Dinner Near Home

I took myself to dinner tonight after work.

After a year of constantly watching and counting 

every calorie, I wanted something more "homey," 

so took myself to the Union Jack Pub in Speedway.

The place has been there for years now, taking over 

the building from a bankrupt pizza joint.

It has begun to acquire a patina, I think, on the 

wood paneling, pictures, and auto racing memorabilia.

My meal did involve "comfort food," hot and tasty. 

I am glad to say, however, that I left a bit of my food

because I was no longer hungry; I didn't eat all

the potatoes or chicken, and didn't drink

all my beer. I did, however, eat every last morsel

of my chocolate brownie sundae.

That says a bit about what my addictions may be.

I was really attracted to the blue reflections

cast by the TVs and computer screens

onto the rows of beer mugs. The color contrasted

nicely with the amber light and wood paneling.

Looking for Lines

This building at the southeast corner of Pennsylvania 

and Ohio Streets, is actually pretty boring 

to look at. The architects broke up the flat, gray expanse 

of windows and granite with a pattern that, 

for all intents, could be a tartan -- or a window pane plaid.

I've taken plenty of pictures of it in the past, mostly to show 

the melty reflections in its windows made by 

the sunrise or sunset. This time, I tried to show some

of the lines and angles that make up  its exterior.

Looking for lines is what I do, I guess, whether

it's taking pictures or trying to find the words

to put with them. In fact, I was in the coffee shop

opposite this building when words occurred to me,

words for which I need a picture. I haven't found it yet.

There's no accounting for the pleasure

just looking at you brings me.

Your broad shoulders and strong hands

speak of the power to protect and

of a thousand tender caresses.

You watch the younger women with

taut, firm bodies and curves,

inviting you to explore their secrets.

I am older, with secrets of my own to give,

shrouded in a body worn by the years,

and pale skin showing the map

to my heart. 

This heart, whose beat is strong and low,

quietly stoking a constant fire

that feeds a secret of its own --

that I love you.

With My Nose at My Toes

I was crossing the street at Indiana Avenue 

and Michigan Street the other day. 

As usual, I was looking at the ground, 

mulling over some insignificant life mystery

when I noticed the paint on the walkways

not only were broken and faded,

they had craquelure!

I just knew I'd return to take pictures of 

the interesting compositions formed

by years of wear from tires and weather.

Tonight, while waiting for a bus home, 

I took my little camera into the intersection

to take a few pictures of the wonderful

shapes and colors that lay in the

middle of the street.

Of course, I did have sufficient

gray matter to wait 'til the signals

were in my favor and no cars

were turning into the intersection.

After all, how would the headlines 

have looked -- "Crack pot woman hit by

car, cracking her head while taking

pictures of craquelure"?

@The Bus Stop, 6:30 a.m.

After enjoying a beautiful weekend, 

I awakened to find cloud cover.

Actually, it was good to see. 

Otherwise, the sun and heat 

would soon become oppressive.

It's not yet summer - time enough for that

 misery a few weeks from now.

Instead, the morning sun made its 

presence known more discretely,

peeping through a split

in the overcast.

Hello, My Name Is ...

I expected that the orange stickers were like those 

name tags handed out at business meetings.

I should have known better.

They were being worn, sometimes two or three of them 

at once, by spectators on the Turn Two mounds. 

I laughed outright at some I saw, giggled at others, 

and only found one really offensive.

I saw women wearing them, too, but couldn't get

to any of the women to take their pictures.

Men ... gotta love 'em. 

Almost Sublime

When I left my home early Sunday morning 

to walk over to the track, the first thing 
I noticed was the smell of smoke from grills

that had actually formed a haze in the sunlit air. 
The aroma of sausage was joined 

by the rhythm of dance music, both inviting me 

eastward towards the Indianapolis Motor Speedway 
to join a quarter-million or so friends for the 
THE! Indianapolis 500-Mile Race!

While my immediate neighborhood was quiet,

 I only had to walk a block or two before the stream 

of people walking towards the Speedway, 

about two miles away, began to increase in density.
We were all joined in the same mission --
the identical journey, to participate in a colorful rite
that for nearly 100 years has alternately
thrilled, enthralled, and frightened every one
of us, as we watch drivers test their skills
with machines going 230+ mph.

After reaching the track, I stopped at the on-track office 

of the Indianapolis Star to greet photographer friends 

who were working at the race, then proceeded towards 

the viewing mounds inside Turn Two. I hadn't gone more than

a few feet before I saw Dario Franchitti, surrounded by

people, near the black Chevrolet Camaro Z28 pace car

he was to drive later that day. He's a handsome, kind,

and soft-spoken man who seemed to undergo some sort of

personality change behind the wheel of a race car.

