Jackson

Near the Sausalito/Larkspur/Angel Island Ferry platform
The Embarcadero
Tuesday afternoon

***

I was in a cab with my (now ex-) girlfriend headed up the Bowery past Astor Place when she said, somewhat out of the blue, “Do you want to move to San Francisco?”  Without a moment’s hesitation, I said “Yes.”  That was 1999.

February marked my tenth year by the Bay, and April will be my seventh in San Francisco.  My ex broke my heart, though in retrospect I did my best to break her spirit and the relationship.  The good news is, when she moved Back East, I finally got to leave Oakland for San Francisco, which is really where I’d wanted to move all along.

I’ll never forget meeting my new roommates at my first place in The City for the first time.  After finding the listing on Craigslist for a basement room in a house on San Bruno near 24th, I arranged to meet the other tenants.  As we sat in the living room chatting and drinking beers, the first bomb in Operation Iraqi Freedom dropped on Baghdad while protesting San Franciscans ground city traffic to a halt.  The basement was dingy, but it was cheap and had its own entrance and bathroom, there was roof access and an old friend from New York lived just around the corner.  And it was in San Francisco.  The Mission, no less.

Needless to say, as a house full of drunks and stoners, it was pretty much a constant party.  And, just my luck, the roommates and neighbors enjoyed cocaine and meth as much, if not more, than I did!  When money was good, it was weekend brunches and barbecues on the roof watching the fog roll over Twin Peaks.  I spun records at house parties.  Hooked up with a young Berkeley grad, but she lived in Oakland, so that didn’t work out.  I vowed never to date someone who didn’t live in San Francisco to spare myself the commute (though, naturally, later I ended up in a long-distance relationship with a New Yorker — because I’m prone to forgetting the lessons my mistakes were trying to teach me).

I ended up with the only real job I’d had since just after college after a nine-month stint as a temp at the corporate offices of an upscale housewares retailer, editing graphics and copy for online outlet.  The pay was decent, and I had health and dental insurance, but I was bored to tears and resented the management — the art director for the sites had no actual creative experience, having been promoted from being a project manager.

I’d had a moribund blog since 2002.  But at the time, blogs were mostly personal affairs — and I determined my life wasn’t particularly interesting.  Ah, but San Francisco!  So many stories.  Looking to while away a couple of hours at work, I got some submissions to the Web site of a twee, local publisher accepted.

That probably gave me the confidence to start writing on my own blog — the first posts were, naturally, about where to find decent pizza and bagels in San Francisco, as there are still some things I love about New York.  I just wouldn’t want to have to live there ever again.

A popular local New York City blog posted a notice that they were looking for writers to start a version in San Francisco, I sent in an email.  After a couple months of “so when’s the site starting,” “when we have an editor,” the colonial outpost in LA debuted.  Already with a San Fernando Valley-sized chip on my shoulder (even though I was born in Los Angeles county) I decided that, damnit, San Francisco — where blogging was practically invented! — was not going to take this lying down.  So I emailed the New York publisher and told him that I’d edit the San Francisco site.

The first “staff meeting” consisted of me and two now longtime friends.  We got burritos at the El Farolito on Mission.  We were, apparently, just young enough and stupid enough to be the right people for the job.  Not that it was an actual job — I think I managed about a month’s rent out of the gig in a year and half — but it was something to do at work.  Unfortunately, between the parties and the blog, my job performance left a lot to be desired, and a few months after starting the site, I was fired from my job.

But editing that site did for me what drinking in my basement apartment and playing video games until all hours couldn’t.  Namely, it turned me on to a world of writers and techies that eventually became good, supportive friends.  Parties on my roof turned into parties at 111 Minna, Varnish and the House of Shields.  I got a press pass to attend South by Southwest Interactive in Austin, and made new friends from around the country.  People I’d never met actually knew my work!  And liked it!  People would introduce me: “This is Jackson.”  “The Jackson?  Jackson from San Francisco?”  It was, frankly, awesome.  I felt like a celebrity.  And with all the free booze events, drank like one.

