Interesting that the baptism was so traumatic. I'm picturing a very bland gathering in a stuffy church sanctuary, with a lot of blah, blah, blah, and this hymn followed by that prayer, and on and on, with the only threat being that of boredom. So I don't really get why you were so affected, with your eyes bugging out like a panicked chihuahua. And this business of the antagonism with the minister. You sound like a character from an Alfred Hitchcock movie -- Jimmy Stewart, maybe -- and somebody slipped a pill into your drink, and suddenly everything that is normal, calm and traditional, is swirling around and around and your mind is whirling around, like an ant on a hypnodisk.
It would be interesting to talk to different people and get their take on the whole baptism ceremony experience. They could make a movie out of it, where they show the same event through different people's eyes. I remember there was some western that was like that which we watched in Crestline, or the classic Japanese movie, Rashomon. One person in the audience would be extremely bored, and barely able to keep their eyes open, while flies are buzzing around on the windowsill. Another person would be touched by the beauty and symbolism of the baptism experience, overwhelmed by feelings of deep spirituality. And then there's you, going nuts.
What is it about you and your camera? Why don't people want you taking their pictures? Are you giving off some creepy vibe and they are afraid you are going to steal their souls? Steve and Martha certainly seemed to appreciate your photographs. I would have been doing my part too, taking photos to rival Henri Cartier-Bresson, if some asshole hadn't stolen my camera. Er, no. I hate taking pictures. And I don't like having my picture taken, either. But I put up with it.
Yes, I worked at the Dream Fluff donut shop in Berkeley while I was in college. First, I was the assistant, going in at about 4 in the morning to fry the donuts and put frosting on them, and wash all the pots and pans, and dozens of other tasks, under the supervision of the real donut maker, named Scott Swall, who was a nice guy. He was also a total pothead, and a drug dealer. He had a gorgeous and lively girl friend who also worked at the donut shop for awhile, as a waitress. She said a funny thing one time, after an obese regular customer had just left with his donut purchase: "You know you're fat when you buy a dozen donuts and the waitress asks 'Do you want those for here or to go?'" One time I was at Scott Swall's house and I got so high on hashish that I didn't know where I was for a couple of hours. I woke up on a bus. Later, he trained me as the main donut maker, and I did that for a year or so. That job ran from 11 pm to 7 am. I attached a photo of a woodcut I made back in the 1970's showing Gail serving the fat man, and me in the background. That fat guy had a Cadillac with fins, just like in the picture. When he stepped off the curb, he would lean on the fin, and the front of the car would go up a little. Strange thing, last time I was in San Francisco, about two years ago (the year of the In n Out Burger sickness), I am pretty sure I saw Scott Swall on the street downtown, a homeless person, begging for spare change.
--edward
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