The streets have no direction, no destination. They wind back into themselves, while they take her… somewhere… she’s never been. She looks at a map of the city, it would appear to be simple, small, within a defined space.
On the streets is a different story. They defy the map.
She places her hands on the streets, whether they’re dirty, wet with rain, cold with snow. She was born with soft hands, the kind that can feel things. Or so she thinks.
The city doesn’t talk to those who just pet its fur. These streets run like veins, getting lost is a new way of being found.
Now, she must use more than her hands.
The ghosts tell her, those old, ancient buildings. They’re not as quiet as the streets. They line the inner skyline.
The city is becoming something other than itself. Soon, she won’t be able to get lost in order to find herself.
The fireman walks down to the dock, where the fisherman adjusts his line every few minutes. I see the fireman asking the fisherman questions. The fireman seems concerned, looking towards me as he talks.
You see, I’ve been taking photos of the firehouse, the river, the station’s flag, the freeway, a freeway bridge nestled right above the firehouse. I understand the fireman’s concern.
Also, I’ve been taking photos of the fisherman.
When I was taking pictures of him, I tell the fisherman, “I do art.” Just in case I use his image. He is cool about the whole thing. Maybe it’s fishing. Helps him. Calms things.
Fishing: The act, occupation, or diversion of catching fish.
I know nothing about fishing. Well, maybe a little. I mean I had a fishing pole as a kid, lead weights, salmon eggs in a jar, a few hooks, a green spool of line, plastic bobbers, red and white. I think I caught a carp once.
No one ever wondered what I was doing or for what reason I was doing it. Back then, I mean, when I was fishing.