The Transfiguration

everything is sacred

Mushrooms of the Day #1764

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Mushrooms of the Day #1765

Feeling restless, I biked down to the marina today in search of sights worth saving. As I walked along the water I found that same distinctive scent again – gravel dust and the salted bay, with occasional hints of licorice – that’s ingrained itself in all my seaside memories from Berkeley. I retraced steps from a walk I took with Anton a few years ago, but couldn’t remember what we’d talked about at the time. When I try to squeeze out a memory from the place, I get these notions of dragons and legos and Anton’s brother’s bicycle business, but it may all be confabulation; Anton doesn’t remember the walk at all.

The fishing pier seemed impossibly long to me when I was little, and even now it surprised me. Standing at the end, looking through a fence at the broken legs of what used to be even more pier, I felt that I’d walked halfway to San Francisco.

I stopped by the harbor and sat by the forest of fishing-boat masts, reading 1Q84 until it became too chilly to keep still.

On my ride back I noticed a graffitied image of John Lennon by the railroad tracks and decided to investigate. Over the gravel I noticed an overturned boot and some discarded ragged clothes, as if someone had evaporated under the Beatle’s gaze, and when I stooped down to look closer I saw these two rust-mushrooms jutting out from the dust and pebbles. These are, I suppose, the sort of naturally-grown bolts that organic industrialists harvest for their machinery; it was a lucky thing to find them growing wild. The one on the left has lost its cap, you see, revealing the phloem-like fibers leading up from beneath the earth.

I’m trying to get a grasp on what sorts of things attract my attention, and how I manage to find photos I like. I photographed several bits and pieces of the marina, but ultimately I was a little disappointed with all of them; it was only this spontaneous stop, and the chain of discoveries that resulted – John lead me to the boot, which lead me to the bolts – that allowed this photo to happen. It seems that I can never really go looking for photos; if I don’t stumble across them by chance, they often just feel dull or forced.

Despite these daily photos, it doesn’t feel right calling myself a photographer; I just happen to find things I like, and do what I can to share them with you.

As I examined the painting of John Lennon, a woman called out to me from across the tracks, saying that his face had been there untouched for eight years. Around him were layers of wild tags, but he was almost pristine, staring knowingly out at the railroad. As the woman came closer, she gave one more line and kept walking: “No one messes with the dead man who told the truth.”

pieces of your presence

Written by Umbrella Man

July 22, 2013 at 2:52 am

Posted in small things

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One Response

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  1. hehe

    Martha Reilly

    July 22, 2013 at 12:59 pm

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