Click photo to buy a printI bought the LensBaby lens system about a year ago.  It came with a double glass sharp lens with the option of buying a separate lens kit containing 3 other drop-in lenses.  One of these is the "Zone Plate"/"Pinhole" lens - the one that I had ignored the most.  

I figured it was about time - I decided to take that lens module down to the beach in front of the Crap Trap at sunset.  The sunsets here are brilliant as usual, but not much stood out of this one at first. If there's one event that's easy to take for granted, it has got to be a sunset.

As I was thinking this, almost as if a prayer was being answered, a heron landed a few yards away, right where the water touches the sand.  The sun had already slipped past the horizon and since the zone plate's f-stop was a constant and small f/19, it had to be a long exposure.  The heron played along though, not only staying still but also allowing me to creep closer with my tripod and my backpack.

Slowly re-leveling the tripod on the sand, I broke out my shutter release cable, and hooked it up.  I stayed as long as the light and lens would allow, perhaps 15 minutes.  The heron posed, always facing away, like it was scouting for dinner and didn't mind the company.  

I could have stayed longer, switched lenses and taken more crisp shots despite the low light.  But I had accomplished my goal for that afternoon: Shooting with the zone plate.

Golden Gate Park stretches from the western shore of San Francisco to the middle of the peninsula on which the city is built. I'd crossed it, driven past it, paralleled it via public transit, and was finally taking an afternoon to walk through it. What resulted was a conversation with local graffiti artists, sidewalk chalkers, and city policy makers, all without saying a word.

I started at the eastern side where Masonic Avenue intersects the most narrow section of the park. Within a few minutes of entering, I came across the intersection of Fell and Oak streets, which had bordered the park until they met here.  After they merged, they became John F. Kennedy Drive which goes through the park itself.

I gazed ahead at the intersection to begin watching for traffic, but something drew my eyes down to the sidewalk. A stencil of a car and some words were painted widely across the blacktop.  It read, "Death Monsters Ahead".  I was a bit stunned at the simplistic yet meaningful statement. Even while the pedestrian signal indicated that it was safe for me to cross, I was still taken aback, wrapped in thought that someone would actually take the time to not only paint this, but design the stencil as well.

Not long after I successfully made it past the intersection of the treacherous "death monsters", I came across several other inscriptions on the ground.  These ranged in purpose from political, to the instructional, and even the artistic.

While bike tires and footsteps had smeared these calcium-rich statements, their meanings still shined through.  One calls for the construction of a bicycle path network while another one celebrates and illustrates diversity. The then-present president has his office questioned with only six nouns and three verbs. Another writer invites you to chalk your thoughts - the invitation itself partially obscured over by an RSVP in the positive. 

Lastly, there was a section of the park I came upon that had some odd rules. After seeing one that stated "No Golf Allowed", I thought it was strange, but reasonable. After I realized how close this section of the park was to the road, it made a lot more sense. The idea of getting whacked in the head, or the windshield, by a golf ball isn't a pleasant thought at all.  But had this truly been a problem in the past?

No more than a few steps past the anti-golf proclamation, I witness not one, but two more signs, nailed to the same tree.  Both were hanging in oppose directions, like drunks leaning over a balcony.  Their statements just as confusing: "No Softball" and "No Volleyball". I thought these were a joke at first, like the graffiti earlier on the paths. I half-expected the next sign to say "No Fun Allowed" or "Don't Even Think About Enjoying Yourself In This Park". 

I'm sure some very sensible reasons exist for these signs to be up.  Perhaps it's that section of the park's proximity to the roads, or maybe there are other parts of the park devoted to those activities. However, despite the actual "Park Code" quoted one of these signs, it's very difficult to take them seriously. 

As I made my way back to the house, I made sure to take the same course in reverse, noting all the signs that I had photographed earlier.  Every written sign, no matter how indelible, striking, or nuance it may be, was put there by a human being.  Whether it had stood for years or until the next rain, it remains a form of communication that harks back to caveman drawings.  Each sign shares a basic purpose and message, no matter what literal meaning.

They all say, "I am here, I am human, and I feel this knowledge is important enough to be shared."  Writing knowledge down gives it value, at the very least to the person who writes it. If a stranger happens upon it, they determine for themselves if the value is shared.  Just as you read these words, you make a determination as to whether or not you enjoyed the story.  :-)
 

Audio for Photo Story #1

 

The water was quiet that day, and aside from a handful of people scattered throughout the shoreline, we were left alone with our conversations and idle hands: Bouncing ideas off each other and throwing rocks into the water. It was myself, Jonathan, and Jaime: two of my good friends who were roommates in the city. The swish and pop of the water provided a percussion background to discuss random thoughts, future plans, and stories about ex-girlfriends.

Minutes earlier, we had pulled off the highway into Emeryville, avoiding the molases of traffic heading back west over the bay bridge to San Francisco. We made our way to Marina Park, which is across the bay, perpendicular to the Golden Gate bridge. We could see San Francisco to the left side of the Golden Gate, and Sausalito and Mount Tamilpias to the right.

Not long after we plunked ourselves down on the rocks, the sun edged closer to the far side of mountains, just barely scratching the top. The area around the park was flat, completely surrounded by water, and we could see stretches of patchy clouds for miles. At that point, they were just shades of gray, but the sun bending over the mountain had lit a fire, burning the entire sky like a match exploding in slow motion.

As we sat there looking towards the Golden Gate, it was a panoramic splendor. We felt small, yet significant enough to realize what we were experiencing was true beauty. The blues of the sky had reached overhead and were fading behind us into a dark navy. Still moving, albeit slowly, the clouds in front were coarsing between orange and yellow. A few of the thicker clouds only allowed violet to pass through, streaking hard shadows upon patches that trailed eastward behind us.

We were completely hypnotized, not to mention those who had quietly settled in around us. The chattering of strangers had slowed, outbursts of stories being told had turned into slow moans of awe, as all eyes faced westward. The colors above projected downward and mixed with the water below. Like the color and speed of the thicker clouds, the waves betrayed an ultraviolet hue as they crawled toward us, as if to climb up the rocks and get us wet.

Now over the horizon and mountains, the sun persisted in tweaking the colors around us. Everything in sight had become a canvas to paint upon, one last time before the night arrived. Vertigo seemed to set in as our world turned a blur between sea and sky. Up and down no longer mattered, only the streaks of clouds moving towards us and the sun moving away. Reality had become Silly Putty, with God stretching it over us thinly, and a nuclear disco ball hidden somewhere behind the mountains.

The oranges and purples became opaque, nearly indistingushable from the blues that went dark. The water gave up her last reflections and went black, except for the occasional twinkling of the crests of waves. The mountains in front were in complete silhouette. What remained were the red coals of a fire where the yellows had last been seen. Slowly it burned out, starting directly above us, and then down to the mountains in front, where the spark had originated.

The traffic over the bridge was thinning as the sun provided it's last encore. A few of the 100-odd people who had shared the sunset with us were standing up to stretch and began talking again. My friends and I were slow to break our silence, hoping it would prolong what only could be described as visual ecstacy. We stayed a few minutes longer and discussed what we had seen here, how we were incredibly luckily to have decided to act upon our laziness, to get off the highway and take a breather.

To this day, 7 years later, this is still the sunset to which I compare all others.