Now retired due to injuries received in a race last year,

we are so happy to have him back and hope he chooses to

remain with us for many years. 

Behind Franchitti, standing in the shadow of the

Pagoda, were Ray Harroun's Marmon Wasp,

winner of the inaugural "500" in 1911,

and one of Team Penske's championship cars.

I overheard someone say, "That's an old Indy car."

I couldn't help myself; I turned around to respond with

"That's not just an 'old' Indy car, that's the first

Indy car, the one that won the first race in 1911."

There it stood, only a few feet from a contemporary
machine, yet with thousands of miles between them 
of discoveries about physics, chemistry, aerodynamics, 
and the will to win. Looking at those two cars
made that history almost palpable, something I could touch 
with my heart and mind, if not my hands.
I continued into Turn Two to find 
a place to watch the race.


After having taken pictures from inside Turn One
for over twenty years, I've never found a grandstand
seat to replace that spot. Separated from the track
by the pit lane and a creek, I could watch the cars as
they swept into the turn, a blurred mass of color
and power, then rush away to return forty 
or so seconds later. Two hundred times, slowed
only by accident, rain, or the races' end.

My Turn Two spot was the closest to that pleasure
I've found. I did not sit down, but leaned against
the fence to watch the cars as they streamed past.
The data on the video board gave up just after
the start of the race, but I found I could tell 
the progress of the race just by paying attention
to the cars' green flag pitstops, which occurred every
twenty laps or so. I was surprised that my
estimates were correct when I figured they must
have completed over 100 laps because
they'd come in for fuel and tires for the fourth time,
and the intensity of the race had increased; 
the cars seemed a bit faster and closer together.

There were no cautions until 150 laps into the race, 
just when one would expect madness
and craziness to ensue. Drivers began to take
chances they would not have taken earlier.
The real racing began and we had a 125-mile
shoot-out. Driver Townsend Bell suffered a hard
crash into the Turn Two SAFER barrier and
the race was red-flagged to allow personnel time
to clean up scattered debris and to make repairs 
to the wall. Other than for a mighty soreness 
later on Townsend would be OK.
 The race resumed with eight laps to go, 
Ryan Hunter-Reay and Helio Castroneves
passing and re-passing each other one, two, three times. 
Helio ran out of opportunities and finished second, 
his fourth Indy win just a car length away, while Ryan
dashed across the line for his first.

Overall, the average speed for the race was
186.563 mph. Rather than having the men finish
the race under the caution flag, they were
allowed to settle it on the track, racing for the win.
People cheered with each lead change and,
when the checkered flag flew, the crowd left 
knowing they had seen an excellent race.

Looking West to See East

The Friday evening sun cast its rays towards 

the east, and were mirrored back into the glass-clad 

buildings to their west. For a few minutes,

the Downtown streets were doubly illuminated,

both by the sun and by its reflected light.

It's Race Weekend in Indy, with the promise

of fair weather bringing out happy crowds for the

Indy 500 and related festivities. 

Pink and Blue, Touched With Gold

Dressed in pink and blue, the sunrise came,

casting its golden light on the landscape. 

The warm breezes created feathery wisps 

as they pushed the clouds aside,

to give us a beautiful day.

Idyll Time

Lemony sweetness.

The icing on my cookie melted

on my tongue.

I savored its flavor as it blended with

the crumbly cookie, so fresh it 

still retained a hint of the oven and

of the baker's spatula that spread 

the yellow sugar frosting 

on its flower shape.

My treat between buses -- a chai latte

and a cookie, helped shape my little daydream

as I gazed out the window into space.

People, like me, on their way to work,

crossed the street a few feet beyond

the table where I sat, many dragging little

wheeled carts full of paperwork

for their jobs. Cars passed through the

intersection, following the dictates of

the traffic lights, as I planned out paintings,

the outline of a new book, life with

a cherished lover.

Rudely, my little idyll was interrupted. 

A car, turning east at the intersection, suddenly halted. 

My vision focused from daydream to reality 

as a human shape was thrown back, onto the hood 

of the silver car that hit him.

The human had taken on the form of a black 

umbrella, broken by a sudden gust of wind 

as it flew through the air,

then crashed to the pavement.

I'd forgotten that people can bounce.

Once.

The sweetness of that cookie will forever

be connected with the shocked expression 

of the man who was hit, as he lay in the street,

wide-eyed, gaping up in surprise

 towards the grill of the car that hit him.

A Watery Evening

Afternoon thunderstorms were forecast for the area 

and they hit practically as if scheduled.

