In These Uncertain Times...

...the view from my front window, the berries on the trees the only sign of autumn in my immediate world, I take comfort and unease in remembering the transient nature of everything, everyone and every emotion. And I take solace in knowing that I planted these trees ten years ago after two others died.

Glisten

For those who have not spent extended time in California, it is hard for them to wrap their minds around our two seasons -- dry and wet -- and even harder for them to believe we go with less than an inch of rain for up to nine months. So when the wet season first begins, I am excited to see it and retire the watering in the back garden for a while. Barely a week into it, though, I am usually anxious for it to end. However, since it only started Thursday, I am still in the enjoyment phase. It's also helpful as I deal with this weird mourning phase of not having Guru in the house. We only had two months together, but the bond was deep.

In the meantime, discussion is in the works about this little boy being sprung from a shelter in Mesquite, Texas, and coming out West provided he's not placed with a foster in Dallas. I'm next in line provided his psychological profile proves to be suitable.

Cool Autumn Mornings...

...make those with ancient African blood lines prefer to stay in this position

Oregon Twilight

Three days, 14 appointments and 425 miles of driving later, I am not feeling particularly tired. Oregon is definitely in my list of ten best states in the U.S. -- can you guess the other nine? Before a dinner of halibut and a couple of glasses of Chardonnay, I nabbed these shots that remind me how much I miss autumn or nearly autumn leaves in northern California.

August Atonement?

For much of my life I have been mildly religious, intuitively spiritual and embarrassedly superstitious. I have never been known to fear stepping on cracks or to avoid walking under ladders. But I'll often crack my window when driving over the Bay or Golden Gate Bridge. That's also somewhat practical since, were either bridge to collapse and I arrived alive at the bottom of the bay alive, the only way to escape and survive is with a window partially open to enable an escape and swin the the surface.

Another superstition I can't shake is that things come in four year cycles. Some cycles are more dramatic than others, and it's fitting that the U.S. Presidential election, summer Olympics and Leap Year -- all seemingly unrelated -- come in this cycle towards the end of summer. After seeing the Bill Clinton speech tonight and thinking back to living in Manhattan in August of 1992 and being filled with unbridled optimism about change, throwing cynicism to the wind, I am leaning that way again.

The first eight years of the new Millennium have been the personally most horrendous years of my life. After years of struggling professionally and financially, I achieved my greatest success during this time but simultaneously experienced the greatest personal losses of parents, friends, aunts, uncles, best friends, beloved pets, and loves gone awry. All of it left me with a desire to just hibernate and take no risks.

That's a stance I've never taken in life, and I am beginning to feel myself reversing that cycle.

Another theory is that in such years, the transition from August -- typically the most brutal, deadly month of the year -- there is a sudden shift into September which marks a number of important anniversaries for me. It is fitting that Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, usually comes at this time.

In the course of barely three days, I have heard from half a dozen people I thought as being "lost" or that I'd betrayed or had betrayed me. One was with me the night of September 11, and it seems several things have never been resolved between us. It feels that many hands that have been numb for too long have been reminded of and want to celebrate life and are reaching across the void. Autumn, my favorite season of all awaits and is beginning to feel like a beacon of life.

Eve of the Muertos

This week, the weather in San Francisco is -- in a word -- perfect. The temperatures have been hovering around a glorious 55 Fahrenheit, what I consider to be just about the most ideal temperature imaginable. The skies have been nicely overcast until late afternoon when there is an hour or so of sun -- about as much as I want in any given day -- and then it clouds over again. There is a hit of rain in th distance, but it has not come with the exception of a few sprinkles. The only thing that makes me regret that I will soon be crossing the Pyrenees towards the Mediterranean (my heart flutters just putting those two geographic wonders in a sentence with the first person singular) is that I will miss the Day of the Dead celebration a couple of blocks form my house, definitely my favorite SF celebration that puts such pointless nonsense as "Pride" and Folsom Street Fair to shame.

Fortunately, the weather there will be almost the same as it will be here.

Nearly Smashed Pumpkins

California's faux autumn hues seem charged by smoke from 500 south. We walk with near guilt, our ground having a slight layer of moisture, our canyons free from flames for the moment. Anticipation pumps me just between late afternoon and dusk, longing for something that mid-autumn California sunsets manage to dangle to summon up something that so cleverly intertwines with a mix of motivation and fear. I can't help but wonder what all this will look like barely two weeks from now as I return to certain routines yet eager to erase them and strive for something completely different. It's out there I am sure, sometimes almost visible in my own reflection in the windshield of an ancient Volvo that I want to drive me away.

Almost Autumn

The weather in San Francisco has been just shy of perfect since I've been back the past couple of days. It's been in the lower 50s, what I call the lower end of the warm scale, nearing cool. For the record I consider cool to be 25 to 50 Fahrenheit, cold to be anything below 24, warm to be 51 to 60 and hot to be all temps above 61. I know that's totally out of whack for some folks, but my French Canadian bloodline always runs warmer than most people in California and makes me gravitate to more northern, cooler climates. Plus fall and winter clothes are so much coooler than those depressing summer and spring pastels. Nothing cheers me up more than a lot of gray, black and brown! So I was pleased to see the berry bearing tree in front of the JunkPlex coming into its appropriate October colors.
Down the street on 24th is a telling sign of the evolution of the hood. Though the former China Books still has its distinctive People's Republic murals, it is being converted into luxury condos. In the Summer of Love, members of the Black Panthers bought copies of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book here and sold them to leftist students on the campus of UC Berkeley. I may head down there with a beret, machine gun and some 'tude to remind those folks of the proud heritage of this neighborhood. (By the way, Patty Hearst was captured just a few blocks south of the JunkPlex.)

¿Para toda? ¿Los Vegans tambien? I also find it a bit spooky that the pigs are cooking each other. UPDATE: Since Kusala asked, the full text of the sign reads: "Comida para toda ocasión"

Though not a Junk Thief-sponsored event this sounds like a good idea.
I appreciate that, but not today, thank you.
Look, he's not just for Urban Outfitters anymore!
Ah, crisp autumn air makes even the BART stop look better in the night.
And the ever curious cat in the window at Virginia Howell's is already getting ready for the big holiday.

The Strangest Light

Did I sleep through the news, or is San Francisco having a partial eclipse? The light today has been the oddest I've seen in a long while. I thought I saw sawdust on the floor this morning, only to realize it was sun. The light has continued to change oddly through the day, never really sunny and not quite overcast. It matches the way I feel today, my ever ambivalent head feeling even more so. And I think I have just caught up on deadlines and find more and then realize I did it last week. There is a strange smoky smell in the air, like a village in Honduras. The number of dogs barking is above normal. It is all familiar and disconcertingly odd. That's what I get for watching David Lynch past my bedtime last night.