A Sunny SF Sunday

Up Up, out of the station, up a million stairs. Rising from the gutters of the subway, into the light, into the people.

I was up at Dolores for a bit, did a walk through. I sat at a bench next to girl who I didn’t get a good look at but thought it might be worth talking to her. She seemed to be waiting for someone, but no one ever came. I waited so long but I couldn’t talk to her so instead, I just sat and read “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac. All my dating advice I get from Jack Kerouac now, or more specifically, Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassidy), the madman. But I don’t have as much rizz as Neal, so I’ll study his escapades until I become mad myself.

I want to start street photography. Pure candid. You know, take a photo of people on the street. Don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness. I’m down to talk to people. I got stopped by two skaters when I took their photo and so I showed it to them and he said “I look retarded”. I assured him “Well there’s good ones and there’s bad ones” and with a parting fist bump he said “I fuck with it”.

I have the option hide behind a pair of sunglasses but I’d rather people see my eyes. Watch my eye balls as I hunt for a good shot, steal their gaze for my lens, and capture whatever hides beneath. I want them to know I’m human too.

Street photography is like graffiti in a way. With graffiti, the street is the canvas, it’s part of the medium along with spray cans. With street photography, the street and the people are the subject, the medium being the camera. Just like graffiti is disruptive to the street, street photography is disruptive to the person I’m pointing a camera at. But I figure, if someone pointed a camera in my face, I wouldn’t get too upset.

Then I’m walking up Van Ness, up Nob Hill, but it doesn’t feel so steep today. Up to the gym to meet up with my friends, to pull on plastic and destroy our skin, and leave with achy fingers and a feeling of bliss.

Then it’s back down Nob Hill. I’m going to see a band tonight: Say Sue Me. I’ve never even heard of them before but Max has brought me along for the last few indie shows. It’s at the Rickshaw Stop, I have fond memories here. Inside I meet Max’s friends, indie heads through and through. They can talk about bands for ages. The kids here have black ‘X’s on their hands. The last time I was here, I had black ‘X’s on my hands. But I’m getting too old for this now. I still hear ringing in my ears and it’s been a full day since the show.