Is that C.L. Dellums, organizer of the first African American union and Ex-Mayor Ron Dellums' uncle, standing shoulder to shoulder with Esther Mabry, whose jazz club Esther's Orbit Room still stands shuttered on 7th street? Next, that might be Slim Jenkins in his later years; his club on 7th street hosted jazz and blues musicians for four decades, closing in the early 1960s when the building, which he never owned, was sold.

And there, holding the guitar, is that Lowell Fulson whose career began in West Oakland but who also soon flew away? If that's Fulson, where then is the man who pressed his first records and sold them from the trunk of his car, the  music promoter and song writer extraordinaire, Bob Geddins, the man who co-wrote  on 7th St, only a few blocks away, B.B. King's great hit "The Thrill is Gone"?

Is that Lil' Bobby Hutton looking back, Eldridge Cleaver looking past? Are those the Panthers standing inside all that blue sky, pressed into messages of hope?  But the Panthers announced what was wanted, needed,  rather than what might be hoped for:

We want freedom to determine our own destiny. . . . we want an end to police brutality.  . . . we want decent housing, fit for the shelter of human beings . . . we want education that exposes true history

Depicting faces belonging to the history of labor, music, and revolutionary politics standing side by side but sandwiched between gaily painted banners of hope, this mural is somehow both more cryptic and simultaneously diffuse. Recalling these histories, there is no escaping the loss, so what are we hoping for?

A conscious awareness of that history? Change? The healing balm of  music and art? An end to the insidious and seemingly ever-present gunfire?

Is this then a hope for a wide open embrace of life, the kind of embrace that art and music allow, so that we might hear again the expansive sounds of a loving and harmonious life above and beyond the whine of highways, the rattle of elevated trains? 

I have no answers to any of these questions. All I can do is provide you with the image, these boldly painted  faces of time, staring quietly  out at the Street and its shifting tides.

And hope for Peace.

I knew I'd made a mistake the minute I stepped onto the parking lot and saw the hard-working green-shirted men maneuvering trains of 50+ shopping carts back to the store -- one hanging on to the motorized tow-engine while the other made sure that the snaking cart-train did not careen out of control and take out a parked car or, worse yet, a shopper or two. The slithering metal dragon pictured above was one of three such  beasts returning to the lair, but as these returned to sleep, just as many (or more) carts were spit like discarded teeth onto the crowded floor of the parking garage.

Folks were leaving the store  in droves, pushing carts piled high with purchases -- rolled mattresses, silk plants, and, of course, the ubiquitous flat cardboard boxes of unassembled furniture. If not for the palm trees and the  the balmy weather, I might have mistaken this particular strip of concrete for the sidewalk outside any over-size shopping mall on the week before Christmas.  Such crowds of bustling triumphant shoppers. Such exuberance. So much stuff. Too much stuff. Total frantic chaos.

As you might imagine, I didn't buy the electrics I needed. I couldn't get close to a cash register, and I couldn't (wouldn't) stand for hours listening to the tinniest drum beats on the planet, watching  as the glittery world of shopping swirled about me. I didn't have the stomach for it.

So, I went to the park and saw another kind of gathered train, moving at a different speed.

My own garden is also blooming pink but rather more modestly. The foxgloves have begun their annual display, always a delight, just as the early stocks are going to seed. One day my garden will be a lovely cottage garden, alive with flowers and herbs, but first I need to convince my little dog, my pal Earnest,  to let the flowers grow.

We're making progress.

Now, when he tosses his ball in the air and it lands in the flower bed, he comes and gets me. He used to just tramp right in and over. The Columbine and several poppies disappeared in those forays, but c'est la vie.  He lives here, too.

We're working it out. :-) I respect his paths (I keep them relatively plant free), and he respects my planting beds . . . seems to work out nicely. Maybe because we take long walks together; maybe because I know the best spots to play ball. Maybe because he loves me, and I love him.

I  have no choice but to continue the experiment for another month or two or three. Looks pretty good for five-month-old lettuce, doesn't it?

Too many guns.

Frequently, while walking on the street, I hear gun shots, but now I no longer duck and cover. I just keep walking -- my body just registers direction and distance, and on I go, grateful if the exploding guns are blocks away, quickening my step if they feel closer .

And everyday, the world blooms. The rain falls. The sun shines.

And guns explode.

Why can't we get the guns off the street?

After the shooting, articles were printed declaring that California's gun laws may be the toughest in the nation (imagine that! [I can't]), but no law could have prevented this tragedy.

Oh, really?

I can think of a law that might have prevented it -- Prohibit the sale of semi-automatics to anyone.

As a pacifist, I, of course, would like to see all guns outlawed. Sure, I have heard all the pro-gun arguments -- needed for protection, 'recreation', blah, blah, blah . . . I can argue fiercely against those claims yet understand why they are being made, but really can any sensible argument be made in favor of allowing citizens to carry semi-automatic weapons??

I think not.