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Okay okay! I'm back from walking Olivia. Bought her a new bone at Bernal Beast. Took a few more leaf photos, but it's slim pickins out there right now. 2010 has not been a good year for leaves, at least not compared to the end of 2008 and most of 2009.
Here's the dress:
Man, I'm getting a ton of mileage out of last Sunday's (seven days ago) walk on Valencia Street! I found another tree there that I liked, about two minutes before our walk ended, and decided to class it up with a cinematic look:
Another thing I saw on Valencia Street was a dress on a mannequin in a boutique window. I wanted it. I own only one dress now, black and sleeveless with a stretch waistband and sort of a full skirt. Not figure flattering; also has a v-neck that is harder for me to wear now, given my post-surgery bodice. That's it. One dress in my closet.
This Valencia Street dress, also sleeveless, was a print of large, splashy medium and dark charcoal colored flowers (as if drawn on with chalk), against a tangerine background. Tight fitting simple bodice, pencil skirt with pleats almost at the sides on both right and left, and a 3/4 inch black leather belt around the waist, with tiny silver studs all along it. Round scoop neck with black trim (leather?), but not low cut. I actually took a picture of it, so maybe I'll post that next time. But right now, Olivia awaits her walk. She has been patient, so patient, waiting for me to be ready to go.
Shot this as we were winding down our Sunday walk on Valencia Street, when I was high on vanilla bean ice cream. (BTW, I just measured out the 3/4 cup of vodka and dropped one of my vanilla beans into it, after slitting the pod and cutting it into four pieces. Now for the one-month wait.)
I rarely do black and white photos, but this shot demanded it.
Now it has already become Wednesday, somehow. Something to do with seconds, minutes and hours speeding by with no thought whatsoever as to whether or not we would like them to go slower.
I've been re-reading The Time Traveler's Wife while taking my daily 30-minute far infrared saunas. I have forgotten the ending, happily. Still like the book. Haven't seen the movie, and from the trailers, don't think it would measure up to the book.
This pale ash gray, winter'ish summer weather sucks. Ogden street today is quiet. Funereal but peaceful. Only the occasional unmuffled muffler breaking the silence.
Robert DeNiro is 66 and has been married twice, both times to beautiful black women. I never knew that until yesterday after I watched him in a little movie from 1990 called Stanley and Iris, with Jane Fonda playing Iris. Googled him, went to Wikipedia, skipped down to his Personal Life. First wife was and I guess maybe still is a singer and actress but more of a singer. Second wife was a flight attendant. He has children with both.
Sweet movie. More like a made-for-TV movie, but sweet nevertheless. Jane works the conveyor belt line in a bakery. Is a widow with a bunch of kids. Somehow she and Robert meet, become friends, she discovers he can't read, teaches him to read, they fall in love, she stops visiting her dead husband's grave every day, he gets a good engineering job in Detroit because now he can finally read as well as make lots of cool mechanical inventions, he finds a house there with six bedrooms, proposes to her, she accepts, and we all know that they are going to move to Detroit and live happily ever after, kids and all. Wahoo!
Yesterday we went crazy and left Bernal Heights in order to walk Olivia in a different neighborhood. I suggested Valencia Street, hoping that the street might still be closed to traffic, which is a new thing there on Sundays. Walkers and bicyclists only. We were too late. . . the street was no longer free from traffic, but we still parked, walked, enjoyed the sun and all the new things to look at, including all the many amusing children (20 and 30 somethings). Also my vanilla bean episode.
Re: My VBE. During my Round Robin class yesterday morning, one of the class members revealed during our introductions that she was a cake maker-baker. That's what she does for a living in Texas. She was here visiting a friend and had timed her visit so that she could attend the first RR meeting, then go back to Texas and participate in the rest of the class from there. Because I had recently been re-reading the chapter on the wonders of vanilla beans in Diane Ackerman's 1990 book, A Natural History of the Senses, I asked her if she ever added fresh vanilla beans to her cakes. She answered with a resounding "yes!"
I had vanilla beans on the brain, and only the day before when I went to Good Life, I made sure to buy myself one tiny $5.49 box from the spices section that contained one single vanilla bean. I took it home, all excited, and immediately googled "uses for one vanilla bean." As you can imagine, many things popped up, and I entertained myself for at least 15 minutes, trying to decide how best to use my bean. I haven't yet decided, but am leaning heavily toward soaking it in vodka for a month, which will give me my own little vial of pure vanilla extract. Much better, I am sure, than any store bought variety. What I REALLY want to make is some vanilla bean bath oil, but I'll need lots more ingredients for that heady project.
Anyway, as we were strolling along Valencia Street, I stopped to read a small sign posted in the window of a shop, closed, that appeared to sell . . . vanilla! The sign said that you could go across the street to the ice cream parlor and get one of their vanilla beans, free.
