Opera Night

a wide brim ruby red hat
black trim compliments
a long black
backless dress

possibly cashmere?

she smiles looking down
a pair of pointed mottled boots
peek from below the dress

period 40s?

the red hat
leather red jacket
perfectly match

the hat rests at her side

small rhinestones decorate
black opera gloves
clutching a glimmering red purse

the light dims

the lady sits and waits
it's warm
she sheds the red
revealing red beads

she looks right and smiles
red ruby lips,
"Good evening"

The curtains open
ruby red fades to black
Opera night begins

Photo credit: Opening Night at the Paris Opera

Azur

Azur blue
a fabulous hue
feeling blue?
look up
blue greets you
demure azure
no longer blue
are you

Behind those Lights

crossing the Bay Bridge at night
always such a spectacular delight
rising glittering against black velvet
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights?

The enchanted city
alive with life!
dancing
prancing
chattering heads
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

the Embarcadero twinkles
reds greens yellow and white
shimmering, changing, moving
while
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights?

Anxious drivers at the end of day
honking horns
get outta my way!
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

neon lights all aglow
flickering, glaring, sometimes staring
illuminating the bars below
one wonders
what goes on behind those lights

a fedora tips
an audience quietens
as a poet recites
behind those lights
oblivious to the display
across the bay tonight

Making Waves

ride the wave that  few dare to ride
there's always one from which folk hide
get in close
watch the wave start to crest
kick furiously with the best

you may have the ride of your life
you may wipe out with a tumultuous roll
dumped along the sea shore
in a barrel of a wave
and hear the ocean roar

you may ride alone on the wave
gliding safely to shore
assured by the roar
in an ocean of approval

however you end up along the shore
you will sure to have been seen
creating a scene
going against the tide
and enjoying the ride

drowning in a sea of despair
is not an option

Nothing works..!

I arrived back in London after a 4 hour bus journey from Swansea where I'd spent a wonderful Christmas with my family and visiting my 93 year old mum everyday in hospital after her recent total hip replacement. I was back again at Heathrow underground station. I knew the efficient drill that ensured a speedy exit of this station and grabbed a free airport cart to avoiding unnecessary schlepping of my bag. After queuing up to purchase my first Oyster card like a real Londoner, I abandoned the airport cart and took off through the turnstiles to the tube-trains. After a nearly two hour journey across London on a crowded tube, my first encounter was with a grumpy cab dispatcher in the cab office at Walthamstow Central station who grunted, "Cab 11" without even looking up to see who he was talking at. "Well where the fuck is cab 11?", I mumbled under my breath as I pondered the half dozen cabs parked outside. I couldn't be arsed to ask him so I schlepped my one huge bulky bag over my back like a hobo and stepped back out into the dark 5pm chilly London night and asked the first cabby I see if he's number 11. Indeed he was. Bingo..! Thankfully, the middle-eastern cabbie was a friendly guy who was looking forward to New Year's Eve and asked me if I'd had a nice flight as he loaded my bag into the boot.. I realized I still had the airline tag attached to my bag from my arrival at London Heathrow from San Francisco 10 days ago. I was looking forward to staying at the Hitchcock again

The Sir Alfred Hitchcock is very unique with its stone walls, wooden-beamed interior, low ceilings, hardwood floors, nooks and crannies, alcoves, comfortable couches and armchairs, and a large fireplace in the middle of the room that could be enjoyed by patrons on both sides of the bar. The presence of Sir Alfred Hitchcock is everywhere. The walls are covered with memorabilia from the movies, and of other Leytonstone times gone by. The quiet location of the hotel on the edge of Epping Forest is juxtaposed by the hustle and bustle of inner London, and the busy M11 link road; a 10 minute walk away.

