INDIAN HILL

             Parked my car and stood around looking at brick walls, an alley, air conditioning equipment, reflections on glass, so I took a few shots.  Pure functionality.   What's missing from these rooftops is a good cigar lounge and martini bar, don't you think?                                                               The hidden staircase. It's my blog, and I'll put up cheesy reflection shots if I want to.  Re-emerging from the alley I gotta keep things in human perspective so I sneak in a candid shot.   Ask permission later, that kind of thing.  

     2:30 PM, 95° F temperatures outside , I lay down on the living room couch.  Inside it is cool, the air conditioning fighting.  My place was spotless; the housekeepers had gone over it this morning, the shutters closed off the beating afternoon sun.       They come to me.      Earlier, in back of the coffee house on the patio, a man stopped where I was sitting, pointing to a book I’d laid on the low round table.          ‘Are you reading this?’ he said.      I said that I was.      ‘ Santeria ?’ he said.  ‘That’s Chango right there,’ pointing to the photo of a shrine on the cover of the book.  ‘He’s the head of all that.’  I held another book in my hands.      ‘That’s a history of Santeria ,’ I said.      ‘I know.  I know all about Santeria , Voodoo .’  He stood looking at me, a big mop of black curls sweeping around his head, steady flashing dark eyes, wearing an indigo blue t-shirt, shorts and walking sandals.       ‘I practice magic,’ he said.  ‘I’m a mag