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.