a million moths.

the sweetest weekend

on the california coast.

* shot with a palm zire 71

outside

it’s been pouring for five days straight and the wind has blown nearly all the tiny, pink, fringed carnations off the tree. the apartment is an ice chest, but i am home — mint tea within reach, tucked under a warm, wool blanket a very special 80-something-year-old abuelita knitted for me over the holidays.

there is art

along nearly every stretch of my commute home: in la placita olvera where the church bells ring every hour on the hour; at lincoln park where the high walls of la plaza de la raza look over the glassy lake; along huntington drive, home to xocolatl and its mayan cacao; and here, in the junk yards on mission, where men smell like oil and whistle and holler at drivers all day long, “Pasele! Pasele!”

something tells me

this little apron is going to transform me. there will be risotto primavera and greek stuffed artichokes, shrimp paella and a pumpkin thing called “autumn glory.” there will be cheese and pasta and herbs i can’t spell or pronounce. plenty of botched and burnt meals, too. but by year’s end, i will be a whiz (ok, i’ll settle for decent) in the kitchen. next time my mom decides to show up on my doorstep with 10 guests, completely unannounced, i might just be ready.

hello. i’m back. to write. to shoot. and then repeat.

the mariachi

at the mariachi plaza. they play at weddings, birthdays, divorces, sex-change parties and lately, foreclosures.

emely bear

came home from school today with a heart drawn on the palm of her hand.

block by block: broadway

from second to seventh streets. he sells spanish newspapers and magazines for ten hours each day in front of a latino record store. his little boy, strapped in a stroller a few feet away, sits in the shade and watches.

introducing

sweet charlie bear.

up above

been wrapped up in a million happy thoughts this summer, but i miss this. so it’s time. time to pick up my camera again.