I left work just after the worst of the watery

onslaught had passed through, only to have my co-workers

and myself repeatedly splashed by passing drivers.

The rain let up enough so that I didn't get soaked between

buses or walking the last couple blocks 

to the Natatorium.Which brings to mind another 

little conundrum: why is it that I don't mind 

swimming for more than an hour, 

yet get all pissy because I have to go out

into the rain afterwards? I'm as fussy as a cat

about getting my feet wet, stepping around, leaping,

and dodging puddles as though I was was shod 

in a pair of Jimmy Choo's finest satin pumps.

Everywhere I Looked ...

I love milk chocolate-covered grahams.

After swimming, I stopped in at the Starbucks on the Circle

to enjoy a couple of the little crackers with a chai latte.

As I was savoring the creamy goodness of both

the grahams and the drink, I looked across the Circle

to see the glass pyramid atop one building

was juxtaposed against the horizontal stripes of 

a neighboring structure.

The clear sky had been kind to both,

adding its special blue to the reflections

from the windows and the skylight.

Earlier, I'd spent a break at work walking

the perimeter of the parking lot.

While the bright colors covering the store front

was what had initially caught my eye,

I later realized that stripes have run rampant 

in this picture.  

The Winter Lingers

Officially, Spring began in March and 

Summer is just a month away.

The cold temperatures linger on, 

the few sunny days interspersed by chilly rains.

It makes one wonder what Winter looks like, 

since it's been cloaked so well in Spring's clothing.

People, fooled by the disguise, have ventured out

without warm coats, and ended up trapped

in rainstorms wearing clothes meant for balmy

breezes and sunny skies.

Beyond the runny noses and watery eyes

lie stares, looking not so much towards Spring

and its warmth, but back -- back to promises

of easier times unfulfilled by masters 

wearing Armani suits, in whose own hearts

winter has taken root. There, winter is not a season,

but a hollow place where a soul should be.

A place where greed has cast long, dark fingers

over the sky, robbing the people 

of warmth and light.

These men, whose phony smiles

do little to mask the cold glint in their eyes,

suck the resources out of the ground. 

They continue to cut the tops off mountains 

in their quest for increasingly meager returns of coal, 

the profits from which line the pockets of Congressmen. 

And the voters, the people who need to pay for heat 

to warm their homes, stand in the cold rain, 

wondering what they did wrong.

Which Way?

Over the years, I must have passed these mirrors 

hundreds of times, yet only noticed then the other day. 

Rather, why is it I never noticed the arrows' reflections 

before now? Was I always too preoccupied with

"in" and "out," or "back" and "forth" to notice 

that the arrows had been there all along, 

providing their own directions?

Bending With the Light

I loved the look of these new green leaves, 

small and tender, arrayed along the black branches 

of their parent tree. The play of positive and

negative space, so balanced in spite 

of the seeming erratic lines of the tree,

looks positively joyful against 

the more ordered, mundane background 

of the building across the street.

Triptych

If one reflection is good, then three - or more!- is even better. Right?

And then there was this mascot, a cobra with 

blood-tipped fangs, poised to strike anything that

got in its way. Ooooh, scary.

In Flight

This fine little mascot, frozen forever in flight, 

accompanies its namesake, a 1930 Swallow, 

on display at the 2014 Celebration of the Automobile, 

held last weekend at the 

Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The Swallow Sidecar Company was established in 1922 

in Blackpool, England to produce sidecars for motorcycles. 

In 1926, the business evolved to include automobiles 

and became the Swallow Sidecar & Coachworks Company. 

Their first car, produced in 1928, was a conscious

re-creation of larger cars of the time, for a price that was

affordable to more of the populace.

The little Swallows proved popular and the company

became increasingly successful as it responded 

to the needs of the marketplace, 

adapting its name as necessary. It's last name change,

to S.S. Cars, Ltd. in 1934, was changed after

World War II due to the unfortunate association of 

the "SS" with Nazi Germany. In 1945, the company

became Jaguar Cars, Ltd., and the little swallows in flight 

became the sleek, leaping cats we know today.

For Dive ...

Presenting! In person! 

The IRL Grid Girls!

Some of them anyway.

Below is the entire line-up.

There must be something to that 

"the camera adds five pounds" adage, 

because these ladies were all nicely slender 

and long-legged; the camera does make

 them seem a bit squat. 

These women reminded me a bit of Robert Palmer's 

ladies in his Simply Irresistible video.

Reflections

Damn. I did not get the identification for this car.

It was just one of the many beautiful displays brought 

to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway 

by their proud owners for the 4th Annual

Celebration of the Automobile. 

Spectators were drawn to the exhibits like bees 

to flowers; they were seriously appreciative 

of the beauty and craftsmanship

that went into the production of these cars.

