I meant to post this weeks ago, but I got a little busy with all the freedom and the driving and the homelessness. Now that I’m freshly arrived back in San Francisco (call me!) it seems like an appropriate time to celebrate being in the Castro for the first annual Harvey Milk Day on May 22nd.

I was not in San Francisco—or even particularly sentient—back when Milk and Mayor Moscone were assassinated by Dan White. But I was there in time for the next wave of losses, and Harvey was—is—still a mythic figure around the Castro, with his toughguy humor and his dogged sense of nudge and push, of right and rights. He wasn’t Patient Zero in the pandemic, but he was the first real breakout hero lost to fear and homophobia, and that makes him a saint, a mouthy MLK for the GLBT crowd and all those who stand with them. I can’t help but connect the two: Harvey’s death with the deaths of so many friends, colleagues, neighbors.

Seeing the movie Milk last year was like reliving those days when I worked for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, in one of the sites of Harvey’s camera shop. I’m pretty sure I bruised my poor companion with all the poking. “See, that’s where I worked!” I’d say, grabbing his arm. “I marched in those candlelight vigils!” I’d tell him, while thwocking his knee. Or I’d grab his shoulder and hiss: “That’s where the Quilt was, but now it’s a seafood place,” holding my hand over my mouth, so the couple behind us would stop asking me to settle down.

When I worked for the Quilt, I spent a lot of time talking to people who’d made panels for their loved ones—all the sad people, basically. One of those people was Scott Smith, his lover, played by James Franco in the film. I also spent a lot of time scheduling speaking engagements for Cleve Jones, played by Emile Hirsch. So the film was a weird reunion for me, like being able to see the crazy youths of people I knew later in their lives. Maybe that’s why Harvey’s so tied with that chapter for me—because even though he was gone before the first deaths from GRID, he was still the guiding spirit in the Castro and all his lieutenants rose up to lead the fight against the disease, the fear, the blinkered attitudes of so much of America.

Milk is not just a touchstone for gay, lesbian, bi, and transgendered people; his fierce spirit taught this straight girl from the flat part of this evolving country a whole bunch about being open to all kinds of people, about taking on the system and making it your own. And just think about all the little Californians who will learn from his example in late May every year.

But then, that’s classic Harvey, still recruiting 30 years after his death.

I’m flying back to Nebraska in 43 hours, and I have 14 hours of work, 6 hours of personal appointments (these ladyparts don’t wax themselves), 6 hours of last-minute friend catch-up, and as close to 16 hours of sleep as I can manage before then. This gives me approximately 1 hour to pack and get my ass to the airport, but does not leave me much time to blog, so please accept these recent images with my love and apologies:

They say you can tell a lot about people by where they choose to point their camera.

I wonder what these shots say about me?

He doesn’t ask for money, he asks for food.

I’m with my friend Sal* after an afternoon spent photographing buds and textures at the arboretum in Golden Gate Park. We’re heading into Safeway for onions and catfood. We tell the guy no, but when we get inside, we stop at the sandwich counter.

“I’ll go see what he wants,” I say.

Anything, he tells me. Whatever’s good. “What do you really want? Turkey? Roast beef?”

Roast Beef, it is, I tell Sal and then, while the sandwich is being made, I go back out to talk to the guy, take his picture. His name is Jelani and he’s from southern California.

“How do you like the cold up north?” I ask. He shakes his head and pulls the blanket he’s wearing around him tighter.

“I’m from the really southern part of the state. I’m not used to this shit.”

All the while, I’m snapping pictures, finding the focus point in one eye or the other, then taking the shot.

As we talk, another street dude walks past. “Charge her ten bucks,” he says.

“What’s that, man?” Jelani asks.

“Charge that lady ten bucks for pictures and you’ll eat.”

Jelani shakes his head. “She’s already feeding me, but thank you, brother.”

I ask how he likes San Francisco and he tells me he wishes he’d brought his drum with him. “That’s the one good thing about this city,” he says. “You can get in on some really great drum circles.” He was traveling with a friend and they’d stopped at that friend’s mom’s place somewhere south of the city. He’d left his drum there. “To let her know we’d be coming back,” he says sadly.

“And now you can’t go back?”

“My friend died. Right over in that park,” he says, pointing the block over to Golden Gate.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He was 63 and a drinker. He just wore his body thin.”

Now Jelani can’t get his drum back. “I don’t really remember exactly where she lived, plus I’d have to tell her. We’d probably weep together.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad thing, I suggest.

“Yeah, that was the first man who died in my arms,” he says, shaking his head as though the thought sits funny in there.

Sal came out with the bag of food. “Roast beef,” he says, “some chips and a coke. Oh, and a pudding. Chocolate. You like pudding?”

“I don’t really eat pudding, man,” Jelani says. “But I’m gonna try.”

I thank him for the talk and the pictures. “Stay warm,” I say.

“I hope you got some good ones,” he tells me, pointing to the camera.

*Not his real name, but he told me if I blogged him, he would “KILL ME DEAD.” So there you go, SAL.

With my camera, that is. I caught this lost boy on the jungle gym over at the Dolores Park playground the other day and had to get a shot of the extravagant cowlick, that fiercesome self possession, those wiry monkey arms. If I had a son, he would be it.

