This bright yellow bridge, one of the rare examples of Art Deco-style bridges, is hard to miss if you visit California's state capital. It looks like a Bactrian camel. When I was there, I was rather unsure of my skill with the camera and keenly aware that I was running out of film. So I stood on an ample divider separating heavy traffic and waited with a camera-less friend to get the right photo. I remember feeling grateful that I had friends willing to entertain my fancies. I hope the bridge makes a speedy recovery.

This might be the most accessible hiking trail in the Yosemite Valley. Unless the weather is awful or the sky falls apart, you will struggle not to see people around. We found a log and waited long enough for a rare lull in foot traffic. I have photos without people, but I like the Coleridge-like aspect of a single person staring into the mighty unknowable.

I have shot quite a few rolls of film only to find the end product less than satisfactory. And then sometimes, I end up with something like this. The colors of the sky you see here did not exist in "objective reality." The digital scan was not edited by me. This was the rare instance when the film did something inspired all on its own.

Do you remember wonder, the kind that induces awe, not desperation? I think wonder is in short supply these days, yet an entire house was moved not too far away from where I live. I got to the house's final resting place after it had arrived there. My roommate joined me, and she brought my camera along. A small community formed there, and we talked to quite a few people, and, for a brief moment, we all forgot about the deadly pandemic.

I live somewhere to the left of the intersection visible in this photo. I have a forty-minute walking route through Buena Vista Park. This photo is from one such walk. I take pictures with my phone going up and down the route, yet none of them is as languorous as this one. Encased in amber, I will remember my time here fondly. A photo like this makes one realize the unique charms of shooting with film.

I went here specifically to get photos of the Ferris wheel. When I walked around, I discovered something much deeper, a monument to America's legacy of slavery. The history of this country, as perhaps all countries, is often considered more important than the history of the many people that make it. This leads to attempts to erase certain parts hoping that the whole might come off untarnished. I think we have all seen ample evidence that this doesn't work. "Monumental Reckoning," the name couldn't be more apt.

I love contradictions. If I could, I would have put two photos on each page, comparing and contrasting different aspects in each. For me, the focus of this photo was not just the placid, white duck but also the deep, gently agitated, green water it surveys. A tiny ruler and its domain. Both these photos represent something similar to me.

You can see Jimi Hendrix himself if you stand at a specific distance and position. Under the noon sun, you might even see the shadow of a heart cast by the red butterfly-shaped sculpture. Jimi Hendrix Park is located in the Central District, historically one of Seattle's most diverse neighborhoods. The park is home to poetry readings and protests.

The last two years have stopped Life in its tracks for most of us. I tried to pick photographs that did not display otion to convey the same sense of torpor. There is motion in this one, a vision of commerce. I might even be tempted to call it 'normal,' which now means 'a sense of the world passing you by, of losing yourself in a crowd.' Rachel's Ginger Beer is my favorite place to visit in Seattle. Ginger beer is excellent for nursing heartbreak.

I have always wanted to live on a houseboat. This might seem strange if you also knew that I was, and still am, to some extent, scared of deep water. I understand the appeal of living on a houseboat that wanders around. However, these were firmly rooted in place. I think I would want to try this some day. The reflections on the water more than made up for the dour sky.

The Japanese Hill and Pond garden in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens features a near-perfect slice of Japan outside of Japan. I spent quite some time debating which photos to represent New York. I think this photo demonstrates the pockets of culture that New York can replicate, almost like petri dish cultures, outside of their natural habitat. The vermilion-colored wooden torii overshadows a family photo session in the background.

September 9, 2020 will forever go down in my personal history, at least, as "the day the sky turned red." A dubious epithet, a runaway filter from Blade Runner 2049 applied to reality, the closest thing to an acknowledgment that the dystopia is already here just unevenly distributed, take your pick. I am lucky enough to blow off work for a day and have a friend who was willing to do the same. After all, we had a good reason.

On the way to Jane's Carousel, the rectangular structure near the water, and past the famed DUMBO bridge viewpoint, you end up walking on a street with no name as far as I can tell. Oddly, this small, uneven, paved path has resisted naming in what is clearly a tourist-infested area. I ate here in peace while only a few blocks away, people clamored to take a photo of a bridge and two buildings.

I am not entirely sure when or where I clicked this photo, but it is undoubtedly one of the last few from my Seattle trip. I thought this photo beautifully demonstrates my film camera's affinity to the color green. Also, I could not resist the temptation to include a little immutable me in the calendar. As Barthes says, "I am the reference of every photograph."

This car is in many ways a contradiction to the other photo. It is red, while the previous picture is primarily green. It is a real tangible object, while the shadow in the last is just a representation of myself. It is perfection, in some ways, and I am not.

Coming upon the Chapel while walking in the Green-Wood cemetery was a breathtaking surprise. I am sure I looked around multiple times to make sure I wasn't the only one seeing it and also to make sure I could share my sense of wonder, "you seein' this shit?" I might have remarked if I was a New Yorker with other human beings. The entire cemetery is a national historic landmark.