Sometimes we work for the things we love.  Sometimes we love the things we work.  Happiness, is somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

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It was a simple life.  Often you had a bag with some clothes, some sleeping stuff, hygiene stuff, and well.  That was it.   It didn’t seem basic, as much as now things seem a bit complicated.   This was Chris.  We slept two nights in some barracks hall in middle of the Hearst property.  I can remember a patio where we looked out into a moonlit valley and talked about wives over beer that was almost as cold as the air.

In street photography, I’ve meet three types.  The ones who preen and pose; image left.  The ones who want to show only their facade; image right.  And those who sometimes, just sometimes, bare a piece of themselves; image middle.

The skin benefits of cold water shaving with dirt and shaving cream are not well documented.

4520, you missed her

cook behind the scene

serious,

so deska

It’s dishonest to take a picture of someone, and put it on the internet, with out their consent.  There are instances, where it’s allowed.  Public places, where privacy is can not be excepted, concerts – legally speaking, a lot.  To me, it’s stealing a moment entirely theirs.  I admit, sometimes, I can not resist being that thief.

It’s a quiet smile, a bit of a sigh, and focus.   Over time in this country, it was noticeable. Fingers, deftly placed into sublime work creating detail that wouldn’t be noticed, at times, by our large western egos.  A ripple in the edge of a potter’s cup.  The frosting on an image in the glass blowers vase.  A double fold in a dumpling to seal in oils.  The beyond what’s there stare at the work.  All in the heat of a tropical sun that drove most of us to look for AC and cold beverages.  They were, in some ways, unconcerned with us.  Which made it all the more endearing

Deft fingers for dumplings

Quiet time in the sun

Refelect

Have purpose

Detail, art

In heat, continuance

The expert, at rest

One day, we wandered on foot through the jungle in Okinawa.   Just off from a side road was this house.  It had mostly collapsed, but hadn’t been discovered, or at least disturbed by people yet.  As we walked through, my fellow traveler fell through the floor.  Suddenly 2 feet shorter in height, all we could do is laugh.

There was a protest, which I wasn’t interested in.  He came to me, and asked me to a “not picture” of him, as he didn’t feel he was seen by people.  I meet youth, sometimes, who are part of that invisible crowd.  They talk to me.  In life, we are often not far apart from those who are invisible.  A few feet. A few dollars. A job.  A habit.  A mean partner.

Panasonic G7: 40MM prime lens.  Golden West Hotel. San Diego.

Often, we stood in lines.   For food.  Clothes.  To accomplish something.  Often strait, occasionally, unruly.  You could say, perhaps, that structure is the thing we fought against most.  Often, it’s the post you’re leaning on, not realizing it, until it’s pulled away.

Of course, Santa can take a hit.  He’s not real.  And, in the not real world of not real things, not real things can happen.  Like, Santa, being attacked by a giant spider.