Having lost my day job, however, I had little to do but drink and blog.  With no particular income, I was a particularly shitty roommate to live with.  Eventually I started missing posts, and made plenty of stupid mistakes trying to manage the blog, and was summarily fired over the phone by the publisher in New York. I cried.  I had tried to nurture that site like a child, and it had become my raison d’être. I’d done my best to help create something that would keep running even if I were run over by the 9-San Bruno, but actually losing the reins was a sucker punch.

Thanks to the people I’d met, I actually ended up getting work that paid.  Though, once again thanks to the sauce, generally managed to fuck those opportunities up, too.  I was living the dream, and the dream was slowly killing me.  At least I spared my roommates, having moved to a studio in North Beach that I initially shared with a painter but eventually had to myself.  Once again with my luck, I stumbled across a coke dealer in the neighborhood and went on some pretty epic benders before finally stumbling into a rehab clinic in 2006, shortly before my 30th birthday.

Thing is, many of those friends I’d met through the blog and gotten drunk on venture capital-funded open bars with were there to support me.  Near the end of my 28 days, around two dozen showed up at a little party I organized at the clinic.  I’ll never forget that, or them.  San Francisco has long been the last refuge of vagrants and vagabonds, and if anything that afternoon at a rehab clinic in Oakland illustrated how profound both the tolerance for wild, unconventional behavior and the belief in the powers of redemption and self-improvement are here.

Now I’m back in the Mission after losing another blogging job and my studio.  I spent the summer with friends in Sausalito and family near Seattle amidst our collective global economic meltdown, nervous that I’d never make it back to my now true love.  I’m working the local beat again, if only part time, still struggling to make much of a living, yet I couldn’t be happier for the opportunity to back and telling Frisco stories.

People complain about the trash, and the homeless, and the crime, and the rents, and the public transportation or whatever — I certainly have.  But cities are supposed to be messy, chaotic things.  After a bike ride to Ocean Beach, or cresting the hill past Alamo Square on the 21-Hayes, or fondling world class produce it will suddenly strike me that I live in the most beautiful place full of the most beautiful people in the world, and it’s worth all the money and heartbreak and temptation I can stand.

***

You can see a slideshow of Jackson’s photo shoot here.

Jackson’s blog is here: http://jacksonwest.wordpress.com/about/

Rebekah

Inside the sweet shop
Kintetsu Mall, Japantown
Monday morning

***

San Francisco astonishes me.  Diversity, mild weather, fresh clean air, good eats, fantastic farmers markets, and fabulous hikes are all part of our fabulous norm.  How incredible is that!

Some of you can probably tell from looking at me that I’m hapa, half Japanese to be more specific.  There’s a notable number of hapas in the Bay Area, which I love.  There are only a few places in the US where you can say that.  The east coast suburb where I grew up had very little diversity so I feel really fortunate that I was able to travel to Japan about every other year growing up to visit family and friends.   Those trips had a big impact on my life and opened my eyes so much.

Going to Japan was my childhood equivalent of going to Disneyland.  It was a dream being able to eat such amazing food, ride on super fast trains, watch so many fun TV programs, shop at the biggest and best department stores, experience the ordered chaos of Tokyo rush hour, all while being immersed in a fascinating language and culture.

So amongst all of the amazing perks of living in San Francisco, Japantown is one of the local gems that I treasure the most.  Having Japanese groceries, cosmetics, books, stationery, kitchenware, and DVDs all in my backyard is priceless to me.

Once I moved to SF and started working full time, the luxury of 3-month summer breaks gone, my trips to Japan stopped.  So I feel really lucky to have J-town as an easy substitute for the real thing.  Even though browsing through the shops is only a tiny glimpse of what being in Japan is really like, it brings back so many great memories and is just so much fun!

Someday I hope to make it back to Japan for a nice vacation but until then J-town is my perfect escape.

***

You can see a slideshow of Rebekah’s photo shoot here.

Rebekah’s website is www.stepintocolor.com

Tony

On 22nd Street
The Mission
Thursday afternoon

***

Grandma Marie bought Grandpa Gary a ring on 24^th Street in the late 1940s, when they were dating. They got married, moved to Albion Street, between 16^th and 17^th Street and gave birth to Dad in 1950.

Grandma Elizabeth and Grandpa Tor left Norway for Trinidad where Mom was born. They relocated to Treat Street in 1953.

