Or, as could be re-titled, I went to LA and found the Dude! But that was last year. Here now in the high summer heat of New York City I have been hit with an attack of the blog lazies. My recent photos feel dull, lifeless and without purpose but surprisingly, I am feeling OK about this. I cannot change the weather but I can adapt, go with it, sit back in the shade and enjoy the languid heat that pulses throughout the city in a summer's days and nights. In doing so I am hoping to organise my photo files. They are a mess! Lurking in this mess are some surprises. Was it really twelve months ago that I was in Venice Beach when to me it has always been a case of the "not so long ago . . . ?" I also remember the disappointment of not getting a better shot of this car, of wanting it to stay still as it cruised through the fabulous grottiness that is Venice Beach behind which sit elegant houses along shady stretches of canals. I took the photo and put it away for another day. . . . .......
Posts tagged Los Angeles
From here, in downtown New York City . . .
I can see up there, the cloud coming down.
From up here, in the sunshine of Los Angeles . . .
I can see down there, downtown LA.
I spent the last week in Los Angeles. During an idle afternoon of sunshine at the fabulous Venice Beach I watched in awe as a group of young, and older, boys skated on their boards. With wild abandon and total confidence they flew around the cement ponds, fearless and as light as feathers.
Here is one of them, up in the air. Shooting the breeze.
Old Fashioned. Such a state of mind. I could take a mug shot of myself and present a rather confronting picture of old and fashioned what with the facial lines and the lipstick but why would I do that to you? Why would I do it to myself? Far safer to stick with architectural realities, one faded but still there in the gritty reality that is Broadway in downtown Los Angeles, the other, the telephone lobby of the Wilshire Grand also in Los Angeles, remaining shiny and new but of its time in the past. If those telephones could talk . . . .
The third, and very dear to my heart, is my fountain pen. I take it everywhere and I can’t imagine a day without that comforting scratch of pen and ink upon a page. Whenever, wherever. This wherever happens to be Central Park, in New York City.
When men never made passes at girls who wore glasses . . .
When telephones sat on walls and people sat at bars and tables, talking face to face . . .
Blogging, the old-fashioned way . . .
Wherever I lay my pen, that’s where I’ll be.
Or farewell winter . . .
Last days of May are fading fast. Here in New York summer has muscled its bossy way in, firmly shutting the door on any leftover spring gentility. As for winter? So long ago already. Yet, only two weeks ago, in the hills surrounding Yosemite National Park, we woke to falling snow.
The story of our attempts to get to Yosemite are long and detailed. I know where to begin, but, with so many elements involved, I just don’t know where to end. Soon I shall put them down in a narrative of pen and ink in order for me to bring form and order to the events. Until then, some pictures to tell part of the story.
We began our journey in Los Angeles, driving to Death Valley before venturing to Yosemite on our way to San Francisco. A week-end break! These photos were taken through the car window on the journey through Nevada, Death Valley behind us, Yosemite ahead.
Late March, 2011
Another dirty day here in LA, the smog sits over the hills of Hollywood and soon we will be out of here and heading into the desert of Death Valley.
I am simply passing through this town but so many have come to LA from everywhere to pursue a dream. Milk-fed on the ideal of the American Dream Los Angeles would seem to be the epi-centre for such a pursuit.
Letting the pictures do the talking this time!
. . . or at least from the hotel in downtown Los Angeles watching the Oscars, live, in real time.
Having arrived here from New York only a few hours ago I am not bothered enough to go out into the night life of downtown LA. The telecast however is sorely testing my lethargy. James Franco and Anne Hathaway, the compares, have learned their lines and their performances are smacking of the school concert. I suspect James Franco has had more to drink, smoke or snort than is good for him but perhaps he needs the support for when Anne Hathaway’s jokes fall flat on the stage floor.
. . . I am reminded of one where conversation rarely strikes. Cafe de la Presse, in San Francisco, has become my regular cafe of choice for breakfast. Being on my own I skip any waiting line and take a seat at the bar where I sit with my coffee – rich, strong, smooth and black, in a contented cone of silence. Sometimes I have a book with me but more often than not it sits on the counter, a companionable prop to the developing narrative of time and place.