I finally arrived at the Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel and was truly looking forward to sitting next to their open fire with a pint that I'd been gasping for since my arrival at Heathrow. It was a crisp wintery night. The sight of the hotel's illuminated redbrick facade triggered memories of times gone by.  I had enjoyed many a £1 a pint Murphy's back in the mid-nineties. I always loved the Hitchcock when I lived 10 minutes away from here, and always live to recapture those moments when I go home by having a rendezvous with my old friends here. The only things that change are the price of a pint..., and of course, tariffs...

I arrived at the bar to check in:
"That'll be £165, please."
"Um, no. It's £133. We confirmed that via email..."
"Oh it would be normally, but it's the Christmas period!"
It's always this way whenever I go home. There's always something! This time it's the overcharge for my hotel room because of "the Christmas week."

"But I gave the dates! I was quoted £133 pounds. Now it's £165?! I have the email." I go to bring out my phone to find the email and then stop. An inner voice asked me, why bother? "Okay, never mind", I smiled. "We can sort it later if need be. It's still a good deal and I understand the Christmas rate."  I certainly had no intention of going anywhere else just because of a relatively small overcharge. Besides, the price was still a good deal for London. The hotel is fifteen minutes from Leytonstone tube station and a short bus ride to Walthamstow Central trains, underground and buses.


My mind wandered back to the present transaction. I paid up, smiled, got my key, and asked what time the restaurant closes... "Oh the chef is away, but I think he's back tomorrow! We'll be open for breakfast  tomorrow morning." Here we go again, I thought. Always the same. British hospitality at its best! "Oh okay, no worries!" I'd long since given up asking too many questions. I'm home now... I got to my, thankfully, pre-heated room, and followed the directions to turn on the TV to get some BBC news on the telly.  The screen remained as blank as the look on anyone's face here when you ask for help with anything. Nothing! Anyway, like I said, nothing works! And the television was no exception. Exasperated, I tossed the remote-control aside on the bed and then tried to find that wretched confirmation email on my phone. Although I had already decided it was okay, I really wanted to let them know that £133 is what we had agreed on and plus the TV didn't work, or I couldn't figure it out. Then I stopped; "Oh fuck it...", I told myself. "To hell with the email and the sodding television, I'm here for a stress-free time and to have fun." I showered, changed, and headed to the bar. Despite not meeting my friends until my last night here, I donned my new designer cape- top from Ruti's on Fillmore, my consignment store True Religion jeans, boots, long scarf and wool fedora and set out for the bar. I felt great.

I ordered my liquid dinner and side-dish of crisps and peanuts. I wasn't that hungry anyway. I'll have a decent cooked breakfast tomorrow. After a couple of pints, I felt at home again as I warmed myself by the open-fire and absorbed its heat and warm glow. I soon discarded my scarf being careful to place it where I wouldn't forget it and drifted in thought with the chattering of the bar in the background.

Nothing works here -- except the things that truly matter. I'd already added to the cost of time by even trying to find the confirmation email, I pondered. I know far too well that openly expressing frustration here gets you absolutely nowhere... As a matter of fact, it often makes things worse. My internalized frustrations as a result of the surly cab dispatcher, broken TV and overcharge melted away as each pint took effect and soon  replaced by enjoying the things that did work.

The shower worked
The heater worked.
The beer worked.
The wireless worked.
Ah! The real fire worked!
The full English buffet breakfast worked!
The restaurant worked.
My warm scarf worked.
My consignment store gray wool full-length wrap coat worked.
My consignment store fur-edged leather fedora worked.

Most of all - my visit to my 93 year old mum worked to make her happy.

Sometimes it just doesn't matter if the TV doesn't work in a very warm cozy hotel room. That is what a good bar, beer, open fire, an early morning frost, crisp winter nights, friends, and memories are for. And why I'll always be back for more.

Leytonstone Underground Station Mosiac	Sir Alfred Hitchcock Hotel - Fireplace
A crisp frosty morning	Christmas Day!

Cafe Hats

The open window allowed the warm balmy tropical breeze to diffuse around the cafe giving an uncharacteristic feel to this San Francisco fall day.

