The view from the top of a hill in Glen Canyon, a natural refuge that is in the neighborhood of Glen Park which is only a half-dozen, meandering blocks away from my neighborhood of Bernal Heights. Glen Park is sort of a mirror to Bernal, with its handsome homes, long-standing eateries, a bookstore, a market, a bank, its quiet, its families, its hints of nature.
Since we are technically all adults now, I will insist, and frankly we'll all insist that the above fireplace ledge is only a temporary tableau but for right now it provides instantaneous unease when you enter our sizable living room.
Just a random shot on Mission St. Not really near my place at all. A grated alley crammed with derelict theater seats. Or something. Part of my incentive to have my camera with me more often.
Figments of the past come back in different personae; here, your classic warehouse, with the checkerboard of windows flashing in the sun, at the end of our new street, Cortland. I can't tell who lives inside, or if it's live/work but it looks gorgeous within, lots of plants and hanging things and paintings.
But then your past comes back in the exact SAME guise. Here, across the street from the end of our street (where Cortland slams into Mission), is the warehouse offices of Golden Gate Tank Removal, my former employer who, when I worked there, used to be situated in a romantically destitute shit-shack in the South of Market. And now they are one block from bucolic Bernal Heights.