the Red City is a group from Mississippi. Their album is titled Hunter Moon. If you come across it or them, this story will mean that much more to you.

Style and function make a sexy duo

http://www.fjallraven.com

Seabear - I Sing, I Swim from seabear on Vimeo.

The Kids Are Alright

I love to photograph children. And these pictures do not come from a white wash background while wearing a bright hat and a clown nose. No... these photos come from a world unrecognized by the subject, merely the adults observing. The beauty is locked in the innocence that they will one day regret letting go of. When I put my lens towards an adult they will shy away or change their natural stature. When I point a camera at a kid- they do nothing and everything all at the same time. Preserving self confidence, their actions continue with a sense of spotlight. The kids on the swings kick higher, the boy with the ice cream cone increases the chocolate circumference around his mouth, and the girl with five teeth grins from ear to ear.

Each day I pass a school yard in North Beach. It is caged in by old fencing and overdue of a fresh paint coat. The benches that surround the courts serve as the lunch tables for the kids. I couldn't help but notice two boys, maybe eight years old, bargaining. This was not the typical deal of dollar figures and ownership. Rather one boy wanted to trade his "Go-Gurt" for the other boy's Cheetos. There was no paperwork, interest rate, or grudges of past affairs. Just simple word for word business done on the play ground.

Three things I learned...
1. We can learn from those who follow behind us, regardless of credentials or experience.
2. Innocence is a photograph holding onto.
3. God bless "Go-Gurts."

Where have all the cowboys gone?

There is such an art to riots, protests, war. I feel it is logical to state that each is unique with a different artist masking the way to a desired masterpiece. The real question arises when you ask yourself, is there logic in the work being done? No doubt there is heart, passion, anger, risk, belonging. And for what? To be felt by the ground they walk on; to be heard by the strangers the will not look them in the eye; to instill a purpose in those who may have lost their belonging. Or maybe because no one will give them their sought attention.

He wanted my attention. He was a teenage African American adolescent that happened to shove me for not apologizing for bumping him on the streets of downtown. He asked for an apology, and quickly learned I was not in the mood for unwanted conflict. As I walked away I felt his hand on my shoulder blade as he pushed me forward in stride. It did not bother myself or my step one bit. I turned over my shoulder and told him to "... never (bleeping) touch a human that way." I knew I had zero input towards this person.

What worries me most is not the fact I was shoved, but the concept of physical abuse due to lack of self-expression. This kid who was merely eighteen was crying out for help even if he did not realize it. The question is stuck in my brain- who will he hurt to get the power he seeks? Not everyone in this world can stand with both feet after something like this happens. In fact some mercilessly collapse feeling hopeless to physical abuse.

There are good people on this planet. Do not forget that and never lose sight of it but continue each day questioning people's purpose. Are they sitting in the street for the right cause, are they seeking attention in a justified way, and more so are their actions helping or hurting? If I were to see that young man again, I would ask him to sit down for a lemonade with me. Over our drink I would ask him what it is he wishes to change and how he plans on doing so. And with that, I would leave him the bill and get on my merry way.

Dig

I ceased to understand heartache until I landed in San Francisco. Overwhelmed with homesickness and happiness, I realized I have been missing something my entire life: courage. I am an Oregon native that was captured by beaming lights and deathly soaring high rises at a young age. It was not until I leaped into this SF jungle that I discovered the importance of courage. The heartache in this situation comes from an actualization of all the things I have yet to understand and all that lies before me. I met with a new friend within my first week of living in the bay area that told me to "dig". The word dig was implied as push yourself during this athletic adventure- to keep the solid ground passing. And so I dug, on that run at golden gate, on my editing that evening, within my work environment the next day. It was all routine to me. The true challenge of digging came when I went to send a postcard home. It was like watching bambie as an adult. You do not want to cry and feel like you should not be in tears over a dying deer. Yet there I sat in a public coffee shop on verge of tears. Each time my pen touched the cold and glossy square, my throat tightened. I demanded courage from myself, reminding myself to dig. The process is incredibly challenging, full of daily endeavors, maybe even pushing the mind and body until it breaks. The only thing that matters when all else is inevitable is to jump high, land solid, and hit the ground running. We can only be more courageous tomorrow then we are today.