Summer Night Dreams & Venetian Winters

A Summer Dream of a Venetian Winter | Mark Lindsay

Usually, the newspaper has a perfunctory little story on the longest day of the year. It usually starts out with, "Today is the longest day of the year," or other such witty prose. Newspapers have a habit of repeating things incessantly like little children who have just learned a new word. Another repeated annoyance is the proclamation at the start of California's fire season. "This year is predicted to be the worst fire season on record." Every year is predicted to be the worst fire season on record.

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And So This is Christmas

Winter Still Life #4 | Mark Lindsay

Four days before Thanksgiving it hit me. The traffic was heavier and the drivers more frantic. The left-turn signal to the Safeway had a long line of idling cars, exhaust evaporating into the chilled autumn air. The holidays are here. I don't know anyone who looks forward to that first realization. What should be the loveliest, most peaceful and introspective of seasons has become a frantic dash to the finish line.

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Outside Looking In

Winter Reflection | Mark Lindsay

Outside looking in. Fourth Street is dead on the Monday of a three-day weekend. There is a sterile scent of nothingness in the air. I escaped from the studio to see the world and the world stayed home. I'm just slightly out-of-sync on the tail end of a twilight-zone holiday.

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The Market and A Bruised Soul

Basket with Baguette | Mark Lindsay

It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I'd been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday's gray drizzle seemed appropriate.

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Bitter Greens

Market Greens | Mark Lindsay

The fog lifted today. I could tell before I even opened my eyes. It was the garbage men that gave it away. The fog muffles the sound of the Tuesday-morning garbage truck and this morning I could hear it loud and clear. The men were shouting and the truck's hydraulics were howling. Right then at 5:00 AM I knew the fog was gone.

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