At about Chestnut and Embarcadero I turned back. For a total of 8.8 miles. That is Coit Tower.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
5 Miles Out
At about Chestnut and Embarcadero I turned back. For a total of 8.8 miles. That is Coit Tower.
Lunch Ride
I have an appointment at 11:00 down near the Moscone center, so I am going to take a lunch time ride after that. If I can make it this far, it will be 17.6 miles out to Chrissy Field and Back. It's glorious out. The actual map.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Flat Tire Paradise
Somewhat as a result of some self reflection, over the past few weeks, I changed the name of my blog. When I started this endeavor almost two years ago, my entire life was revolving around cameras, pictures, photography, and travel -- primarily in the desert Southwest. I am really unsure of the new name, since the old one was just simply descriptive, and the new one is ... well, slightly more philosophical.
Today, my life revolves around ... and around. If I have a camera these days, it's incidental, and more often than not, it's a cell phone and not a 4x5" film camera. Occasionally, I will throw my digital into my bike bag (and go to a bike race in Menlo Park on Saturday). It's a lot more likely I am carrying a spare tube. And some tubes of gu.
My blogging and reading the blogs of cyclists has led me to be back on a bike. Why I was drawn to the cycling blogs, or they drawn to me is a subject needing academic study by someone like Studs Terkel. But the truth is, reading about cycling put me back on a bike. On January 26 last year, I got back on a bike and rode 6 broken miles. I never should have quit in the first place. Those of you that inspired me, I should live longer because of it.
I live in a major metropolitan area -- a gorgeous city -- with a fairly poor transit system, and I rarely drive. My life is much more defined by a bike, my family, caring for my aging parents, and contemplating a haircut, than it is by 30,000 annual miles of desert driving, to get a camera into some crowded backcountry paradise. There's a strong community in my life today, and I haven't driven my own car this year. I live a much different life today, then I did two years ago in Mesa. When I cut my hair my friends said, "Was this ponytail longer than the last one?" and not, "Wow, I didn't recognize you."
When I look to what defines my life today, it's a gritty, joyous ride through wet manhole covers, potholes the size of a basketball, and an endless stream of broken green and brown bottles. Steep little hills that kick the crap outta Arizona. Horns honking, adrenaline pumping, lunchtime brawls into downtown for szechuan. Me dodging hazards and taxicabs to dine at one of 4000 restaurants, each with a Gypsy folk band. Or it's the meal I cook at home, the same one my mother cooked for me twice a month for the last so many years.
It's friendly cafes, family rock concerts, my father's workshop. Always -- I am a mule carrying groceries and a computer, dog biscuits in my pocket, raingear, shoes, a change of clothes, the encyclopedia brittanica, and a potted plant, and Shawn, don't forget to get the milk; It's me on a bike in a flat tire paradise, pushing these yellow bars into the mist.
Trash
I took this with my phone on the way to work. This is a trashed up spot adjacent to the San Mateo Caltrain Station and North Railroad Street in San Mateo. I wonder if it is the resposibility of the Caltrain or the City of San Mateo to clean this up.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Speaking of Writing ... or was I Talking to Myself
It's autocratic, much like riding a bike. You can write me a ticket(thanks for the link, fritz), sure. Provided you can ride on the sidewalk, the wrong way up alleys, through tight spaces made up by fixed objects and moving cabs, into doorways to run up staircases, all the while acting nonchalantly --like it's an everyday thing -- like, "Hey man, I'm just on my way to get some coffee," all at 20 miles an hour. I can write you a ticket -- Mr. Authority, and publish it in my blog.
Seriously. I can write publicly about anything -- I don't need Simon and Schuster. I am a published author and have the equivalent of a novel in print. I have been writing almost daily for about 2 years. About 30-100 (care to hazard a guess?) people read what I write with some regularity. I have no idea why. But, they do. I read what some of them write and I know some of them. I am getting to know some of the one's I have never met. Some of them are my friends. I have friends I have never met.
Many of us having been trying to get out of the more populated areas, and as I grow, my friends have managed to succeed, for the most part. They are spread out like the leaves of an old maple. There are about a 1000 photographs taken by me exposed (published) onto the world, in the form of a casual travelogue, helping my friends and family know what I am doing. I know you've enjoyed some of the photos and some of the stories. I can share the travels, tales and work of my life with a few friends, not to mention an occasional spattering of wisdom.
