3 Photographs, 1 Day

It began in the laundromat, a place I had forgotten. A place whose magic I had forgotten. It had been almost 20 years since I did this. The ritual of quarters and $2 boxes of soap and quiet waiting amidst the calming hums. It takes an hour and fifteen minutes to wash, dry and fold a large load of laundry; which is something you take for granted when the machines are within the confines of your own private living space. Here you sit with strangers. Old women and young men. Polite smiles and anxious lurking. A wheeled basket of wet clothes, on deck for the next open dryer. Feeding fivers into the change machine. Staring out the foggy windows. Reading yesterday's newspaper. Reading a book. Spending a valuable chunk of your Saturday afternoon watching the suds swirl, watching your socks and your underwear spin. There is something very quiet, very meditative about laundromats. They are places of renewal and reflection. Here you must stop and wait for the water to do what water does - wash away the sins of your daily living.

From one cathedral to another. This one just up the hill. By this time it had really begun to rain. The woman came in and put down her purse and she dropped to her knees to pray. 22 years in San Francisco and this was the first time I had ever set foot inside Grace Cathedral. The light was spectacular, as it is meant to be in such places. It was even better in the gray of the rain. All the candles seemed to be lit, there was not an unlit candle in the church. This was a day for prayers. Much like the laundromat, this was a place I could stay in for hours. No sound other than murmurs and gentle footfalls. It's the quietness that I seek. Liberation from cell phones and televisions, anything with a screen. Yes, that's what it is about these two places, there are no screens, no screaming electrons. I am drawn to places where I cannot be reached or monitored or reminded how big the world is. I want to go where it is small.

Did they serve him well? That's what I wanted to know. While they lasted, did they keep his feet comfortable and sufficiently warm? From some unknown Chinese province, a long journey in the container of a ship, a short stint in a discount store and then a fortnight at the end of the legs of a man. Did they just suddenly stop working? I want to imagine that he stopped right here, on this corner, and that he just stepped out onto the sidewalk in his stocking feet and said "Goodbye friends, may you serve another less fortunate than I."And he took the laces with him because they were still good. He was that kind of man. And then he walked right down the street you see here, never looking back, maybe even whistling as he went. I have an inexplicable fascination with abandoned shoes.