It was a clear morning when we were dropped off in the North Beach area of town, to be honest it was a relief, it had been foggy enough the last few days and we thought we'd be greeted by thick sea mists that would spoil the trip.
There wasn't that many of us, there was a family from Arizona, I think the father had lived in frisco during the 60's and was bring the family home to look at the magical places that lived on in his mind, then there was a young guy from Portland, quiet, slim guy, and myself, and another young guy joined us as we reached the golden gate park, I took him for a local, I'm not sure why, he just looked at home there, I also think he may have been some kind of artist cuz he had a large pad of paper and a case with him that looked like the sort of case you carry paints in. At first he intrested me quite a bit, his local knowledge seemed useful, the tales of the city, the sights, the sounds, the history and culture, but I soon turned from him cuz he talked to much without saying anything.
The family from Arizona were a lot more fun, the old boy was full of jokes and stories of poets and artists and music from his golden era and the wife was very pleasant and made you want to walk around with a smile on your face, I swear she was made of sunshine or something. The daughter was very beautiful but...
she looked kinda pale, I did mention this to the wife and I was told she'd been very sick lately, it was one of the reasons for the timing of the trip, a chance to recover away from the stresses of home life in Arizona, the whole family could kick back and relax on the sunny streets of California, seemed like good medicine to me.
I talked to her a few times but it was heavy going, her voice was very feint and hard to listen to and every now and then she would have a dry cough, she'd say "I'm alright" an optomist, but I couldn't help feeling sad when I talked to her, I'd feel sad talking to anyone so weak and pale and obviously suffering as she was, even if they did try to look on the bright side all the time.
After a while of strolling about we all sat down in the park, the first young guy, the one from Portland sat to the left of us, headphones on, oblivious to everything but the sounds of his discman, he was one of those people I never quite understand, you can take him anywhere in the world and he'll turn it into where he's from, he'll miss everything on the planet, take him to Thailand and he'll take you to McDonalds, play the latest record to you, talk about the football results and then go back to his hotel room to watch his favorite show on satellitte, why that type of person travels I will never know, I like to journey but if you're happier at home... then stay there, it's all good.
I sat with the Harker family, Bill the farther, Susan, the mother, Jenny, the pale, sickly daughter and Robert, the young son, nice kid, I think he was a downs child, but...
I dunno, there's something about downs children, they call them special because of their *disability* but to me they're special cuz of their abilities, they have something extra they got as compensation, I can't really explain it but anyone who's ever known a downs child will know what I mean, they've seen it in the smile, felt it in the nature, disabled? I dunno, I think people miss the truth sometimes.
Finally, to the right of us sat the young local guy, who took out his paints and started painting on the large pad of paper he'd brought.
"I think he sits there facing us, with his back to the trees on purpose you know" I said "so that we can't see what he's painting"
I smiled.
"we don't have to see" was Roberts answer "There's enough beautiful things in this park to look at without seeing his picture"
We all sat there in a moment of silence before Robert added "Actually, I think he might be painting us"
We truely did have enough to look at though, from where we sat we could watch the world, the mighty ocean stretched before us...
I just love the ocean, if I wasn't telling you this story I could sit here and spend the next ten years rambling on about the sea but I think you wouldn't stick around for the next part of the plot if I did that so I'll just satisfy myself with telling you that that day the ocean was looking as beautiful as ever, it's light gentle waters dancing under azure skies with light touches of golden sun dancing on it's surface.
The air was as clear as glass, yet so soft and caressing that you felt you could just float into it, allow yourself to be enveloped and swallowed whole into it's majesty and stay there comfortable and satisfied for a hundred eternities.
The effect of the location, of the day, of everything was...
enchanting, I was under it's spell, I think we all were, we all sat there content with silence, content with sitting, experiancing the wonderous gifts that nature had presented us with. The moment was so beautiful that for a brief second the color seemed to magically reappear into Jennys face and a crystal tear of happiness seemed to roll down her cheek.
"Here my mind and body both feel well" She said "Dad was right, California is heaven"
"Thats why we had the summer of love here" Smiled back Bill "How could it not be a summer of love when you've got this canvas to paint on?"
And then we fell into silence again, the mood was so...
so, so perfect.
After about another ten minutes the local painter guy put his paints back into his case, picked up his pad and walked off towards the exit, he nodded at us as he passed, and I nodded back but no words were exchanged and we all remained where we were.
Finally, after we'd spent the whole morning in the park, and our bellies were starting to demand feeding, the mother informed the family that she felt it was perhaps time to make a move and get some food, Bill asked me if I'd like to join them, I agreed and we headed off back into town and found a small restaraunt place to get something to eat.
We'd hardly had time to take our seats when we over heard raised voices in the back of the place and we turned to see the owner arguing with the local guy we'd been with at the park.
"Who is that guy, what's he doing, why all the fuss?" Asked Bill of a waiter who was passing our table.
"I can't remember his name" answered the waiter "He's a young artist here in 'frisco, been exhibiting for about five years, we call him by his nickname the vampire"
"Vampire?" I asked
"Yeah, he calls his paintings *a study of death* always death, always real people, paints them before they die - never makes a mistake - he's like a vulture"
Susan let out a shriek, I turned to look, and saw Jenny, laying in her arms.
Bill raced across the room, grabbed the vampires pad and ripped it open and there for all to see was a painting of Jenny, eyes closed, laid out as dead.