"Oh my god, Jack! Wait! We have to go across the street to the ice cream shop. I can get a free vanilla bean there! Come on!"
First we detoured up one block of lovely Liberty Street, which was enticing because when you turn onto it off of Valencia and take about twenty steps, all of a sudden you're in another world of quiet and shimmering gorgeous trees and huge Victorian mansions. You can't hear any of the hip Valencia Street noise; it's odd and marvelous. We walked up one side then back down the other. I looked mostly at the trees, Jack looked at the paint jobs on the Victorians. Olivia looked at tree trunks and the sidewalk and the gutters.
Then we jaywalked, right in front of a police car, over to the ice cream store. I got my free vanilla bean, thus doubling my hoard! We also couldn't resist the temptation to get two sugar cones with vanilla ice cream. I had Mexican Vanilla Bean, Jack had Madagascar Vanilla Bean. All I can say is YUM. We sat on the sidewalk bench outside, under an awning but still soaking up the sun, as we ate them. So so good.
Later I saw this window cat, looking like the illustration for a children's book cover, don't you think? Or a cottage cats calendar:
P.S.
Vanilla Extract
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Place the vanilla bean in the jar and pour the vodka over it. You may cut the bean into pieces if the bean is not immersed in the liquid. Cover with a tight lid and let sit undisturbed for one month. When the extract has taken on a golden color, and vanilla aroma, you can remove the beans (save them for vanilla sugar), and strain the vanilla extract. |
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Vanilla Sugar
You can bury a fresh vanilla bean in your sugar canister or, you can
save the beans that have been used for extracts, puddings, and
custards. To recycle vanilla beans, rinse them off and let them dry at
room temperature. Grind the dried beans in a coffee grinder or food
processor. Stir the ground vanilla into 1-2 cups granulated or
confectioner's sugar. Sift the sugar to remove the vanilla grounds.
Save the vanilla grounds!
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"I love," he said, "your trees!" and she savored these words as she went to get the boiling water to pour through the bucket that needed cleaning. Cleanliness, godliness, health. And trees. They were all intertwined. Her trees. Her leaves. Her body. The bucket.
Françoizyk loved her trees. She and Françoizyk had never met, but apparently he loved her photographs of trees. He had seen them on the Internet site. This particular tree was a tilting tree, its deep burgundy-brown leaves set against an intriguing pattern of wooden walls, a fence, and an enchanting buttery yellow dawn light (deftly, if she did say so herself, manipulated so as to appear natural when, of course, it was not).
Light switch, thermostat, heating vent. These had been the details, earlier that morning, going from right to left around the infusion room at the clinic (from her view in the corner lounge chair).
During every visit, she studied the uninterestingness of the white and gray room, trying hard to find redeeming qualities — quirks, idiosyncratic nuances, surprising elements, perhaps even a touch of beauty — anything that would change her opinion of it. Going from left to right outside the windows on the opposite wall: The wooden backs of two beige buildings. On the back of beige building number one, farthest to the left, was a small window about the size of a breadbox, then two medium sized windows, lower down, absolutely average in size, to the right.
A brown wooden trellis stretched the length of both buildings. Green lush ivy on the left end of the trellis, then bare trellis, then more ivy. More windows further right, on the beige, same style building number two. This time, three more breadboxes, all in a row, higher up again. Her opinion did not change.
It was an unexpectedly gray day. Too gray for shadows, no enchanting buttery yellow light. Shadows would have livened things up. A man, heavy set (okay, fat) asked for a blanket because he had listened to the weather report and worn shorts, plaid, and a tee shirt. Joon scurried toward her, and she realized he was heading toward the extraordinarily narrow closet door that was slightly to her left but, still, in front of her. She had been wondering what they kept there, and now she knew. Pale green fuzzy blankets for fat men in shorts. She could and should have been brave enough to ask if there were any blankets, because she had been cold, too, even with long pants and a sweater. She had imagined, had hoped, that the contents of this oddly situated little closet were unusual. She had been enjoying the mystery of what might be behind the door. If Joon hadn't opened it, this mystery, this opportunity for endless conjecture, might even have changed her opinion of the room.
"Almost done now!" Joon crooned as he tugged at the blanket through the barely cracked open door. Her feet, stretched out on the reclining lounger, were blocking the door. Yes, he was correct. The clear, almost glistening pink liquid was nearing the bottom of her IV bag, Drip, drip, drip. She willed him to hurry as she tried to look unconcerned, she hated cutting it so close, she worried about a swoosh of air entering her vein. How dangerous would that be? Could it kill her?
Joon scurried back across the room, gave the blanket to Mr. Fat in Shorts, and scurried back with only seconds to spare. "Good to the last drop, eh!" he said with a smile and an upward tilt to his voice that made her think he was giggling, although he was not.