Years later, Mom and Dad got frisky with each other. Nine months later I was born. They ended up on the peninsula where I grew up.

The Mission District called me home. When I was a suburban teenager, I would come up to San Francisco and act like an idiot. My friends were up from Millbrae and looking for a good time and San Francisco was our Disneyland. People rolled their eyes at us as we skateboarded around town and pathetically wooed girls.

The Mission District called and I hung up on it and moved to the Western Addition in 1994. The dot com came and spat me out into the East Bay, needing lower rent and waiting for my chance to move back into San Francisco.

I love the East Bay, but San Francisco is my soul. If Grandma didn’t give Grandpa a ring and get frisky in 1949, there would be no Dad who got frisky with Mom and there would be no Me.

I ached to come back to the Mission District. The diversity, the music, the chance interactions with strangers…some who become friends, some who should have taken their medication.

The Mission District called and I answered and I now live back where it all started, with my family getting frisky.

Grandma Marie and Grandpa Gary were divorced in the late 1950s. It wasn’t a friendly divorce. Grandma remarried Grandpa Barney, an amazing man who I’ll always remember as my Grandpa, even though their friskiness didn’t have any result into my existence today.

Grandpa Gary still wore Grandma Marie’s ring, the one she bought for him at a jeweler on 24^th Street. Until the day he died he wore that ring and said, “This is when Marie loved me.”

I inherited that ruby and gold ring. It fits on my middle finger. It lives on 23^rd Street, one block from where it was purchased over ½ a century ago. I wear it everywhere. Even though Grandpa Gary was bad at relationships and his definition of love was a little fucked up, the ring represents undying love to me. The ring represents the DuShane family. The ring will be buried with me later this century and will finally fall off my finger as I decompose.

I wrote my debut novel all around San Francisco. At cafes and bars and laundromats. I wrote my guts out at Socha, The Nervous Dog and Café la Boheme. I wrote while washing my clothes and Spanish TV was cranked to compensate for the noise of the washers and dryers so the women kept up with their telenovelas.

I wrote notes on bar napkins, on my hands and in my notebook on characters and story arcs.

Soft Skull Press published the book in February and it’s called Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk. It’s a dark comedy loosely based on my experience growing up a Jehovah’s Witness in Millbrae.

Leaving the Mission District, even if it’s to go to North Beach or Burlingame or Los Angeles, is hard for me. I know the separation is temporary, but the Mission gives me those puppy dog eyes when I leave, and wags its tail when I re-enter its boundaries.

But, I always wear my ruby ring on my middle finger. The ring that represents my existence. The ring that got the DuShanes frisky in the Mission and gave me the chance to spend time on this planet and live in my favorite place on this earth.

***

You can see a slideshow of Tony’s photo shoot here.

Tony’s reading at City Lights is Wednesday, March 3: http://tonydushane.com/events.html

Recent article in the San Francisco Chronicle: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2010/03/01/DDOM1C7CBU.DTL

You can also find him here:

Amber

On the shore of Stow Lake
Golden Gate Park
Monday afternoon

***

San Francisco has always been a place of wonder for me. As a kid, my family visited San Francisco fairly regularly because my parents attended conventions at Moscone Center and the San Francisco Gift Center. I remember a lot of things about those visits. I remember the feeling I had coming through the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island and seeing the city spread out just beyond the arc of the Bay Bridge. I remember staying in the Hyatt Regency and watching Spice World while eating room service pizza. I still love standing in the lobby of that hotel looking up, in awe of the geometric architecture and immense open space. I remember being under the care of my childhood babysitter Jennifer and going to the Exploratorium where my three-year-old brother got lost and then came over the loudspeaker looking for “my Jennifer”. Sometimes, she would take us to her apartment in the Mission to pick up her dog and go to the dog beach. Once, she took us to a taqueria on Haight Street, where I had my first burrito and marveled at how many people were stuffed in such a small space. I remember going to the café at the top of Moscone Center that looks over SOMA and makes it look like a diorama or postcard. I remember eating at Gira Polli on Colombus Avenue. I remember visits to the Fog City Diner because my mom loved the crab cakes. I loved sitting in the high back booths and looking out the window and seeing nothing but thick fog. It charmed me how the wait staff was so dressed up and I loved looking at all the framed tchotckes in the hallway near the bathroom. I relished staying at the very pastel Ocean Park Motel and going to the San Francisco Zoo. I remember seeing the knobby trees in the museum concourse in Golden Gate Park and how there used to be different freeway exits coming off of 101. I remember visiting Thomas E. Cara Ltd. in North Beach and falling in love with all the dresses in the windows of stores nearby. I remember kicking my brother in the middle of the night on a rollaway bed at the Campton Place hotel and how he screamed loudly and woke up my parents. I remember going to see the “Raised by Wolves” exhibit by Jim Goldberg at the SFMOMA, but was more enthralled by the “Émigré” exhibit up at the same time. It was this visit that inspired me to pursue study in graphic design.