Summer floral dresses, conversation and coffee. Beer flows like the thought processes of the heads dutifully bowing over laptops, books and writing-pads.

And the hats! Hats on backwards, forwards, tilted, wilted sheltering eyes from the sun. Fedoras, straw and felted blend with the occasional one-off style.

A striking hat bending over a pad and pastels spread out before the hat. Immersed in her creation, she looks up and smiles, "drawings of thirty years of memories" she announces as she adds another to mine.

La Lettre (1908). Jean Béraud

Creative Writing Workshop 1 : A "Lost" Experience

So here I was feeling like a high school kid suddenly daunted by being assigned a phrase and three words: "Early Spring", "Tempted", "Dangling" and "Lost". Our task was to write creatively for 10-15 minutes using those words and phrases in our prose. Writing poetry was also an option.

I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past  high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...

The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.

My work began:

I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?

I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.

Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...

Add caption

Closing Doors

her internal door slammed shut inside
after such a crushing surprise
she wanted to just run and hide
but sat staring crying inside

things weren't suppose to end this way
staring back at what the words say
"I owe you much it's fair to say.
I just can't love you, I'm afraid"

how can she go out and play
when she felt she just died today
she'll bury her hurt deep inside
they'll be moments to sit and cry

how she dances the night away
a few smiles keeps the pain at bay
she hides it well from the outside
only a few more hours to hide

she arrives home safely at long last
feelings brew behind an iron mask
as suppressed tears release inside
she feels as dark as the night outside

an iron door locks her love within 
she'll never be the same again
residing in her living hell
hopefully time will break the spell

Closed Door by Adrenoverse

The Jewel and the Beast

A more distant and challenging beast that I had ever encountered laid in wait. She beckoned to me with her peak adorned with white lace, and green trimming around her base as well as a promise of a sight of her jewel that she reveals only once a century. The tall looming beast took my breath away. My senses were heightened once more.

I start to climb. She is gentle and graces me with warm encouraging breezes luring me with scenes unseen by those who are not seduced by her beauty. Her gift of a tiny oasis complete with spring and a dozen bright butterflies greet me. I pause for a while to reflect on this tiny slice of life isolated from the barren, but beautiful scape. I move on leaving this tiny island of life behind.

The gentle turns and twists in her trail grow vague and misleading. Her trail becomes more camouflaged with the rest of the scape and confusing the higher I climb. I've seen this game before. Ah yes: tread carefully with this new beast. The trail seems to disappear. I stop and look around her desolate landscape and notice how nothing sings, flies, or cries. I search for a patten in the strewn rocks and flakes up the moraine, but all I see is more of the same. I'm slightly unnerved and feel mildly threatened. She calms me with a little red flag. Ah ha! Now the game is on!

I scramble towards the red marker; small rocks, and stones sliding beneath my feet. The trail appears once more. I must watch her more carefully and go easier on her back. Her stoney trail to her jewel develops tighter and sharper turns. I'm developing an eye for her moves, but remain cautious sensing that she will present me with more challenges if I get too sure. And I was right.

The path falters and stops. I hear her gently rumble, but her warning quietens to a gentle whisper. Is she teasing me again? I hear desolate places can play tricks with deprived senses. It had been four to five hours since I had any contact with another person. It dawned on me that this was the longest time that I'd ever been without another human being around me. I found that invigorating, but also slightly unnerving. My senses were heightened as I viewed my surrounds much more carefully. The whispers grew louder, I stopped to listen, but couldn't make out words... I continued convinced that I was heading towards the voices rather than away. They must be on the trail.

I see another flag of red..., only this time she is talking... I call. The figure in red stops... I see her and she waves and indicates where the trail resumes... This cunning, but majestic beast has placed yet another obstacle that stops me in my tracts. A boulder field looms ahead. I scrambled across the boulders keeping the red clad figure within my sights. Eventually, after a relatively easy scramble over the rocks and boulders, my savior showed me how the trail resumed meandering up the side of the moraine and along its ridge only a little steeper... I smiled as I watched her glide down and disappear like an apparition into the field of boulders that had obscured my view of this stark, but beautiful beast's writhing trail.