I really like to hear when you, gentle readers, tell me that you enjoy what I have done. Or that you feel my pain, sorrow, boots, pain, frostbite, glee, victories, anger, adventures, see my successes, fear, dismay, love ... beauty.
I learn and enrich my own life when I read your stories and read what you've done. Or get a happy chance to develop a real relationship via an online world. Or as I develop and craft the stories I must tell to an unseen world.
I have been meme'd (hereinafter pronounced "maimed") by fritz. Frankly, I dislike the tagging activity, but, I am a good citizen. So that's five reasons I blog.
John, Tom, Eclectchick Michelle, Joann. You've been tagged. Five reasons you blog. Since I now have tagged everyone I know. I am no longer allowing myself to be tagged -- at least not until my third bloggerbirthday, which is slightly more than a year from now.
Seriously. I can write publicly about anything -- I don't need Simon and Schuster. I am a published author and have the equivalent of a novel in print. I have been writing almost daily for about 2 years. About 30-100 (care to hazard a guess?) people read what I write with some regularity. I have no idea why. But, they do. I read what some of them write and I know some of them. I am getting to know some of the one's I have never met. Some of them are my friends. I have friends I have never met.
Many of us having been trying to get out of the more populated areas, and as I grow, my friends have managed to succeed, for the most part. They are spread out like the leaves of an old maple. There are about a 1000 photographs taken by me exposed (published) onto the world, in the form of a casual travelogue, helping my friends and family know what I am doing. I know you've enjoyed some of the photos and some of the stories. I can share the travels, tales and work of my life with a few friends, not to mention an occasional spattering of wisdom.
I really like to hear when you, gentle readers, tell me that you enjoy what I have done. Or that you feel my pain, sorrow, boots, pain, frostbite, glee, victories, anger, adventures, see my successes, fear, dismay, love ... beauty.
I learn and enrich my own life when I read your stories and read what you've done. Or get a happy chance to develop a real relationship via an online world. Or as I develop and craft the stories I must tell to an unseen world.
I have been meme'd (hereinafter pronounced "maimed") by fritz. Frankly, I dislike the tagging activity, but, I am a good citizen. So that's five reasons I blog.
John, Tom, Eclectchick Michelle, Joann. You've been tagged. Five reasons you blog. Since I now have tagged everyone I know. I am no longer allowing myself to be tagged -- at least not until my third bloggerbirthday, which is slightly more than a year from now.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Friday, March 2, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Night Studio
Back in the day, before Ipods. Philip Guston's daughter wrote a book called Night Studio. I bought a pair of 36" Cerwin Vega speakers. I moved into a warehouse. The warehouse was, well -- It was sweet. Me, a crow, three feral cats, a junkyard next door, a crazy girl, and about a hundred orchids. Juliana Hatfield at volume 11, a screamin prayer from a secret god. The coolest neighbors.
Late night workaholic, seriously loud, no one notices, -- way too cool. One night my friend JT came by and the crow sat on the edge of his cup and drank wine from it. Jim would drink -- and the crow would drink. I told a story about Jim today -- to some aspiring young artists. We talked about making art with our hands and tools like paint brushes, and how much fun that was (it used to be). So I told them a story about Jim and myself.
Jim called me one Friday night late, years ago. He said -- "I need your help. I am painting a 6' tall copy of Norman Rockwell's Home for Christmas".
"You don't need my help for that."
"It's due Monday at 9".
"I'll be right over."
Back to the warehouse.
Grinding sounds, Sculpture. "The Edge of Nowhere". A place where no one notices what you do. Me and a crow. In the warehouse santuary. The Warehouse Sanctuary. "Hello Girls!" Said the crow. The smell of paint. Linseed oil.
I am an expert in turning it up. The shower floods daily. Turn up the music. Neil Young, Prince. No -- really turn it up. Steely Dan. The Doobie Brothers, Marta Sebestyen. Finding a way to an unknown land. A place where hands create a magic that no one explains. Eric Clapton and Cream. Louder, please.