When I turned 18, I did move to the Bay Area, but not San Francisco. I spent four years living in Oakland and attending classes at an art school in San Francisco. I loved my time in the city and remember visiting my boyfriend who lived in the Mission and introduced me to Thai food, Macintosh computers, Craigslist, BiRite, Dolores Park and crazy roommates. After six years of living in the East Bay, I still wanted to live in San Francisco instead of driving over a bridge or traveling under water to get there.

I’ve now lived in San Francisco for almost four years and the Bay Area for almost ten. I have to say that the past four years have been some of the best years of my life. Living in San Francisco, I feel as if I have had opportunities to do things that I had never thought possible. I now work for a company that I had always dreamed of working for while in college. I live in one of those cute apartments that overlook a hill covered in the pastel buildings of the Richmond District. I have met amazing people that I know will be in my life for a long time. I have recently lost about 90 pounds, which is something I had previously thought as insurmountable.

It’s amazing how much wonder and power can be held in such a small area. Some of the most amazing people in the world live here. There are stories on every street corner and in the corner of every apartment. We live in a combination of history and future. This city is electric.

***

You can see a slideshow of Amber’s photo shoot here.

Amber’s website is http://ambercarsonmiller.com

Faern

Inside the Columbarium
Inner Richmond
Saturday afternoon

***

San Francisco says Variety.
People. Architecture. Sounds. Views. Temperatures.
All the disparate specs
All piled upon each other…
I could sit here forever and just never get to the point-
AND be ok with it…

contemplating what it is that I love about this city
at this juncture of my life is like a brainstorming session,
lots of things…Popping up.

I lost some things sometime,
I knew I’d find them here.
With every trip around the city,
Not that I’d look for “things”
They are just here,
Hiding unless you see them.

i am not talking about finding
my Self here or anything

And I lose things too…
There’s not one way to describe
This motion of emotion as
There is not one person to portray it, the things,
These little things
they are just here, and there
it’s the little things that remind
me its ok to cry, while also they
help me fight back the tears.
they remind me of what has
Been, and what will be-
That it CAN be, whatever it is.

That being said, it’s the little things that can propel us through life.
I walk around as if I am in a dream.
The little things, they are everywhere in this city,
and they are all I see.

~faern  feb 20, 2010

***

You can see a slideshow of Faern’s photo shoot here.

Faern’s links are:

main site:
http://www.faernworks.com
http://twitter.com/faernworks

main blog:
http://faern-in-the-works.com/
http://twitter.com/faernintheworks

project ‘Interlude : Actuate’ blog:
http://interludeactuate.wordpress.com/
http://twitter.com/interactuate

facebook/ faernworks photography page:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/San-Francisco-CA/FaernWorks/36555287083?ref=ts

flickr:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/faernworks/

Silvi

Inside the Atlas Cafe
The Mission
Monday afternoon

***

I

“as with humans, poems have fatal flaws.”

three minutes or less. no editing or revision. for better or for worse.

II

“be a teller of great tales, even the darkest.”

the stories that cast shadows on my life: my father’s death, my mother’s cancer. these are the
stories i will forever be writing. note: you cannot have shadow unless you have light.

III

“think long thoughts in short sentences.”

secrets are safe in whale songs. sisters in pirate stores need mopping. fog sits haunting.
the best part is best. trust strangers to mail your mail. alamo square will teach you wind. trouble  sings like hummingbird wings. gratitude fuels greatness. sometimes birds poop on benches.
make time for yes. no. oh. yes.