I felt relieved and grateful of my mystery traveler. I wondered how I ever would have found the trail without her. Going forward, the beast's trail was easier to follow and she rewarded me with spectacular panoramic views that made me feel on top of the world. I climbed a little more as I wanted to reach the pile of rocks neatly stacked indicating the trail. My breath was being taken away by her dizzy heights of about 9,000 ft and I still had another 1,500ft of climbing to see her jewel -- a once in a life-time sighting.  Breakfast was hours ago and it was more than time for refueling.  I found a comfortable spot for my lunch of trail-mix, mozzarella cheese stick, and a protein bar. I again pondered at the desolate landscape and the fact that now I truly was alone on the mountain. I had never been so isolated from other life. I felt privilege to experience that. I surveyed her desolate, but serene landscape again and felt at peace. I had no anxiety from the possibility of running into other less accommodating beasts like mountain lions or bears which kept me on edge below the timberline.

Lunch was over, and I looked forward to finally catching a glimpse of the once in a life-time sighting of her jewel. I felt honored and privileged that she would reveal all. I came across her first snow layer left discarded like a lace scarf she'd thrown off from her peak that now laid before me at my feet. There were a few more turns and twists to navigate. I was close. Many before me had not even been allowed here without a battle against her unforgiving elements. Finally, I reached a thicker whiter mass and looked across the glacial whiteness. There was her jewel... a small piece of aqua blue stood out among the whiteness -- I had reached the jewel named Helen Lake and was witness to the first time in 50 years of her showing off this gem - a small pool of water in this dessert of a mountain peak. I was close to this amazing jewel as I could possible go without risking falling into one of her possibly hidden crevasses never to be seen or heard of again. She tempted me with this sight, but I withdrew back down the trail promising her I'd be back to climb her peak next year.

Mount Shasta

Hidden views

From the high trails of an Island across the bay, a cityscape gleamed and sparkled in the haze of an early morning sun. Silver slithers shimmered from east to west from across the bay. White horses decorated with diamonds speckled the bay and sparkled as they bobbed up and down in their azure blue arena. Occasionally, a flair of color would help the white horses along their way. Thin wisps of early morning fairy-tail mist enveloped a small island castle like fingers hiding a secret. White wispy fingers reached out across the bay and crept under the red span of a bridge whose towers watched over the enchanted city. The city shone and glistened like a jewel in a crown as sunbeams bounced around glass towers piercing the blue. Alas, this enchanting surreal scene exists only in the eyes of a few.

Hidden behind those sparkles are boxes of burnt-out candles entrapped in a cage of age, loneliness and poverty. Their flames long extinguished, the candles remain boxed up and invisible, but other candles burn through the night. Twinkling champagne juxtaposes extinguished flames.

The silver slivers are snakes of black with holes in their back squished by heat and heavy machinery slugging lost candles from hilltops to dark boxes below.

Those beautiful white horses had the wind in their sails whilst lifeless candles hid behind screens unseen by horses, champagne and flames. The unlit candles remain in their dark box waiting, and waiting for a match to strike that will signify their dawn... Locked in their box, not seeing the sunrise or the sunset, they never know when it is day or night.

And so it was; way up high on that lonesome trail where everything seemed so still. The scene was just a screen forming a backdrop for what is rarely seen.

Past Reflections

There she was. I caught her gaze through the window of a darkened store on Polk Street. Her platinum blond hair and half-closed eyes gazed in a haze back at me. I stood mesmerized outside my favorite antique store which had closed for the day. I never noticed her before. Fascinated, I stared back at her through the window in wonderment and admiration for this young woman's beauty and charm. Her tousled hair had the look of someone riding in a vintage convertible along a 1950s California highway. Perhaps she had embarked on such a journey?