She returned the smile and may even have replied, "Yes it is!" although she wasn't sure, in retrospect, if she had spoken aloud or only inside her head.
She gathered her two books, her cell phone, and her pack. She walked to the front desk and paid. She turned to the elevator door, pushed the button, stepped in, listened to the thick metal slab closing behind her, and thought Françoizyk loves my trees.
This is my photo treasure from yesterday's walk. The other walk highlight was a big biscuit treat for Olivia when we stopped by Bernal Beast to get more raw chicken nuggets and special tiny kibble cat food for "older, sensitive" cats. She lives for her visits to Bernal Beast. As soon as we get in the door, she plops her butt down in front of the counter, sits at attention, ears perked, tail wagging, and waits for one of the employees to reach into the treat dish and come out from behind the counter to give her one or two.
Technically, it's Jack's turn to walk her today, but the weather is so gorgeous I think I'll take her out for a short spin RIGHT NOW.
There's a little old white church building on the corner of Ogden and Moultrie streets. I have been walking by it several time a week for the last 17 years. Up until two years ago, the church housed an all black congregation. I'm not sure what the denomination was, but every Sunday morning you could hear rousing gospel music, instrumentals included, bursting out through the walls. The ladies were decked out in their chartreuse, hot pink, turquoise and canary yellow Sunday best, wide-brimmed fancy hats included. I loved the music and I loved the different slice of life that the church brought to our neighborhood. Sometimes I fantasized buying the building, if it were ever to be put up for sale. And then one day there it was, the For Sale sign. but although the church is a small two-story (probably with landmark status), it sits on a double lot, and so there is a huge side yard with trees and lots of open space. The price was out of range for the likes of me and Jack, plus it would have required major renovations.
A youngi'sh, hipp'ish couple bought it. He does something interesting relating to music production/recordings. I'm not sure what she does, but she appears to have been doing quite a bit of the renovation work, herself. They've been at it for a long time. I think they do a little bit, run out of money, stop, scrimp, save, do a little bit more, etc. Most recently, they put in a huge garden. Just wonderful. A couple of days ago, I saw tarps and more signs of new construction. I love construction sites. They almost always hold an interesting picture or two, and they keep the neighborhood from being boringly the same.
I snapped this whilst sitting on someone's porch step around the corner from Just For You cafe in Dogpatch, on Potrero Hill. Emerald, Jack's daughter, had taken Jack out to breakfast there, for Father's Day. I was invited but decided to let the two of them have some private time while I walked around Dogpatch looking for pictures. It was a beautiful sunny morning, and I loved ambling around warehouses and industrial buildings and vacant lots and old abandoned brick firehouse buildings. Lots of historic old brick buildings in Dogpatch.
Although I didn't go in for brunch, I did get one of Just For You's scrumptious, melt-in-your-mouth, naughty naughty naughty beignets that are made of nothing but airy light pastry and buttery regular sugar, then coated with powdered sugar. They fry them up for you on the spot. You eat them very warm. I ate mine as I walked. It was windy, so I was soon covered from neck to belly with powdered sugar, but there was so much of it on the beignet that I still ate a ton of it. I did not feel too full or sick afterward, sadly. I felt marvelous and wanted more.
Jack thinks this is one of my best photos, which surprised me...not because I don't like it but because I would have thought it too obtuse for most people's tastes. However, Jack has a painter's eye, pays close attention to colors, and said he really liked these earthy colors.
By the way, remember that post I did a month or two or three ago about submitting photos to Getty Images (stock photos for sale online), in hopes of having some chosen and maybe selling a few? No, of course you don't remember! Only I remember, and maybe Linda D. Or my sister. Anyway, they did finally accept some. Eleven so far. I was quite excited for about five minutes, until I REALLY looked at the Getty site and realized that it would be a miracle if anyone ever even SAW my photos. There are literally hundreds of thousands. No, maybe millions. I do think it might be at least between 1 and 2 million. I don't have time now to go to their site and look it up. Wrong. I just did. It's "millions."
If someone KNOWS that I have photos there and types in my name, the photos should show up. But if someone is just looking for, say, nature photos...they'll conceivably have to scroll through thousands of photos before ever getting to mine, MAYBE. Luck of the draw, crap shoot, etc. And if they did ever WERE to see mine, I would earn a commission of somewhere between 50 cents up to maybe $35.00 per photo. Something like that.
Which is why I am now going back to preparing the lesson plan for the Writing Salon class I'm teaching this Saturday. A bird in hand is worth two photos in the bush. (HOWEVER: Although the thought of making a living or even half or a quarter of a living from making and selling photos is so alluring, I'm still happy doing it for nothing and for no one but myself (and a few friends). :-)
Here's another Bernal shot, Red Fence in the Rain:
