drive home

Sometimes, on my drive to and from USC, I feel as though I'm a mutated form of paparazzi.  It's not as though the objects of my lens necessarily move around a great deal: I'm sure that this junction box is still there this evening, in all its vaguely 1967ish pink and orange glory; and I'm sure it was there yesterday.  But ah, the patient waiting that's necessary to have the traffic stopped at just the right place; to be able to wind down the window without any other traffic in the way; to have plausible lighting (and no, I'm not going to park the car round the corner and walk back: if I were a documentarian collecting the painted junction boxes of Los Angeles that would, of course, be a plausible option, but not just yet ...