There was nothing sharp or angular about her features. Her features were small, soft and rounded like that of an innocent child.  I wanted to stay and ask her all kinds of questions, but I had to leave. I wanted to tell her how much she reminded me of a friend who had similar looks and style and whose life also ended in tragedy at a similar age. The timeless, but vintage beauty of this woman looked on at me through the window. She seemed aware yet vulnerable. She could walk the modern streets of Paris, London, New York or indeed San Francisco, and still not look out of place.  I left, but with a promise to myself that I would be back. I returned a few days later, but alas, she was gone -- and the frame containing her image was gone. Wherever Marilyn Monroe is hanging, I hope she is gazing through that window of time reflecting on the past with no regrets.

Not Me

Sitting in an office 9-5
following deadlines

not me

why me?
it doesn't have to be
why think it of me
because you want it to be


overwhelmed
appointments
for appearance
hair
nails
facial
wax
(well may be a wax)

not me

meetings
brown bag lunches
fake breaks
games

not me

climb dizzy heights
up a corporate ladder
lose your footing
half-way up

not me

feet firmly bound
to the ground
stress free
with autonomy

that's me

wine sun
beers and cheers
chat and relax

that's me

so heed of my plea
listen to me
leave me be
to be me

Beerspiration

heat, sun,
a balmy breeze
caressing arms with no sleeves
flowing dresses
lady writing in a straw hat
man reading
laptops
laptops open
laptops closed
tables adorned with beers
sometimes coffee
heads down
forward, focused
heads up
talking
engaged
a face pensive waiting for a friend

necks crane forward
scrutinizing screens
strained
drained heads on one side figuring out what it all means...
hands animated
explaining

heads nodding uncomplaining
different color heads of hair
no one stares
who cares?

tattoos, glances, trances,
interesting stances eliciting ladies glances
they hide behind dark frames where they look discreetly in vain
buses pullup right outside
how do they feel as they watch us inside
outside having fun in the sun
the straw hat looks up; she smiles
what a style

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Isaac Maimon "Cafe Paris 2010"

Night Highway

1:26am
mind in the fast lane
no exit
what if there was?
where will it lead?
some place better?
doubt it
no sign of sleep
that's miles away
or did it pass?
past ex-lovers --
a desolate
long gone
lonesome place
now passing through
town of regrets
still no exit 
ah! a sign of hope
northbound
the opposite direction --
southbound
heading nowhere
where now?
running outta gas
slow down
the night is long
time stands still
the mind keeps going. 
5am
a few hours away
a red line
a horizon
signifies dawn
as orange appears
with azure blue
the madness fades
until the next mad ride
along night highway
a highway to nowhere
that never ends

Image: http://kevkevuk.deviantart.com/art/Tales-from-a-night-highway-157960780

Green

a field after rain
a face in pain

a light that says "go"
moss where a river flows

a jealous muse
a mix of yellow and the blues

a carpet where snow once lay
the beginning of a spring day

leaves shimmering in an evening sun
a glow of a cat's eyes when day is done

the fourth color in a rainbow
and of city signs that glow

Evergreen branches blowing to and fro
the color of life that ebbs and flows

Yosemite National Park - Karen Bayley-Ewell June 2013

Sharpen the Knife

Sharpen the knife to cut the atmosphere
      cut some slack for someone most dear

Sharpen the knife in case of attack
      before a blade finds your back

Sharpen the knife as sharp as your tongue
     quick come-backs are so much fun

Sharpen the knife for a slice of pie
      before it catches another one's eye

Sharpen the knife and carve a good life
     a slice of variety will save much strife

Sharpen the knife to slay cutting remarks
      and leave them standing in the dark

Sharpen the knife for a quick clean cut
      because blunt knives hurt like fuck

Oh No, You Don't!