When I was faithful student at Cal State Hayward I met a man with a book that claimed artists were Shamen, and so was I. The book was The Artist as Shamen in the 20th Century, by Mark Levy. Later, as a graduate student, the music was louder. The drum beats grew firmer. My presence grew richer. I became stonger in my way.
"Who will take the only hearts they've got and throw them into the fire,
Who will risk their own self respect, in the name of desire,
Who'll regret everything they've done, and who will get the bill" Bonnie Raitt, Lover's Will.
It's like a switch, the way to making art. The way to knowing more than you thought possible, the way to communicating more than you could before. It's like the Shaman swimming under the ocean to see an underwater demon, to find an answer to some question. The night studio -- you wake in the day and look at what you've done and say, "wow" quietly to yourself so no one will hear you.
My daughter sent me a note today that said, "In the studio again." Good for you. Turn up the music. She knows. I know this. When she could barely talk, she walked into the living room of our old bungalow, and pointed at every painting I had painted and said, "See," as if she had finally put it together. While she was sleeping, I was painting those. In the mist. In the Mystery. She knew. My son never quite knew that. But tonight he played that Gibson in a very accomplished way. He knows something. Maybe he has a secret god. Or simple Voodoo Magic.
"What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away? ...
How do you sleep while the rest of us cry,
How do dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye,
How do you walk with your head held high, Can you even look me in the eye? " Dear Mr President, Pink (with the Indigo Girls)
Turn it up. Crank it up. All the way. There's a paradise. It's a paradise of desire. The band leader looked across at my son tonight and said, "What do you got?" My son hit a note and the man said, "Turn it up" and pointed his thumb at the sky. It's there, where the volume is high.
In the Mystery. There's where it is. Secret God ... Something. I am trying to find my way to paradise. I am trying to find my way into an unknown world where there is a truth I can get to know.
I don't know. But, ohhh, how I do know. Turn it up.
Grinding sounds, Sculpture. "The Edge of Nowhere". A place where no one notices what you do. Me and a crow. In the warehouse santuary. The Warehouse Sanctuary. "Hello Girls!" Said the crow. The smell of paint. Linseed oil.
I am an expert in turning it up. The shower floods daily. Turn up the music. Neil Young, Prince. No -- really turn it up. Steely Dan. The Doobie Brothers, Marta Sebestyen. Finding a way to an unknown land. A place where hands create a magic that no one explains. Eric Clapton and Cream. Louder, please.
When I was faithful student at Cal State Hayward I met a man with a book that claimed artists were Shamen, and so was I. The book was The Artist as Shamen in the 20th Century, by Mark Levy. Later, as a graduate student, the music was louder. The drum beats grew firmer. My presence grew richer. I became stonger in my way.
"Who will take the only hearts they've got and throw them into the fire,
Who will risk their own self respect, in the name of desire,
Who'll regret everything they've done, and who will get the bill" Bonnie Raitt, Lover's Will.
It's like a switch, the way to making art. The way to knowing more than you thought possible, the way to communicating more than you could before. It's like the Shaman swimming under the ocean to see an underwater demon, to find an answer to some question. The night studio -- you wake in the day and look at what you've done and say, "wow" quietly to yourself so no one will hear you.
My daughter sent me a note today that said, "In the studio again." Good for you. Turn up the music. She knows. I know this. When she could barely talk, she walked into the living room of our old bungalow, and pointed at every painting I had painted and said, "See," as if she had finally put it together. While she was sleeping, I was painting those. In the mist. In the Mystery. She knew. My son never quite knew that. But tonight he played that Gibson in a very accomplished way. He knows something. Maybe he has a secret god. Or simple Voodoo Magic.
"What kind of father would take his own daughter's rights away? ...
How do you sleep while the rest of us cry,
How do dream when a mother has no chance to say goodbye,
How do you walk with your head held high, Can you even look me in the eye? " Dear Mr President, Pink (with the Indigo Girls)
Turn it up. Crank it up. All the way. There's a paradise. It's a paradise of desire. The band leader looked across at my son tonight and said, "What do you got?" My son hit a note and the man said, "Turn it up" and pointed his thumb at the sky. It's there, where the volume is high.
