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03 February 2005; 04:38 PM

the mission

something is going on today. it's an undercurrent. after living in san francisco for a certain period of time you will begin to pick up on the strange waves of data which come from the street. even longer and you will start to understand how to integrate them into your own religion, until the mantra of your routine harmonizes with the low frequency hum of street activity.

in new york, you might see 10 crazy things on the street in 10 minutes. a near hit and run, paris hilton with her dog, a bellboy screaming at a cab driver, a hasidic jew, a drunk businessman. together these items will add up to the tally of over-the-top activity. whether or not there is a spiritual thread of connectedness between what you see is debatable. the truth is that there most likely won't be, but that you will be happy all the same.

in san francisco, it's overt. imagine a web of light. it will look like the string sculptures amy makes. like when you played cat's cradle with string on your hands, when you were little and your skin was softer than now. seriously. imagine it as large as all of san francisco. picture san francisco in your mind, then picture the string sculpture, made of light, laying over it. at each juncture of string there is something, then at another juncture of string, something else. inexorably related for all time.

some of the things which may be related are as follows:

a shopping cart full of bottles
graffiti
a t shirt
a haircut
something spoken
the way a face looks
a gesture
art in the window of a house
a kiss
a streetcorner

add your own as you see fit.

today, for me, maybe because of the sunshine, the strands of light were conspicuous.

. . .

i was walking toward dolores park cafe when i heard the sound, but couldn't see where it was coming from. it sounded like horses, which was comforting, though i knew it was a trick. as i got closer i came to understand.

in the full secret february sunlight, a member of the tribe of the street (your parents would say: homeless) was executing his obsessive need for rhythm. here, you learn a way of watching things without looking at them, and that is what i did when i walked by. he was beating on his shopping cart with a stick, with some talent and compulsion. he was shirtless, hands about 10 shades darker than the bare chest. he stopped the banging to pull more wood off some trim attached to a telephone pole. with concentration, he broke the wood into more satisfying lengths. more beating.

by the time i had aquired my food, he'd made himself drumsticks he was satisfied with. he frantically banged out a paradiddle on the handle of the cart. from two blocks away, i could hear the sound of horses and obsession and human need for something satisfyingly predictable. his success warmed me as much as the sun, i felt happy for him to be meditating with the sound in that way. and comforted by his dedication.

later as he walked by me while i ate outside, i saw he had a piece of fake hair or felt or yarn tied like a raccoon tail to the back of his hair.

the incident, however beautiful i found it, was isolated at the time. i respected it quietly. a background process.

later, while i walked, i passed the construction site on the corner of 18th and shotwell. the high fence has green tarps attached to it. it's so tall and leans so violently out over the sidewalk that walking next to it is like walking through a greenhouse or a tent at burning man. warmer, but darker.

the site, as you can imagine if you know the neighborhood, has become an encampment. it is also a rare expanse of open space. the raw dirt has begun to grow sparse grass - an urban meadow. in the center of the meadow, an altar to the gods of progress: an enormous dirty yellow construction tractor. the tractor has been there so long it seems like it is rusting. around the edges of the site there are mattresses, and in a specific corner, which you can smell from shotwell, the mutually agreed upon latrine. here is a communal paradise for some, a safe respite.

today, the strands connected my paradiddle friend and another person who was having a moment of worship, near the tractor-altar. he danced, alone in the expanse, in the sun. black, dirty, some would say crazy. he was chanting as he stomped in time on the ground. a moan chant, deep and harsh and from the chest. he moaned rhythmically while he stomped in a cirlce in the urban meadow. i peeked from behind the green tarps. it looked like some kind of tribal worship to me, like he was posessed by a spirit, like he was taken.

i realized all my feelings about these things while i walked around to shotwell street. so many times i can imagine writing this all down, noting the familiar piles of trash that are like snowdrifts against the curb. and the deep acceptance of my surroundings, and my respect for them.

a dreadlocked kid rode by me on a longboard, squinting into the sun.

i imagined my thoughts of the past hour becoming tiny and being poured into a box. the box floated in my chest, tied with brown ribbon. i kept them there safely until it was time to pour them into this other box that i'm typing in now.