[This is an original piece that I wrote for Allvoices.com illustrating the different decision making processes and the battles of the Id, ego and superego.Original Article - November 5, 2010 

The infamous boots

Oh yes you do! And so the fight between the Id and the Superego continues. Your battle of so-called inner voices in very urgent irrational decision making processes are what Sigmund Fraud, I mean Freud (Freudian slip intended) called our stages of sexual development. The “Id” is our impulse of want and needs instant gratification. The Id, according to Freud, is our basic instinct. However, the battles of our want and needs clearly extended beyond sexuality as I experienced last week when a local shoe store beckoned me with their tantalizing recession-proof “Sale” signs screaming claims of “up to 70% off” emblazoned across the store-front window. Seemingly, it was an offer that I didn’t want to refuse. Well at least that is what my Id told me, but according to Freud, my superego had other ideas which I really did not want to hear. The superego is our “inner parent.” The superego tells us “No!” when all we really want to hear is “Yes.” My superego tells me, “There is no point in looking because you can’t buy anyway...” Our superego is where we internalize our moral judgment based on how we are socialized and is responsible for the nagging guilt we sometimes feel. My Id disagrees and appeals to my latest boot fetish, “There are some good deals that have your name on them! They are yours and they’re on sale!” I enter with caution like a lamb to the slaughter amid rows of shoes and boots that indeed were up to 70% off. My ego so far keeps me in check. The ego is what Freud called the balancing force between the Id. Our ego keeps our Id and Superego in check -- on a good day of judgment. It is where we make decisions that we are aware of. It is the umpire between the fighting forces of Id and Superego that we experience in the throes of a shopping spree. The Id appeals to our basic instincts whereas the superego is our inner Nancy Reagan  that wants to “just say no.”


Meanwhile, I am lost among a sea of shag me shoes and fuck-me boots all in my size and color. In a fog of calculations of 40% off, 30% off signs, I spot a pair of four-inch heel thigh high fuck-me boots. I try them on and pull them over my thigh over the tight jeans I have on. Oh yeah! At this point, my Superego starts to scream, “You’ll never wear them! You’re wasting your money! You cannot justify this expense! You already have 2 pairs of black boots!” “But,” my Id ego weighs in, “these are different! These boots have your name on them. You need these boots! They make you feel like a whore! There is something empowering about that!” Goodness knows why, but actually there is something empowering about that. I am not trying to intellectualize here, but attempting to demonstrate the irrationality of the subconscious mind versus the rational mind. While the battle continues, my ego needs approval; vindication of the “wrong” that I am about to commit. I take out my iPhone and take a photo of me in them in a hooker-like stance in front of a mirror and post it to my Facebook profile with the caption, “I soooo want these boots! Should I get them?” Needless to say, my friends positively reinforced me with comments, like “Cor yeah!” and “Wear them when you next see me! lol” exclaimed some male friends. Girlfriends backed my “dilemma” with, “Go get ‘em girl! You deserve them!” I immediately had confirmation from very reliable sources that I should go ahead with said purchase. Needless to say I followed their sound recommendations. Ignoring my superego with the nagging chiding of, “How are you going to explain this to significant other at home?” I proceeded to the check out regardless of the unanswered question reverberating in my mind.

I ventured homeward bound up Powell Street amid tourist shoppers, feeling proud of my “deal” yet guilty at the same time. After all, I really couldn’t justify $70 when I already had two pair of black boots. My superego was starting to kick in too little too late. Later on that evening when I met a friend for cocktails, she admired my purchase, and I smiled. There are times when validation is worth every penny, no matter what the id, ego or superego says.

Creative Writing Project: Dancing

Dancing. What happened to it? Classical dancing like ball-room, tap, jazz, swing remain intact, but modern dancing has fallen off the floor. Does footwork now mean the kicking that someone receives after crossing someone at a rap concert?

For real footwork, take a step back in time to the seventies and eighties for a glimpse of the footwork performed by, The Stylistics, Temptations, O'Jays, or The Whispers and savor the choreographed agility and synchronized moves of these artists. The 70s and 80s dances were formed by tricky twists and turns and were well choreographed to the beat. Those old school moves and grooves raised your spirit, soothed your soul, quenched your thirst for rhythm and cured your blues. Even the hybrid of "Ska" formed by a blend of a reggae and Caribbean upbeat had its unique steps resembling a cross between a hop and skip known as, "Skanking."

