A Slice of Heaven

A Slice of Heaven

I’m trying to reclaim my life in some ways – the hours I’ve worked have been awful, and since changed for a bit more humane schedule.  So, to reclaim my life, it means I cannot let the whiney, lazy me take over and say, wah, not enough time!  This morning, up at 6, coffee, pulled on my stinky clothes from yesterday, and went out, film cameras and phone in hand.  What a delightful thing to do!  No one around . . . the birds were singing their mating songs (especially lovely were the mockingbirds) and flitting about.  Everywhere, the pungent scent of the chaparral’s resinous plants.  The sun was still low in the sky.  As I walked, I looked, and saw . . . a wild rose in bloom . . . quails running for cover . . . mourning doves within a few feet of me.  A slice of heaven!

Petals

Petals

I cannot recall the name of this flower, but it is large and tall if I remember correctly, part of a stalk of flowers.  The symmetry and curves of the petals are what catch the eye.

Tumbling Down

Tumbling Down

I always enjoy seeing the sandstone boulders and rocks in the Santa Monica mountains.  How do they get the way they are?  Who or what positioned them?  These look as if they were cast down the hillside by some giant hand . . . These are yellow and red and make a wonderful background for the foliage and weeds of the chaparral.

Foxtails

Foxtails

Foxtails are the seeds of a local wild grass.  They are sharp and pointed, and manage to disperse themselves on the winds or by transportation.  They can work their way into your clothes without your knowing it, are uncomfortable against your skin, and seem to work their way into everything.  If you have a dog, keep it out of the foxtails – they have been known to bore into skin and cause infections.  Not pleasant to be around, but they are really lovely backlit, with their slender stalks and foxtailish shape.

Across the Valley

Across the Valley

Oh, how much easier it would have been to get the view by road!  Instead, a steady uphill slog of about a mile, with twists and turns and changing views.  The pool of water in the distance is a reservoir, and it looks pretty good from here.  Others in the area could be dried out in four years, and then what will we do for water?  Even now, with rain in the forecast, California is still suffering from the effects of a long drought and poor water regulation.  And climate change.

Wild Morning Glory

Wild Morning Glory

This morning we went on a rather strenuous hike – up and down hills to get to an inland section of the Santa Monica Mountains.  I am not a fast hiker – rather plodding actually – because of a long history and experience with falls and broken bones.  Every step is conscientiously placed, especially where there is scree and loose rocks.  The flowers along the way provided excuses to pause . . .

Barrista

Barrista

Having a phone camera can be rather nice . . . not always the best shot, but sometimes the most candid and discreetly taken.  Everyone has a cell phone, and everyone has cameras in their phones (for the most part).  In bad light, blur; in good light, glare.  And in perfect conditions, sometimes it is nearly impossible to tell it was taken by a phone.

Portrait of the Artist

Portrait of the Artist

Once more, the miracles of espionage catch the unsuspecting, lurking beneath awnings or pretending to be photographers.  The high-tech revolution guarantees that, yes, you will eventually be found . . .

Support

Support

Awhile back some friends and I went to Glendale, California, to do some street photography, and then have some excellent Persian food!  We tend to do this a lot as one of our little group seems to know all the best places between here and Mars to eat.  And to photograph.

 

Fading

Fading

Roses, this spring, are doing well.  The first round of blooms has begun to fade, but new buds keep appearing to continue the cycle.  I don’t remember the name of this rose, but it has a light, delicate fragrance, and rather loose, floppy petals, much like a wild rose.

… a rose embower’d
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower’d,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet . . .