stories from the haight

I spent my last night in SF underneath the kitchen floor of my old apartment.

I lived in many places in San Francisco, the last of which was on Page Street, upper Haight. Yes, my name is Paige, I lived on Page Street, and I had a pager, too. Cute. Anyway. When I first moved to SF I hated it. I was totally overwhelmed by it all. But, as in the normal progression of things, several things happened. I grew to love it. I met the first love of my life. I ended up homeless and strung out on heroin. Mine is a pleasure and pain, love-hate relationship with the city. So many things happened, not enough space.

I lived in a cute studio apartment, nice carpet, charming black & white tile floor in the kitchen, quaint fixtures, you name it. I moved out to go to treatment, in Oakland, because I'd lost control of my life. Entirely. And, while living there, that sweet apartment had turned into a hellhole. I won't go into details.

I walked out of treatment after a week, not quite ready to stop my self-destructive behavior. And so, for about a month, I was homeless. I slept in GG Park, and in other parks, too, on cardboard boxes. I picked up cigarette butts off the ground to smoke. I did a number of terrible things, to people and places I loved. Finally, my family came at me with a proposition that I was ready to hear. And so it was planned that I would go to treatment in Minnesota. On my last night before leaving, I managed to scrounge some money for dope. It was cold out, and my friend and I were looking for a place to hit, and crash. He knew of a place, and we went there.

It was my old building. Entering through a side door, we went through the "underbelly" of the building, and into a crawlspace barely big enough for one person. My friend then told me that we were underneath the place where I'd lived, not two months before. The place that saw me deteriorate into something less than human- someone less than myself. I'd moved in confident, moved out sobbing. You get the picture.

And so, on my last night, I slept underneath that sweet, charming little studio, on the cold, hard ground. It was as if that apartment had become the lid to my coffin. I just hadn't been buried yet.

Paige

The intersection of Haight and Fillmore Streets always felt comforting to me. For the two years I lived in that neighborhood I grew love for the decadence infiltrated in the sidewalks. I had learned to appreciate the dimly lit coffee shops where I had met most of my neighbors. I had been invited to their hideaways and made a fraction of their lives. But I could never understand the velocity that ran in their veins or how they grew like parasites in my bloodstream. Leaving that neighborhood was one of the most difficult things I've done in my life.

Thais

I came to San Francisco to undertake a Master's program at USF. I commuted to this portal city for two years. It is a portal of sorts you know. I should know about these things. At first, I resided in the dorms and within weeks discovered Sami Sunchild's Red Victorian. I moved in. Sami's place offers mood rooms, each dressed out in a different motiff. And since my consuming fear is to recognize the man in the mirror, this suited me to the core (if you see Buddha on the path, kill him;if you recognize yourself, you are not moving, evolving). There's so much I could talk about in terms of true magic at the Red Victorian, but that's other stories. This story is about Borisova, a Bulgarian immigrant residing in St. Louis who was my lover for five years. I brought her to San francisco when we first met and stayed in Sami's place. Borisova is no longer in my life, so there will be several references to "was" in this tale. Borisova was beautiful, strange, encompassing and cutting-edge San Francisco. The type of San Francisco that resembles the first settlers who butchered the nature-loving, naked, gentle indian peoples then populating the area. In hindsight, the kind you'de be wise to flee from. Though she lived for blood, the edge of her knife approaching approaching the soft flesh of your soul was mesmerizing. You knew she was going to hurt; you knew your weight would drastically drop as she hacked off ever bigger chunks of your soul...but you were addicted to her glittering edge while feverishly inventing flesh regrowth to lure her onward. Making love with her was merely sex but it was on command, endless. She liked it immediately on whim. And at this point I just kept the artery full and shunted for quick feeding. She was a succubus. I kept her engaged that long period with legendary strength. All that know me know I am measured and fierce of strenth. She could not find the last drop of life in me. The tabernackle was impregnable. Kept her curiosity up I did. And well fed. It didn't add up in her mind. I should have shrivelled up years ago from the relentless bloodletting. And I was in love with her. Little-by-little the longterm exposure to the constancy and breadth of that love - the industructability of that love - made her unsure of her avocation...the destroying of souls, the sweetness of deranged pain and brittle death rattles which in this case would never come. We were walking after morning coffee one day on Haight with the early fog still surrendering when in passing a recessed doorway I saw a young woman and child curled under newspapers, vagrants. Brisova telepathetically snarled when she caught my eye, and pulled me on. I removed her hand from my jacket sleeve and walked back anyway, all the time her teeth ripping at my throat in fury. I bent my tall thin frame down from its height into the faces under the newspaper. The child was awake and stared at me, her hair matted and cheeks muddied with weeks of dust. I smiled gently. Her eyes widened ever so slightly. I reached my hand toward her cheek. My fingers are long and slender. I touched her cheek and left my fingertips there for maybe 30 seconds. Her eyes and mine understood something. I turned my gaze to Borisova and she was ridiculing and indignant. I took the child's hand and curled its little fingers around a roll of money, kissed my fingertips and pressed them against her cheek and left. Borisova was deeply troubled over this, ranting on and on about the "disgusting vagrants" as she dragged me from shop to shop to buy this and that which would never see use. She just likes the act of buying. In fact she's addicted to it. It was in San Francisco that I found my mantra: "Be wary of strangerw, for you may be entertaining an angel unawares". This is a little like Suzuki's dying words where he imparted a last koan to his disciples: "Everyday life is the path". You see, Borisova could never see the angel in that child under the newspaper. I struggled for five years to have her do so. While there are many Borisova's in San Francisco, and many children under newspapers, you have only yourself at the end of the day. And the fog will eventually settle around you and you will see what you are capable of seeing fog or not. I left many drawing in Sami's guestbooks. San Francisco will haunt Borisova eventually, and for that I am grateful. I look back on Borisova's and my time together, and I am comforted in knowing that I am a reference point that will always puzzle her, and that some day when she is bloodletting the next victim and she looks in their eyes, the child under the newspaper will be looking back and smile up at her.

Dominic MacCormac

Monday: April 09, 2001, 9:00 pm Was feeling kind of low and confused with my life. [as usual] Was chatting with a friend of mine thru the day about it. He too ended up confused, listening to certain situations in my life. We decided to meet and talk about things rather than chatting. Didn't go to Santa Cruz, which happens to be a favorite for both of us. Instead we decided to go to San Francisco. Fortunately we had a map with us. So, we could figure out how to get to the famous Haight and Ashbury street. I have been wanting to go there for a long time. [since I came here and heard about it]

This is the place where the likes of Jerry Garcia - Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin are associated. This is where they all started. This is where the whole genre' started.

We found it. We reached the place. Since it was kind of late in the night to look around [since the stores had closed] all we could do was take a walk for a while. We did that. Stopped when we heard some music. A BIT of hesitation if we should enter the place...but what the heck!! we did.!!

- The pub, "Deluxe". The place seemed to be the regular hang out of locals...to drink and make merry. The place had red lights as part of the decor. None attended to us. We figured, we had to help ourselves. Since neither of us drink, we just went ahead and sat down. In the corner of the room was a Tom Petty look alike, acting DJ. Playing some cool music - Honesty, Billy Joel. Everyone seemed to be chilling out. There were these two women who started dancing. Wasn't sure if I could make some conclusions there...[considering I was in San Francisco] but anyway. The thought was out of my mind before I knew it. Its cool, any way. What I appreciated was the 'no inhibitions' attitude. Guess that's the culture USA has. So very different from back home (india)

Soon we realized, we could not sit there for too long without ordering anything. We got out. Walked around for some more time. I came across some really opinionated people, wearing strong political messages. Boy!! This place was really some thing. 'Grotesque' is how I would describe it. But I liked whatever I saw. Its an EXTREMELY interesting, intriguing, and fascinating place. VERY different from what I had seen of San Francisco earlier.

We then entered a restaurant named - Kan Zam Am. [hope i've got it right] A middle eastern restuarant. My friend's eye caught a sticker on the door saying this place was recommended by Lonely Planet.This place was again, lit up with deep red lights...Had interesting paintings on the wall...There were people smoking the Hookah. I was really very fascinated. The rest. was closed, but the bar was open. I was a bit skeptical if they would serve some things as mundane as coffee in such an exotic place. But they did. The woman who was serving us was quite nice to us.

...now was the best part. we got our coffee, but we were short of cash. our car was further away from this place. my friend had his credit card, but the minimum expense had to be $ 10 to use a card. The woman suggested that we eat some deserts. The menu had 'halwa' for desert. That sounded familiar. We went for it. This was the most amazing black coffee I had ever had. I usually never have black coffee cos it is too bitter. But this was really amazing. Just that the quantity was a bit less for such great coffee. [guess that's the idea ;-) ] We ate our 'halwa' and drank our coffee. We really liked sitting around and talking here. Though it was around 11:30 or more in the night, we felt quite comfortable sitting there. Quite a few people were around too. We spent a long time there. Finally had to leave when the candles were being blown out. [candles were part of the lighting too]

As we walked back to our car, we came across this 'Meditation' Art center - A bed and breakfast place named - The Red Victorian. it was obviously closed. The posters outside were telling me, what the hell I was doing with my life, designing some crazy web sites. Graphic design, seemed to be such a strong medium of communication here...lots of art all around this place. So much was being communicated. Such clever ways that too. The Red Victorian had some very interesting write ups about things. Very well designed things. Scrambled around for some pen and paper to write down some of these interesting things. My friend had a pen, and I had some old payment bill in my pocket. Would do.! jotted down some of them and walked past. Wishing the place was open.

Finally, we got to our car, decided to head back home. Couldn't have done anything more that time of the night. We talked on our way back home... about more serious issues... my life...his life... nothing could come out of talking for a couple of hours...but just a good feeling of talking with a like minded person. Good feeling that we understood what we were talking about.

We got home around 1:30 in the morning. My friend happened to see the time, and we realized we had been chatting till 3:30 in the morning.

Could never imagine doing this on a Monday. But we had to work the next day and were kind of sleepy too.

That was the 'BEST' MONDAY of my life. Started off with the morning blues as usual. But ended really cool. Really felt good at the end of Monday...

Tuesday couldn't have started better.!!

Tuesday even ended better. Cos I came back to Haight. i was in love with this place. this time it was early enough to enter the Red Victorian store. and guess what??? I MET SAMI SUNCHILD. i actually met her. we spoke with her for a couple of minutes about world peace etc. the graphics with the peace symbols were really interesting. i was really fascinated with them. i definately couldnt leave the store without purchasing a T-shirt with the peace symbol. I had dinner at "People's Cafe" with my friends and we discussed how interesting this place is. All of us were really fascinated by this place.

Some how i kept getting this thought back to me...that i would love to spend a long time here. i wasnt sure if i could settle down in San Francisco, leaving my country OR how i could do it. but i was definately thinking about it. so, i guess i would work towards it over a period of time.

satya

This all took place in April 1999, which is just a little more than two years ago. I'm not from San Francisco--this was actually my first trip there.

I had been in the city for about 3 days, just sightseeing. My sister is into the hippies and freaks so we thought it might be fun to take a tour around Haight, and we got just what we were looking for.

In particular, there was one flower "child" (the man looked like he was well into his 50's) panhandling on the sunny curb with an open guitar box. He strummed and sang an up-beat lyric as passers-by tried not to notice. Anyway, one of this fellow's hot-blooded buddies was sitting with him, maybe taking a cut of the handouts. A woman passed by when this raggedy looking man asked "for a little extra change." She made some insensitive comment to her girlfriend like, "They just never quit do they?"

This really set off the ragedy-looking guy--the one without the guitar. He got up and just exploded in rage at the woman. The crazed look in his bloodshot eye convinced me he was on heroin, that's how they all look when they're on that junk. A queer walking by stood up for the woman and tried to tell the angry guy to calm down, but he only made it worse. "Hey fock you, man! I'm just out here to make a little something to put some fockin' food in my belly!" It went on for about a minute until the queer left, but what a classic. The way he said it was like something out of 1990 Dennis Hopper's mouth in the movie "Flashback."

This man had long flowing hair, and a beard to match, and he wore a greasy, grimy tie-die shirt over his blue-jeans. Over the outside of this shirt he had an elastic belt with about 6 elastic loops in it. These loops held his beer cans conveniently over his waist.

The guitar-man kept right on strumming and singing softly throughout this whole ordeal, eyes closed but facing the sun, peacefully indifferent. I can only imagine the fascinated look on my face as I watched. I remember not being able to resist the temptation to smile--as I had just experienced one of those events that most people can only hear about in lies and stereotypes.

Dingo