Recently, I found myself transformed back to the early 80s at an English Beat concert. The English Beat are a 2-tone/Ska band who during the early 80s popularized the wearing of pork-pie, Fedora hats and checkered black and white as worn by the 2-tone bands like Selector and The Specials. There were two types of people on the dance floor; those who could skank and those who watched those who could skank. The older people on the floor were those skanking. The younger people in the audience looked on.

On the one hand, remembering how to skank made me feel young again, but reminiscing to my younger friend who was twenty years my junior about how I danced to the Police's, "Walking on the Moon" made me feel old. I looked towards The Beat on stage where the members of that band were now in their fifties. Things looked and felt the same as they always did. The band members were in excellent shape and had as much energy bounding around the stage as they always did.  What's more, I too was in good shape and still had enough energy to skank the night away. My friend left a little earlier in order to get the last train home. I stayed and made my way to the front of the stage, just like I used to back in the day. And like I did back in the day, I cheered for an encore... They came back like they always do and then they left, but not before one of my "old" heroes caught my eye and shock my hand. I melted and felt young again once more. Back in the day blended with today. Today was back in the day.




Dancing Shoes

New Friends and Old Friends

So here I was venturing through Chinatown to North Beach  to see a friend playing in a band at the Old Saloon Bar on Grant Street. My brisk walk through the Stockton Tunnel enabled me to savor the air of an early Saturday evening at dusk. The hustle and bustle of Chinatown was quietly going to sleep as Columbus Street in North Beach was just awakening from its daytime slumber. The street markets slowly dismantled and merchandized wheeled off in crates for the night as darkness fell over Chinatown. I could avoid the the usually slow pace of dawdling tourists and local last minute shoppers by joining the not much faster traffic in the road to continue my walk unheeded to The Saloon.

A couple of blocks from my destination on Grant Street, I stumbled upon an old music store. Curiously, I had passed this store many times before, but it only caught my eye this evening. Vinyl records in boxes were on display outside and in the light-filled windows gleamed instruments of old: saxophones, bongos, drums, speakers, turntables, keyboards, amplifiers and bass guitars filled the store and windows in a display what can only be described as an Aladdin's cave for musician buffs. I paused for a moment and browsed through the old boxes of albums of yesteryear. Memories of old times flooded back of a time when I possessed some of those old vinyls. Album shopping used to be a regular weekend treat; not from old shops like this, but bright busy mega-stores like HMV and Virgin Records. One could never miss these old mega stores with music blaring inside and outside of the store. I moved over to a box of old posters that formed  testimony to San Francisco's musical past of the 60s, and 70s. A voice over my shoulder exclaimed, "Oh I remember those too...!" A somewhat shabby, but not unclean man peered down over my shoulder as I flipped through the posters. As we chatted about music and the store, it emerged we were the same age... But to me, he sounded like a throw back to the late fifties, or very early sixties..., "You should take a look inside, man. You'll trip out!" I replied, "I sure will..." In a brief moment, we were completely equal on a narrow level based solely on a love for music. But economics, and happenstance saw to it that we were far from that. I felt mildly guilty that I had a bed to sleep in and had to explain that I had no change... And for once, I really didn't have any change. Awkwardly, we parted company...

I continued browsing through the posters of old artists and concert announcements of Santana Live at the Fillmore and many other artists. Another voice arose, "Where 're you from then...? Sorry, but I heard you chatting while I was inside and just had to find out where you were from." Oh, I replied, "London, Walthamstow." He was clearly an Essex-boy. I knew that because he sounded exactly like my dear friend Nick from Essex who lost his life a couple of years ago. I was friends with Nick for close to twenty years. Nick played the saxophone years earlier and would have loved this store. The man I started chatting with outside the store even had the cheeky wry grin that Nick possessed. I immediately felt a rapport and familiarity that raised a smile in me. It was that depth and warmth that I felt whenever I saw Nick and shared many a pint with in a London bar -- a depth and warmth that I'd missed. I found myself hurriedly asking him if he lived in San Francisco now, "No, Luv, just visiting and passing through and buying up this store!" My heart momentarily sank as he got in his car and drove off... "Nick" was gone again once more...