I believe the owners were from the Indianapolis area. 

The car was kitted out with folding chairs, picnic supplies 

and a portable phonograph player, everything

needed for a polite alfresco occasion 

some eighty years ago. Party down, peeps!

The kind lady in the period outfit told me

she haunts thrift shops and found everything 

she is wearing at various stores.

It seemed a tad ironic that, for a comparative

few dollars, she found a period appropriate

ensemble to wear with a car the restoration of which

could easily have cost well into six figures.

It's a Race Track! It's a Golf Course! It's ...

... the Indianapolis Motor Speedway!

Indy got the month of May off to a fresh start 

on Saturday with the inaugural Indianapolis Grand Prix, 

an eighty lap race for Indy cars utilizing 

the IMS 2.4-mile road course.

While there may initially have been some concern

about how this new addition to the IndyCar schedule

might be accepted by fans, doubters were left 

in the dust by the large turnout of people who came

to wander the grounds and to watch the IndyCar

race, as well as several other support races.

A young fan watches as eventual winner, Simon Pagenaud, 

leads the field through Turns 7 and 8.

He was joined by thousands of other spectators who, 

snacks and sunscreen in tow, brought their

friends and families to the track for a day of sunshine,

blue skies, and the heady aroma of braking tires.

With about ninety minutes to spare before the start 

of the day's feature race, I decided to explore 

a part of the track I'd not seen before. 

I walked north along a golf cart path, towards Turn 4 

of the Speedway's oval. The grandstands can be seen 

looming in the background. A lot of other folks

took advantage of the groves of trees,

retreating to their shade between races to rest

and cool off, many enjoying a picnic lunch.

Mirror Image

After taking care of some business, 

I spent a part of Friday afternoon wandering 

the downtown area. I shopped a bit, 

looking for the "perfect" necklace for a new dress (no luck), 

found some other items I'm keeping in mind 

for future purchase, then visited a couple art galleries.

I stopped in at Patachou Cafe for a treat,

where I saw the outdoor cafe chairs had been stacked.

Of course, the nested chairs, stacked as they are 

for easy storage, made an attractive design. 

Squiggly

The morning sun reflected the fluted lines 

of the Federal Court Building onto the windows 

across the street. The windows are part of a glass-sheathed 

office building, home to a bank and lots of lawyers.

This image may be just as descriptive of the

hallucinogenic state of our country's Congress

and its relationship with corporate interests. The

mind-boggling manipulations of laws 
designed exclusively to their advantage 
is not so much squiggly as it is squirrelly,

and that's insulting to the squirrel.

Portrait of the Bus Driver, II

A couple days ago, the bus from work 

was full of passengers -- standing room only.

The driver is a  good and patient man,

able to be courteous to his customers, firm with

people who insist on displaying their idiocy

in public, as well as get his fares to their destinations

on time and in one safe piece. In recent years, 

I've come to appreciate the drivers' job 

even more as the customers' behavior in recent

years has seemed to become more erratic.

Yarn from A Redbud's Sweater

In other years, I've seen this tree so covered 

in tiny flowers that it looked as though 

it was wearing a beautiful pink sweater 

to protect itself from the chilly spring mornings.

Maybe I just got there too late in the season.

I had to remind myself that I no longer had those

pictures and went by to check on the trees.

This was almost all that was left, looking as though

only a bit of yarn from the sweater remained

after the tree had taken it off.

Tapestry

I love backlit trees and flowers. 

The sunlight adds richness to the leaves and petals,

showing their delicacy and structure. 

In this case, these gleaming red leaves come to life 

against a backdrop of purple-y stones 

and pale yellow twigs. The little buds resemble

 the silken sheen of an Oriental carpet,

where a weaver may have sought 

to capture this brief moment of Spring 

in a lustrous tapestry.

Spring Embroidery

Most of my Saturday mornings find me at 

a swimming practice. However, not only was the site 

of this week's practice changed to a more distant location, 

bus service to my neighborhood was suspended 

because of the annual "Mini." 

It is a half-marathon race, 13.1 miles in length, 

that annually has over 30,000 participants, 

and winds its way from Downtown to 

the Speedway and back.

I took the opportunity to take a long walk,

an activity that I'd neglected because of the miserable

winter weather. It seemed like a chilly day for May,

and the plants looked a little wan, too.

Perhaps they were tired from the effort to germinate

and bud in these cold mornings.

At any rate, as I walked down Lynhurst Drive,

I noticed the sunlight on this flowering tree.

I do love lace and these white flowers looked

as though they'd been embroidered on a base of

black lace provided by the bare

limbs in the background.