Aside from “finishing” an eighty-four page deck for my secret project and some freelance work over the first week of April, the month passes with sunny leisure. Every day, I’ve found an excuse to get exercise outside: run errands, eat lunch, bike, or go on a photo walk.
The weather has been sunny and beautiful. The sky gleams in a flat shade of blue. And despite the nagging doubts about my life, I’m lucky to have the time to wander around this beautiful place.
J has been working long hours, but we did have time to catch a weekday sunset.
Early last week, I biked across the Golden Gate Bridge and up Cozelman Road to Hawk Hill. As usual, the mostly uphill ride was hard. But I avoided both sunburn and looking the fool for the more athletic bikers passing me.
Near the top, I walked my bike along a path to a bench that overlooked the bay. I unloaded a variety of snacks, slurped metallic water, and thought about not much more than the view.
It was a fifteen mile round trip.
Pride of Madeira flowers blooming the Marin hillside of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Poppies block the view from Hawk Hill.
Point Bonita lives up to her name.
A good spot to sit and think about my failures. And eat carrots.
The rest of the week was killed with Counterstrike, cooking, coffee and neighborhood photo walks.
Nope, no abandoned shell of car under this tarp.
Nor this one.
First world wiring.
A tear in reality on Anza St.
Another tear forming nearby
Two red birds playing on ice plant.
Windowsills are the foes of dye.
The little flower tells me everything I want to know. It’s my best friend. It’s paradise.
PeeWee’s San Francisco playhouse.
Fort Mason lamp.
The ascension of an Off The Grid Indian burrito.
Hydrant and ivy.
Nasturtium covered slope.
Spring has sprung, and flowers are flowering. My favorite are the purple, spindle-shaped Pride of Madeira. Bees seems to love them too, though that might be due to quantity over quality.
A prime Pride of Madeira specimen.
Golden Gate glade.
Time for a drink.
A gull acts coy.
A loose, horny elephant wanders the Richmond.
A thinking chair.
A web of lies.
Gnarly, smelling of pee.
Inside the sign.
Old service station.
A timeless warning.
Patriotic hippie van.
I watch the watchmen.
Over four feet of pride.
V’s backyard blueberry bush.
I cole. I slaw. I conquered.
Over the weekend, I made vinegar-based, deluxe coleslaw to take to a backyard BBQ. My pal, The Homeowner, was different. He was a man, indebted to the bank, but enjoying the spoils.
I was as envious of his yard as he was of my freedom.