I ambled on to the Saloon to meet my relatively new friends, but for some reason, I just could not bring myself to the present. I stared down at the dancing feet, but was still back in a London bar with Nick and other old friends from the past. And I wondered; is the past always present? Memories of the past are always present... And with that thought, my brief moment of melancholia vanished. I joined the dancing feet and embraced my moment of memories and again became present in the moment.

Writing Graffiti

Graffiti is the modern day cave drawing forever changing form and color as slates are wiped clean with a new coat of paint.  Walls of the past form the canvas of the new. The spray can transforms into the artist's brush.

Graffiti is the poor person's post-modern art and expression. The graffiti artist clandestinely enters where nobody else dares. They venture towards high places: not in status, but scale scaffolding and delve deep into the guts of abandoned buildings to express their creativity. The work of a graffiti artist is frowned upon by a society grounded in convention unless it's commissioned. Commissioned work loses the rough edge which is the appeal of graffiti. However, that does not remove the quality and creativity of commissioned work. Commissioned work has transformed stark gang-tagged neighborhoods to colorful  urban art galleries. Graffiti is supposed to be subversive and underground which gives it that edge. Unlike music, paintings, or words in a novel, play or book, the work is often temporary. Graffiti is a subculture that bucks the system by purposefully deviating from the norm.

My admiration of graffiti started four years ago in the Marin Headlands after a visit to Hill 88; an abandoned military site emblazoned with color and bright images juxtaposed by green hills, the ocean, and wind wailing through the concrete abandoned barracks of yesteryear. I recently returned to admire the work that I had  photographed four years ago and to see what else the graffiti artists had added to the abandoned walls that formed the open air canvas.  Alas! All of the work I'd photographed four years ago was gone. A blank wall stared back at me. It's blankness screeched conformity:  dull, colorless, and uneventful. No beginning or end.

I felt glad that I had captured the colorful spectacles years before and the work continues to exists on a photo sharing site and various other social networking sites like Google+ . I realized that I had unwittingly preserved the work of a few for many. I wish the artists knew.

I like to think of myself as a curator for the disenfranchised artists who are often seen as vandals for their often illegal, but creative work. To follow in their footsteps tracking their work by venturing inside forbidden places is both thrilling and engaging. Within the bowls of abandoned bunkers, cracks of sunlight  illuminate the art work like track lighting in a museum of modern art. In the starkness of abandonment, there is detail. In the darkness of it all, there is light. In the shallowness of the words, there is depth and color. In the desolation of it all, there is company. Graffiti is the life after death of abandoned walls.

On one wall, a graffiti artist declares, "Everything was beautiful ...And nothing hurt." I wondered what the author of those words meant? Was it a psychedelic drug experience filled with color and beauty like no other view or masterpiece? Were the author of those words making a sarcastic commentary on armed combat?

Another author warns, "Swipe your life away..." Those words resonated with me. Lives are swiped away constantly by the hand of meaningless toil, stuff, and sometimes tragedy; just like the paintbrush that swipes away the work of a graffiti artist. Lives are swiped away by not stopping and seeing the writing on the wall. The graffiti of life needs to be read. Stop and look at the color, the detail, the depth of the words, and a thought for the people behind the words. Like the words and work of a graffiti artist, a life won't be there forever. Block the hand of meaningless mundane toil that swipes your life away. Pause... See the detail that no one else dares to see, go to places others do not dare to tread, and embrace those moments. 

Everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.

Swipe Your Life Away - Hill 88 Marin Headlands 2013

What did the author mean?