I feel it in my bones

It's been getting gold here. I wish we could go back to September; I could wear my soft cotton summer dresses and high-waisted patterned skirts; my dad's button up work shirts as dresses and rompers. I dreaded the walk from the Muni stop (Muni= SF public bus system) to school. The measly four blocks seemed like paved streets of hell, only hell in Siberia and Siberia in San Francisco. I couldn't feel my finger tips because I stupidly forget my gloves at home and I could not use my warm breath to revive my bloodless fingers because my mouth was, at the time, blocked by one of the scarves which I was strangling my neck, ears, and mouth with in order to attain some warmth while the other was draping down my torso. I could literally sense the bitter air blow through the fibers of my clothes, making its vicious decent to my skin, tissue, blood and violently forcing itself into the crevice's of my brain. Unfortunately for me and my passion, some of the best photographs are taken in 40 degree weather with a foggy overhang. To be honest, it was beautiful for photography weather. Rays of light would push through the clouds of dusk and majestically beam onto faces, flowers, streets... I brought my Dad's old Minolta film camera and about 3 rolls of black and white film. I shot in manual because it has a built in hold school light meter (the kind with the needle) and takes the most amazing photo's. The darks are thick and the lights illuminate off the print. I know it will turn out amazing. I was able to capture a dime of a rather rotund homeless women reclining on a tree. Her face was wrinkled and her eyes sorrowful. Her hair was curly and unkempt. Her clothes were poorly fitted and stained with dirt, sweat and grease. She was smoking a cigarette. I was hesitant to ask her to pose but not pose per-say- she was was perfect the way she was-  just remain as she was. As I walked by, slightly straying from I path I must admit, she said in her raspy Joplin-esque voice "Hey, got a ciggawet." I didn't want to make fun of her lisp but I chuckled a bit. I began to tell her that I don't smoke until she cut me off, "I don't cawe (care in her lisp) maybe you can spawe (spare) a few bucks." I told I would give her money if she let me take some photos. She did. I gave her $8. Enough for breakfast I hope, although I feel like she might just spend it on some more ciggawets or a cheap bottle of Vodka. I will have the photo's developed tomorrow and post some on the blog. If any are good, I plan on bringing the negatives to my schools Dark Room and getting some of them print on a larger scale. 

*capture a dime - ten shots.