IV

“the sunshine of poetry casts shadows, paint them too.”

secrets you never told anyone: putting his toothbrush in the toilet. giving the homeless man a
dollar most days. telling another you can’t spare any change. how it felt to be caught. how
it felt to be saved. loving the girl with the apron. trying to jump off the bridge. hugging him.
getting married. we will never see each other again.

V

“if you have to teach poetry, strike your blackboard with the chalk of light.”

i am teaching them imitation. we read nikki giovanni and they utter, “ooo’s.” they are from el  salvador, the philippines, jamaica, the united states of america, have been to turkey, but mostly, have lived here. we count up the years: 503 collectively.

VI

“allow yourself dazzling flight–flights of imagination.”

i will not wait to become a bird. already i find feathers between the sheets of my bed, dark,
iridescent. contrast the sharp yellow eye of a starling, a mallard’s wing, a peacock’s lady-getters. this morning ravens collected shiny things in my bedroom and offered them at my feet,
laughing, as if they too know what each night i am becoming.

VII

“secretly liberate any being you see in a cage.”

see especially prisons, nursing homes, hospitals, high school proms, zoos, and those without:
faces, tongues, families, friends, happiness, truth, freedom from shame.

VIII

“write short poems in the voice of birds.”

the little black bird
sings like water dropping,
now pick up your jaw.

IX

“if you call yourself a poet, sing it, don’t state it.”

my voice meets a stranger’s and is recorded on the tap tap  taptataptap of red royal typewriter  keys. tell me what you sing. i will listen.

X

“wake up, the world’s on fire!”

what more is there to say than this?

(All quotes from Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Poetry as Insurgent Art.)

***

You can see a slideshow of Silvi’s photo shoot here.

You can read an interview with Silvi discussing her poetry here.

Silvi’s website, The Poetry Store, can be found here.

Mark

Bannam Place
North Beach
Wednesday afternoon

***

I meet a lot of people who recognize me from the documentary film, The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. I find that there’s a fairly common perception of me as having led a lost and dissolute life until I found the parrots. I understand why people think that, but it’s not quite accurate.

When I was growing up there were a lot of people interested in self-discovery—the inner voyage. I didn’t know anybody who wanted to go into business. I was too young to catch anything more than the tail end of the counterculture, and by that time there were a lot of different schools of thought on what constituted “the true path.” The one I ended up following said that one needed to strip away all pretensions, give up all means of support, and have a tough one-on-one experience with reality. The best place to do that was said to be on the road or on the streets. You can’t really just march out onto the street and do that. If it were that easy of a place to get to, it would be just as easy to leave. But by believing in it as a path, I eventually did end up on the streets. In North Beach. Living on the street turned out not to be the transcendent experience I’d imagined. It was extremely difficult and taxing. But it was also the most disciplined period of my life. I’d once thought it was some kind of bohemian idea, that it began with the French poet Arthur Rimbaud. But actually, in its pure form, it’s an old spiritual yoga that can be found in many cultures throughout history. The Homeless Wanderer. The parrots were part of that path. There was something I wasn’t quite getting—something I needed to learn.

I was on the street for fifteen years. I’ve been off it now longer than I was on it. I have no regrets about having lived the way I did. I can’t overstate how much good it did me. I know it’s difficult for most people to understand—especially given this particular time in history, which is almost completely given over to material success. I’m working on a book that tells the whole story—Street Song. I have around three more years of work to do on it.

***

You can see a slideshow of Mark’s photo shoot here.

Mark’s writing and current projects can be found at:

Lex

Elizabeth

Noe Valley Farmer’s Market
24th Street
Saturday morning

***

I decided to move here when I was eleven. I came on my very first parent-less flight to visit my cousin who had moved here with the dot com rush. We explored the vistas, barked at the sea lions, got lost in Virgin Records (RIP), and then I was force-fed sushi until I fell in love and, well, knew I needed to be a part of it somehow.  I didn’t actually get here for another twelve years, but, you know, moving- it’s a process.

