Rosalyn

This is Rosalyn. She is a native of Brooklyn, New York. She thinks San Francisco is over-rated and L.A. is nice place to visit.

I've seen her hanging around the Park Blocks near the Portland Art Museum. With her outrageous hair and makeup, she stand out from the other regulars. I didn't ask Rosalyn about her hair. I didn't want to be rude.

We had a perfectly normal, mundane conversation as if we'd know each other for years.

I put a dollar in her cup and she acted surprised, not insulted or grateful, just surprised.

Missed Opportunity

I started a new job in dowtown Portland, Ore. 2 weeks ago. The first day I took a walk on my lunch hour and I kept wishing I had my camera.

Everywhere I looked I saw a really cool picture.

Today I was taking another walk on my lunch hour and photojournalism's picture of the year slapped me ironically in the face.

A sign announcing the week's events outside the door of an old late-1800's church read: Saturday's Sermon: REALITY.

Just below this sign, on the church's door step, lay a man wrapped in a red sleeping bag.

I stopped and stared and wondered if he had chosen to sleep there on purpose, just for the poetic hell of it.

Wednesday the camera comes to work with me.

Birthday

Today is my sister, Alyssa's birthday. She is 27. I am 33. Alyssa and I have never been particularly close. I do love her and I wish her a happy birthday filled with love. We weren't real good at expressing love in our family.
We grew up in chaos, 6 kids, a dog, a cat, some fish, and an angry, controlling, hyper-sensitive mother.
My mom is the dictionary definition of co-dependent. She expected everybody else, especially my dad to make her happy. She blamed him for everything and unhappily she passed that trait onto her daughters.
It's good that I know in my head anyway that no one else is responsible for my happiness, it's up to me. It's good to know that I shouldn't blame another for my unhappiness. These are good things to know, but harder things to believe.
At least I know them.