The Crane

When I stopped by the Viewpoint just now, there was nobody there--until an acquaintance of mine came along on a bicycle, stopping for a second, and then going on. There was a vaguely blue cast to the light, with a certain amount of haze in the distance. More leaves have come down from the Sentinel and the other trees, and it's even clearer that fall is past its prime. In just a few days, it will be Halloween, and then the typically rainy month of November will be upon us.

The one thing out of the ordinary that I noticed today was a crane jutting up into the sky around Hunter's Point, but on the other side of Union Bay, south of the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. It's funny how from one place only yards long, you can see so much territory and observe the effects of so many human actions.

Lawnmower or Stroller

A few minutes ago, just as I was approaching the Viewpoint, I caught sight of a man mowing the lawn there. I saw him just out of the corner of my eye. After as split second, I realized it was a woman with a baby in stroller I was seeing--not a man waith a lawn mower. I parked on the neighboring street and got out of my car. I immediately heard the sound of an electric lawn mower and saw that there was, in fact, a man mowing the lawn. And suddenly I thought of the "rabbit or duck" toggle that was discussed in the course I once took on the psychology of visual art and then Gombrich's writings on how we see what we expect to see. Now, lawnmower or stroller isn't really quite analogous to rabbit or duck. Gombrich wrote about an artist who made a drawing of a building that had some architectural feature--a detail of the window frames or windows or something, I think--that was atypical of the style in which the building was designed. And this artist failed to notice the atypical element, instead rendering the building according to the cannons of that style, whatever it was. Isn't my perception of the man mowing the lawn more similar to Gombrich's anecdote than to the rabbit or duck perceptual toggle? But it was the rabbit or duck scenario I thought of first, once I'd realized my error in perception. Is that because the rabbit or duck image is "stickier"? As a meme, does it have greater fitness than Gombrich's artist who messed up on the building?

With all of that on my mind, I looked at the bay. There were still some nice colors down there, but, I tell you, fall is all over. It's downhill from here. We're headed straight for winter.

Pink Over Baker

When I dropped by the Viewpoint just now, about half the leaves were down from the Sentinel, and everything looked sort of soggy, although it was no longer raining. There was something anti-climactic to the whole scene. The sky was full of gray-blue clouds, but a patch of light orangish pink stood out in the north, somewhere close to where you see Mount Baker on a clear day. As I arrived, a person in black pants and a red shirt, who appeared to be very fit, was just jogging out of the park at the other end--the south end. I couldn't make up my mind whether it was a man or a woman. I couldn't see the person's face.
Then a guy came along from the north, dressed in a beige jacket and I think black pants and began taking photos with a small digital camera. It seemed like he was focusing on the area of sky with the pink patch. I wonder how many photos have been taken from the Viewpoint over the course of its history.

Yesterday and the Day Before

Yesterday and the day before were both perfect fall days--but in different ways. The day before yesterday was crazy weather. One minute the sun was shining, and the next it was raining. I happened to pass by the Viewpoint at just the right moment. It had just stopped raining, and out on the bay, there was a gorgeous, moody scene, always changing, as the big cumulus clouds passed by overhead, making for theatrical effects of light and shadow. Yesterday was a clear day. The sky was blue, and the leaves yellow, orange and red. There were still a few clouds, as I recall, but not as many. I thought I'd take just one or two photos, but it seems to me I must have taken almost 100. It couldn't have been more beautiful. It seems to me every season has one or two days that are the most wonderful, or at least the most typical, of that season. Today was cool and drizzly, and I expect there won't be any day quite as splendid as yesterday until sometime in the middle of winter, when there will be a snowy day, or a day when the mountains are at their prime. Of course there can always be incredible sunrises, but in my experience these are often best in about January. And then there are full moons, but sometimes around this time of year, it rains so much you don't even get to see the moon when it's full.

A Paradox of Memory

I haven't been to the Viewpoint yet today. I may make it still, but it's getting late, so I'm not sure. When I don't go to the Viewpoint physically, I go there mentally. It's interesting to think about how much we know about something familiar. How accurately do we remember it? I think I know so much about the Viewpoint, but every time I go there, I notice something I've never noticed before. I don't just mean things that come and go, like the constant stream of visitors--human, canine and other--nor the seasonal fluctuations in the plant life of the park, nor the endless shifting of the weather; I also have in mind spatial relationships and other features of the Viewpoint that are constant. How little we recall of the things we look at every day. What's odd is how much better we are at recognizing them than really understanding how they're put together. This is a paradox.

Sun Breaks

Today the visibility from the Viewpoint was greater than yesterday. I'm not saying that's better or worse--just different. Yesterday I was there around dusk, and there was a lot of haze in the air, so today the colors were brighter and less blue. There was a woman in a white top sitting on the far bench under the laurel tree. Her longish hair was strawberry blond. At first she was the only other person at the Viewpoint, but then a group of three came walking in, entering at the south end of the park. They all had on black shirts. Two were women and one was a man. One woman had on a black top, as well. It was decorated with silver studs--like something you'd see at a rodeo. Another woman had on a light blue top--a jean jacket, I think. And the man had an olive green shirt, it seems to me, although here my memory is less clear. The woman under the laurel tree began eating a banana. A man came walking along the neighboring street, with a dog on a leash, and then entered the park from the north end. It seems to me he was dressed in brown, and that the dog was brown, too. And I think both man and dog were on the skinny side.

There wasn't much sun, but every now and then, in the distance, there would be a sun break, and that made for a very beautiful effect. The muted shades of green, blue, red, orange and yellow were suddenly made bright, contrasting with neighboring shades of the same hues retaining their muted quality. And then it would all flatten out again, as the sun break moved on and away--the result of a certain amount of breeze. It was a beautiful scene and would make for a beautiful painting.

Two White Poodles Again

Just as I was getting to the Viewpoint today, around dusk, I heard someone calling me name. I looked all around, and then realized it was a crow cawing. Sometimes they sound so human. Then I saw a woman I've spoken with at the Viewpoint before--the owner of two white poodles. One is five months old, and the other seven years old. I think I got this a little wrong the last time I wrote about them. They're the big, energetic kind of poodle, not lap dogs. Their heads are round, and they have no topnots or anything like that.

I kept trying to capture the beautiful dusky blues around the bay, and beyond, but my camera wasn't cooperating very well with me. But I'll remember how they looked. What a beautiful painting this would make!