When I did actually move here two years ago, it was the result of two mistakes. I was disgruntled with my choice of graduate school in England and then, directly afterward, was disgruntled with my choice of men in Los Angeles. I needed something to work. I needed to love where I was living again and to love the people I surrounded myself with. And really, at that point, I would have taken either.  Simply put, when I took a step back and realized I was finally living in California and NOT in San Francisco, I knew what had to be done. It fulfilled both of those requests.  I had continued visiting San Francisco each summer through high school, learning and growing all the while. I thought about attending undergraduate here, tried to convince Berkeley to take an out-of-state-er for graduate school, and now, free of standardized education, I hadn’t actually taken the move upon myself.  It was ludicrous I hadn’t made it here yet.  So in June 2008, the day after my birthday, I convinced one of those Los Angeles men to move me here.

Now I live in Noe Valley where, other than my roommates, I am probably the only stroller-less, dog-less, single female under the age of 35 who doesn’t frequent a nail salon. I actually love it. Those double-wide strollers need space and those dogs need parks so my neighborhood has greenery everywhere and amazingly wide, manicured sidewalks.  Within three blocks from my house in any given direction I have one sushi restaurant (thank god), one pizza joint, two Indian restaurants, two Chinese restaurants, two Italian, one Thai, two big breakfast hangover cafes, and two coffee shops. And that’s not even on my neighborhood’s high street which is 24th.  I am probably also one of the few working Noe Valley residents who doesn’t commute downtown for her job. Instead, I walk dogs, managed a cafe in the Castro for some time, and volunteer most Saturdays at our farmer’s market. Actually, therein lies my real love for this city.  I visited our market the very first Saturday that I moved to San Francisco and have been involved ever since.  At an hour way too early for me to ever pretend I enjoy, I walk up to 24th St to help set up tables, chairs, tents, signs, and assist the vendors in any way they need with their stands as well.  Oftentimes my fingers are frigid from the cold air and the ice-packed greens.  Oftentimes I still have pajamas on under my jacket. And oftentimes I think how crazy some of my neighbors must be up before me and jogging with those strollers. But the sunrises, morning cloud breaks in an other-wise foggy day, and the comradery with both the vendors and patrons keeps me going.  In fact, literally. Primarily, I never have to buy my vegetables, fruits, bread, honey or my eggs at a grocery store. Never. Secondly, I have been introduced to many urban-farms throughout the city where I garden regularly.  Thirdly, I was asked to manage our first seasonal farmer’s market this last year. And fourth of all, I was hired to be an apprentice at one of our vendor’s farms for the 2010 season.

I must say I’m not surprised to be living here now; But I guess that’s really just because I was lucky enough to be exposed to the everyday surprises San Francisco is unique for some time ago.  I just got distracted in the interim. So therein, lies a bit of my past, a bit of my present, and a bit of where I am headed next in this beautiful city by the bay.

***

You can see a slideshow of Elizabeth’s photo shoot here.

You can visit Elizabeth’s Etsy shop, Felt and Flowers, here: http://www.etsy.com/shop/FeltandFlowers

Iqra

Pollard Place
North Beach
Tuesday morning

***

San Francisco and I are caught up in an ongoing game of peek-a-boo and over the years, this everlasting dance has allowed us to witness each other’s transformation, resilience and growth. San Francisco became my playground when I immigrated here with my family at the age of 11 from Pakistan.

While the city’s spirit allowed me to fall in love with my new home very quickly, I realized that to truly love this city unconditionally, I had to accept all parts of the city; its soft core AND its rough edges. While this city has been a safe haven for my personal growth and liberation, it didn’t take very long for me to realize that it is not, in fact, an equal playing field for all who live here.

While I was able to graduate from SFUSD schools and get a HS diploma, that goal was and remains a challenge for my peers and other young people struggling to make ends meet and survive the streets of San Francisco. While I feel blessed to be able to take mural walks in the Mission and soak up the rich histories of North Beach and Chinatown, I also see my closest friends fighting to maintain and protect those boundaries from gentrification and displacement of communities.

Growing up in San Francisco and being able to witness the city’s contradictory qualities has allowed me a space to accept the city as a whole. And with this acceptance comes a sort of dedication from deep down in my belly—this commitment in transforming this city to become an equal playing field for all who call it home—so that this city’s heartbeat can be heard and felt inside all of us.

***

You can see a slideshow of Iqra’s photoshoot here.