For Tension

Transitioning is like a rock skipped into the lake: gliding, dropping, and sinking. As exhaustion sets in, clouds roll over the past six weeks. I don't feel here in San Francisco or there in New Zealand; I am still circling for some place to land.  

As I wandered down Valencia this afternoon, I noticed a sign at Lost Weekend for a Superchunk show.  I immediately assumed they were making a play on words when really, they were referring to one of my favorite bands. I read and re-read the sign, turned 180 degrees, looked at my phone for the time, looked back at the poster, and continued walking down the street.  Too easy.  The venue was across the street and the show started in one hour.  If this is what happens when I am not paying attention to my place in time, then I'm going to stick around in the stratosphere for awhile. I stumbled into an evening with Superchunk and it was tremendous.

I finally sort of almost started looking through my pictures.  On those crappy computers abroad, the resolution was low and color distorted. There is a rough truth that emerges as I scan through the photographs on my own computer. There are a lot of photos so there are lots of truths. 

Random, today.


 
somewhere green  North Island, NZ
 Every place has a story.  This story is not one about the photograph but one within the photograph. Haze and scattered light set the scene for a fairytale. I'm sure it's a heart-warming tale but I have no idea what's happening in those green hills. I was only passing by.



Bream Bay, NZ 
... and about 30 seconds later, I took off my sneakers and ran into the ocean. 


 
Paihia, NZ
 A bridge across the mud flats on the hike to Haruru Falls.

Paihia, NZ
Walking through the mangrove forest made me think of my friend Bo's thesis project. She researched the mechanisms that allow the mangrove to flourish in salt water habitats as a model for architectural responses to the rising sea level in Bangkok. [Did I get that right?] My first mangrove.

I walked the path first with my video camera and then without.  The grey-brown field of aerial roots, each about six inches tall, displayed a fascinating triumph of survival.  Life thrives in this dirty system -- there is the frenetic mangrove crab and the audible 'poppopclickclick' of an oyster. Oyster?