On The Wagon
Saturday. I skipped the Art Murmur last night and headed over to the Starry Plough to have a light dinner with some of the usual crew taking in the Pladdohg set. A couple of pictures, one or two half way interesting in the miserable light. I should have brought a light or two if I were really going to photograph in that setting. Three Guinness over the course of a five hour evening, getting back at midnight in good shape. A test. An experiment. See if one of the ocular migraines is awakened from its sleep by three Guinness and an evening on the Plough.
Otherwise, it's morning, up before nine (none of this six o'clock stuff), to breakfast and the papers, back now with the sun out, the sky clear and feeling reasonably good, as if the evening had been an ordinary evening of get to bed at ten. I'm pretty sure that's right. We'll see what transpires between now and the morning.
They were supposed to run the LovEvolution Parade today, but the parade and the event itself held in front of San Francisco City Hall have been cancelled. Too large a crowd to manage, not enough security. Probably too much skin, something San Francisco would never admit to in front of its tourists. We do have an image to keep. Too bad though. I've gotten some good photographs there in the past.
Tomorrow Castro Street. A gay street festival, but with less emphasis on the leather and whip dominance subculture you see at the Folsom Street Fair. I skipped Folsom this year, more for feeling crappy that day than anything else, but I will admit that some of the Folsom show messes with my head. How far do they take the pain and sorrow side of their scene? Further, I'm assuming, than I care to believe.
Still, as a photographer, an opportunity for unique images. What's the issue? I don't know. The Folsom Street thing with its whips and leathers, naked young and naked old grey haired guys wandering the street, obviously bothers me to some extent, not that they have it, not that it exists, but I suspect in what it reveals about the complexity of the human mind and condition, gay and straight, the aspects that lurk deep in the dark in places of the brain where pain and fear are primary players. A somewhat extreme set of behaviors about which I know nothing and which obviously make me uncomfortable out there in the middle of it shooting pictures. Stupid I. Less evolved I. Tripping over my inhibitions I. Not good, though, missing those pictures.
Later. A bus downtown, a cup of coffee in the City Center sitting at a table in the sun and a walk then back along Broadway, sticking my head in at the music store and finding a book of “easy” Beatles songs for the guitar. A look through it made me think it was for me, in that I could probably play them with reasonable time and effort, so I bought it and headed home.
I've been playing a particular song now for some time in one of the beginner's books and, although it's very good at making you read a particular note, recognize the note and find its location on the frets, it isn't a memorable or melodic song. I have a hunch that's its advantage, making you focus on the notes, focusing on recognition, making that recognition automatic with practice, but I prefer a song I know, even if it does make the learning process longer than it could. The Beatles, I think, will cover the bases.
Here now in the mid to late afternoon at the apartment, the attitude good, the sinus-upper palate in some check, the head in the bubble, but the bubble reasonably transparent. A good deal more transparent than my description, but I feel ambitious, one sign the book. I do want to play this guitar (I keep saying) and it worries me somewhat when I don't practice daily as long as I'd like. As long as my little fantasy says I should be playing (with a smile on my face).
Spending money (for, in this case, a book) isn't necessarily a good sign, sometimes its a way to duck addressing the project, but I'm looking forward to playing that first song now that I've finished this. (Hup!)
Later still. The afternoon gone, many iterations of Across The Universe under the belt. To bed early, methinks, on to Castro Street tomorrow, an opportunity (for the first time) to transfer to a Muni car from BART. San Francisco has a trolly (Muni) system apart from BART, the cable cars and buses that runs on tracks laid in some of its major streets and I haven't been on one in twenty years. Time I did. Better on a trolly than on the wagon I'd guess.