A pretty day, not so miserably hot as yesterday, but enough to make it stuffy inside. The heat brings out not so much odors as the ghosts of odors from the carpet, the dirty clothes hamper, the kitchen sink. I went walking again.

Downtown had its own strange rhythm today. Even the evangelists at the Powell turn-around seemed oddly subdued. The one who goes on about AIDS and virginity was dressed today in rusty red, but sat next to his poster instead of standing and ranting, talking quietly to some tourists while a pair of giggling girls surreptitiously took his picture. The quiet little old black lady in a turban sat in her folding chair, one finger raised as she murmured something to an attentive young man who leaned forward to listen. High over the pit that leads down to BART, a flock of pigeons wheeled around and around, their wings brushing the tree-tops.

As I crossed Market to Fifth I saw the white-faced lady again, this time up close. Vintage 1920s clothes, cloche hat, white long-waisted dress, white stockings, white shoes… I always thought the hats and dresses of that era look as if the wearer were perpetually standing with her back to the wind. If there were any stains or tears I could not see them. Her small, pinched face had very dark, slightly slanted eyes. It was white with what looked like caked, unevenly applied talcum powder.