Of course, you can’t keep Peter Pan. You just watch him on the lookout for pirates and swinging across the yardarm, then you take a bunch of pictures on the hush and hope one of them turns out.

I love Ford’s expression in this shot; he looks like he can see the future and while he’s not sure what to make of it yet, he’ll be ready to receive it once it’s here. And then there’s Grandma Cookie, doing what she’s done since I was even tinier than Ford: cheering on her favorite people, taking joy in their possibilities and delight in their presence here and now.

Ford’s eyes are worth a larger look. Just click the picture, then select “all sizes” above it when Flickr loads. Oh, and have I mentioned how much I love this lens?  My Sigma 50mm looks like a giant eyeball behind coke-bottle glasses, but oh, the things it can see.

Damn, it’s only day 2 of this post-every-day nonsense and I almost forgot. I suspect these “every day” posts might be as regular an occurrence as the “daily” photo. But hey! I come bearing Llama. Lloyd’s the OG quadruped at my friends’ farm outside of town. As far as Big Ll’s concerned, if you can see it, he owns it, and the one next to it, whatever it might be. He’s quite the supermodel, as well, nosing his way into every shot when I went out there on a rainy Sunday morning a couple weeks ago.

It’s funny to shoot in the rain. I had to hold my lens down as much as possible, but I love the colors you get when it’s grey and wet. Maybe it’s just spring, but it seemed like the grass that day was extra full of chlorophyll, putting on an emerald show for me.

The farm is a real working concern, and it feeds a bunch of slow-foody Lincolnites via a weekly organic CSA box. Every wednesday, when people come by Ross and Barb’s house in town to pick up their haul for the week, they tend to stick around for hours over beers and conversation, nourishing the soul as much as the belly. In fact, even though I’m still peeling around the eyes and cheeks, I think I’m headed that way soon for a little neighborly exchange. I’ve got some empty egg cartons I’ve been saving and a cold bottle of rosé I’d like to share. I’m sure I’ll see some of you there; wish the rest of you could join us…

I was there when Hope was born; in fact, I saw her first. Now she’s all stretchy and seven, pulling together outfits out of disparate sparkly items: this glitter belt, those skinny jeans, that scarf strung across her chest like some sort of blingy girlscout sash, these canary yellow clogs that only come in kidsizes. And the lipstick—oh, the lipstick. When I saw her on Tuesday night, I was amazed at its incredible staying power; this cheap, indelible kidshit outlasted any fancy grownup brand I’ve tried. But no. When I mentioned this to her mother, she gave me a look. “It’s Revlon,” she said. “And Hope reapplies. A lot.”

She’s already better at girling than I will ever be.

Time to get ready for work; thank christ for casual Friday. More this weekend when I hope to confront my overloaded reader. Of course, I may opt for a big phototrek with old friends instead. Wish you could come walking with me…

PS: “Daily” Photo is an occasional feature of TSR.com. We’re loose like that.

I’m feeling like a combination of both these fellows.

Look at those beautiful paws. Ford’s healing well after six months, and any scars will be ghosts by the time he gets big. I know I’m also healing well, and that any residual scars will join their ropey brethren, but right now I’m just doom-looped from lack of sleep. In between heavy fretting and unsettling dreams last night, I worked my way from the community service days in Chicago through the presidency of the Harvard Law Review in David Remnick’s new Obama bio. Tonight, I’m considering some prophylactic Xanax at around 10 and a march through the early Michelle years.

More tomorrow, when I’ve had a little rest. Sleep sweet, all…

That’s The Subtle Eyeball, reflected in the rearview mirror of dad’s truckbeast. I was jacking around with my camera in the Menard’s parking lot, while dad shopped for lumber to take to Kansas City last night. He’s here to work, but I’m here to commune with my digital sistren at the Bossy meetup tonight. We’re going to break out of the binary and drink with a bunch of fellow bloggers; words made (no doubt tipsy) flesh.

Mostly, I’m just happy to get out and see the people; that can be hard for me. It’s not that I’m anxious about social situations—when I’m out there, I’m fine. Gregarious, even. It’s just that I’m so much alone during my usual days that it’s often hard to open the door and make myself leave. Sometimes it feels safer and easier to stay put.

I’m most excited to meet Nimble, one of the wonderful never-mets this blog has brought into my life (you’re up next, Coozledad…what’s the midway point between Nebraska and North Carolina? And don’t say New Jersey, even though it’s the alphabetical halfway). She sent me an email this morning, observing with delight that my address could be read as “the subtler udder,” which may well be the case. I love a brain like that, one which finds joy in all the different ways you can read a word, a sentence, a situation. She will confirm for you whether this rudder is subtle or if the udder is subtler.

Stay tuned for more…and for god’s sake, join us at Waldo’s Pizza tonight, somewhere in KC, MO. (I’m getting dropped off so I have not retained an address, but the google, she will provide.)

PS: I’d like you to weigh in on something. What color do my eyes look to you? I’ve always called them hazel, which I figured meant unclear, changeable, not easily categorized (this may refer to more than my eye color). But I just met a woman who swears that hazel means golden green-brown and not the riverine blue-green-grey of my particular eyeballs. So now I need a new way to describe my eyes, and by extension, myself. What say you, my subtler udders?