In the Mystery. There's where it is. Secret God ... Something. I am trying to find my way to paradise. I am trying to find my way into an unknown world where there is a truth I can get to know.
I don't know. But, ohhh, how I do know. Turn it up.
I miss my studio. It's been replaced by an Ipod, which isn't quite the same. The reason I turn it up, is to unleash the angels, and silence the demons.
Green Manalishi -- What Ever That Means
Playlist:
Nina Simone: Wild is the Wind
Elvin Bishop: Stealing Watermelons
Fleetwood Mac: The Green Manalishi
Blind Faith: Can't Find My Way Home
The Cream: Crossroads
Delany and Bonnie Bramlett with Duane Allman: Living on the Open Road
Bonnie Raitt: The Road is My Middle Name
Fleetwood Mac: The Way I Feel
Cowboy Junkies: The Way I feel
Cowboy Junkies: Good Friday
The B52's: Roam
Pink: Dear Mr President
The Cowboy Junkies: Misguided Angel
Patsy Cline: Walking After Midnight
The Indigo Girls: Closer to Fine
Sarah McLachlin: Building a Mystery
Maryann Faithfull: Sister Morphine
Derek and the Dominoes: Got to get Better in a Little While (for mile 85)
Fleetwood Mac: Why (Mile 86)
Blind Faith: Presence of the Lord (mile 87)
Drive By Truckers: Gravity's Gone
Cream: Badge (Mile 88)
Steely Dan: Peg
Steely Dan: Time Out of Mind
The Carnival Steel Drum Band: Under the Sea
Cowboy Junkies: Just want to See
Charlotte Church, Chorus of the Welsh National Opera: Amazing Grace
Fleetwood Mac: Black Magic Woman
Cowboy junkies: A Common Disaster
Fleetwood Mac: Revelation
Cowboy Junkies: Pale Sun
Quiksilver Messenger Service: Mojo
Howlin Wolf: The Red Rooster
Jackson Browne: The Road and the Sky
Niel Young: Cowgirl in the Sand
The Pretenders: Middle of the Road
The Ronettes: Be My Baby
Lou Reed: Sweet Jane
Jane's Addiction: Jane Says
Tori Amos: Winter
The Doobie Brothers: China Grove
The Doobie Brothers: Black Water
Daryl Hall and John Oates: Abandoned Lunchenette
Blind Faith: Sleeping in the Ground
Eric Clapton: Further on up the Road
Duane Allman: Please be with Me
Bonnie Raitt: I Can't Make You Love Me
Indigo Girls: Secure Yourself
The Cowboy Junkies: 200 More Miles
Nina Simone: Wild is the Wind
Elvin Bishop: Stealing Watermelons
Fleetwood Mac: The Green Manalishi
Blind Faith: Can't Find My Way Home
The Cream: Crossroads
Delany and Bonnie Bramlett with Duane Allman: Living on the Open Road
Bonnie Raitt: The Road is My Middle Name
Fleetwood Mac: The Way I Feel
Cowboy Junkies: The Way I feel
Cowboy Junkies: Good Friday
The B52's: Roam
Pink: Dear Mr President
The Cowboy Junkies: Misguided Angel
Patsy Cline: Walking After Midnight
The Indigo Girls: Closer to Fine
Sarah McLachlin: Building a Mystery
Maryann Faithfull: Sister Morphine
Derek and the Dominoes: Got to get Better in a Little While (for mile 85)
Fleetwood Mac: Why (Mile 86)
Blind Faith: Presence of the Lord (mile 87)
Drive By Truckers: Gravity's Gone
Cream: Badge (Mile 88)
Steely Dan: Peg
Steely Dan: Time Out of Mind
The Carnival Steel Drum Band: Under the Sea
Cowboy Junkies: Just want to See
Charlotte Church, Chorus of the Welsh National Opera: Amazing Grace
Fleetwood Mac: Black Magic Woman
Cowboy junkies: A Common Disaster
Fleetwood Mac: Revelation
Cowboy Junkies: Pale Sun
Quiksilver Messenger Service: Mojo
Howlin Wolf: The Red Rooster
Jackson Browne: The Road and the Sky
Niel Young: Cowgirl in the Sand
The Pretenders: Middle of the Road
The Ronettes: Be My Baby
Lou Reed: Sweet Jane
Jane's Addiction: Jane Says
Tori Amos: Winter
The Doobie Brothers: China Grove
The Doobie Brothers: Black Water
Daryl Hall and John Oates: Abandoned Lunchenette
Blind Faith: Sleeping in the Ground
Eric Clapton: Further on up the Road
Duane Allman: Please be with Me
Bonnie Raitt: I Can't Make You Love Me
Indigo Girls: Secure Yourself
The Cowboy Junkies: 200 More Miles
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Riding Home
"Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?"
