Keep On Living
I read one of my old entries yesterday. Incoherent. Not good to read one of your old entries and not understand what it was you were trying to say. I've been doing the choppy thing lately, short comma separated phrases, short sentences, short thoughts, but I think they read alright. This one didn't. So what? That was then, this is now.
The Gay Pride parade went well and I was able to shoot for a full two hours. Two hours of walking with a camera bag and shooting pictures is wearing, and I had no desire to follow after and shoot the party at San Francisco City Hall where the parade ended. But I thought about it. I thought about it. I shot eight rolls of (black and white) film and some of the women (in good mood), smiled nicely for the camera and exposed their bosoms. That was nice. I just hope they don't mind seeing them here.
Most days your subjects duck or throw objects, other days, they pull down their halters and give you a devilish grin. Maybe the Dykes on Bikes are more media savvy than the average woman or maybe ladies who straddle that much horsepower all day lead more, um, unusual lives, where the occasional titillating tit is inconsequential in the scheme of leather. Then, again, who knows? Certainly not I, babbling on like a titillated idiot. I shoot pictures. Excitement enough.
It was raining when I left the office in shirt sleeves and backpack. I picked up the contact
sheets, two of the photographs from which you see on this page, and ran for the bus. So far, so good. Off the bus, up the hill (a little faster than usual), out of the clothes, pour a drink and sit down here at the computer. Wuss is somewhere around hiding out. He got up on my lap and promptly proceeded to leak. Glare at cat, change the pants, shut the bedroom door. I don't let him sleep on the bed during the day anymore, although I still let him sleep with me at the foot of the bed at night. I've found, so far, that when he wakes me up to be fed in the mornings an hour before the alarm is set to go off, that, if I let him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind, and return back under the (dry, pee free) covers for that one last remaining hour, that he doesn't, that he hasn't as of yet, peed on the bedspread.
Art and Life, Man and Cat. I'm taking all this into account as I look for a new cat pee resistant place to live. "Excuse me, Mr. Landlord, I have a cat and he pees on all he sees. Do you think this may be a problem, here in Oakland, in your multi-trillion dollar apartment house, where you can be selective as hell in choosing your tenants?"
Speaking of multi-trillion dollar apartments, the unit just down the hall, a two bedroom unit, went on the market Sunday for $300k. This seems to be a trend, two bedroom condos up on this hill go for $300k. Cuts me free from any idea of buying and hiding out up here until I retire and die. I may have to go on and find another place on another hill and, well, what the hell, keep on living.