Wm. Steven artist
It was a cold day in July in San Francisco. Walking along a cobbled street next to a construction zone somehow felt touristy, for me at least. I guess the colorful grafitti on the construction fence made it seem like an attraction. Oh yeah, I heard a jazz sax playing in the not to distant background that became clearer and louder as I continued my walk.
I was at the source of the music in just a minute or two and, like a tourist, I stopped to drink it in. It was a genuinely cool scene of light and shade and the sax against the sounds of the city seemed like a scene out of a Woody Allen movie. For Woody, this would simply be a backdrop, but I was a part of it, so for me it seemed like a special moment.
Then a young boy came walking along and I imagined that a drama may be unfolding.
Of course, nothing happened. Its a good day. Time for lunch.
I was at the source of the music in just a minute or two and, like a tourist, I stopped to drink it in. It was a genuinely cool scene of light and shade and the sax against the sounds of the city seemed like a scene out of a Woody Allen movie. For Woody, this would simply be a backdrop, but I was a part of it, so for me it seemed like a special moment.
Then a young boy came walking along and I imagined that a drama may be unfolding.
Of course, nothing happened. Its a good day. Time for lunch.