Pass me the lemon peel. Today's ride home was like a ride in a shaker. "Shake very well till it's ice cold." Add ice pellets and mix with cars, ride until frozen.
The ride started at 6:10 for the 6:33 train -- plenty of time to travel a mile and a half to the station. I stepped out the door to put my purple shower cap on, when a guy standing in the shelter of the door said into his phone, "It's really hailing now." I slipped onto my bike and rode out into it, figuring -- it could never last. It was surreal and strange. Lights and cars and snowpellets in a dark, very windy torrential downpour. A Slushy. The ice pellets, hail, or freezing rain, whatever it needs to be called, added a reflective characteristic to the very air. After the first crossing of railroad tracks it became more difficult to see them as the water on the roads collected to about an inch deep.
As I sorted out the pedestrians and cabs in front of the train station and made my way to the sidewalk, there was easily 2 inches of standing water on the roadway, but the rain was less icy.
Pass me the lemon peel. Today's ride home was like a ride in a shaker. "Shake very well till it's ice cold." Add ice pellets and mix with cars, ride until frozen.
The ride started at 6:10 for the 6:33 train -- plenty of time to travel a mile and a half to the station. I stepped out the door to put my purple shower cap on, when a guy standing in the shelter of the door said into his phone, "It's really hailing now." I slipped onto my bike and rode out into it, figuring -- it could never last. It was surreal and strange. Lights and cars and snowpellets in a dark, very windy torrential downpour. A Slushy. The ice pellets, hail, or freezing rain, whatever it needs to be called, added a reflective characteristic to the very air. After the first crossing of railroad tracks it became more difficult to see them as the water on the roads collected to about an inch deep.
As I sorted out the pedestrians and cabs in front of the train station and made my way to the sidewalk, there was easily 2 inches of standing water on the roadway, but the rain was less icy.
Miso Soup
Here is Fritz's contribution to the soup cookbook. Except for adding tofu -- This is his recipe as posted.
Miso soup
By Fritz
Shawn asked for soup recipes from around the world. I'm happy to oblige.Miso is basic, simple to make, and yummy to me. Here's how I do it.
Start water to boil.
Mix in a spoonful or four of miso paste. I like the strong-flavored aka or 'red' miso paste.
Add chopped scallions, mushrooms, soft tofu (added by me) and/or kombu seaweed.
When the miso paste is completely dissolved, remove from heat and dissolve in about a teaspoon of instant dashi powder.
My grandmother would sometimes boil up a big pot of clams and then make miso soup using the clam stock. She also didn't use instant hondashi -- she kept dried, moldy fish hanging on the kitchen wall, and she'd scrape the moldy fish flesh straight into the soup pot. Good stuff before and after a bike ride.Because of the dead-fish flavor, Japanese miso soup typically is not vegetarian. Link to his post.
Miso soup
By Fritz
Shawn asked for soup recipes from around the world
Start water to boil.
Mix in a spoonful or four of miso paste. I like the strong-flavored aka or 'red' miso paste.
Add chopped scallions, mushrooms, soft tofu (added by me) and/or kombu seaweed.
When the miso paste is completely dissolved, remove from heat and dissolve in about a teaspoon of instant dashi powder.
My grandmother would sometimes boil up a big pot of clams and then make miso soup using the clam stock. She also didn't use instant hondashi -- she kept dried, moldy fish hanging on the kitchen wall, and she'd scrape the moldy fish flesh straight into the soup pot. Good stuff before and after a bike ride.Because of the dead-fish flavor, Japanese miso soup typically is not vegetarian. Link to his post.
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