In the heart of San Francisco, where the winds could whip from 40 to 80 degrees in a single day, we carved out our existence in the forgotten corners of the city. This was our trading post, our weather station, our poem store. Elishba and I, modern-day nomads, had become urban legends, labeled by a nun in the Archdiocese of the Catholic Church Magazine as the new St. Christophers. Crazy, considering we were homeless.
We had found ourselves running this makeshift sanctuary, a place where the desperate and the hopeful came to trade stories, goods, and a bit of warmth. Amidst the chaos of city life, we created a bubble of relative stability, a fragile haven against the relentless winds of misfortune.
Our days were dictated by the rhythms of the city and the erratic weather. The mornings could be brutally cold, with the fog rolling in like a heavy blanket, and by afternoon, the sun could scorch your skin. We adapted, layering our clothes like armor, ready to shed or add as the temperature swung wildly.
Despite our circumstances, we found joy in the simplest of things. Elishba had a knack for gourmet dumpster diving, turning discarded food into feasts. We called it "Treating out," our version of breaking bread, a communal act that brought a sense of normalcy and dignity to our lives. It was during these shared meals that we bonded with a priest who lived on the same sidewalk, spreading his version of religion to the homeless. He audaciously compared our existence to pilgrimaging with Jesus. I couldn't help but laugh and tell him, "Church is inside you." For me, it was true. Buddhism, through the Dharmata Foundation, had become my spiritual anchor, offering a philosophy that fit neatly with our transient lifestyle.
We embraced the concept of flux, the consistency of change, much like the Fluxus art movement of the 1960s. The Tao or I Ching echoed in our lives as we adapted to the ever-shifting circumstances. Our community of homeless brothers and sisters was diverse, yet we found unity in our shared struggles and fleeting moments of joy.
One memorable period was when we squatted on the roof of the nearly shut-down Berkeley Art Museum. The Rat Bastards had just finished their installation featuring an abandoned car, a poignant symbol of decay amidst the academic setting. The Berkeley Art Museum was closing due to seismic risks—its brutalist concrete structure, with cantilevered galleries and unfinished forms, couldn't withstand the tremors of the earth. The building was a stark, raw monument to a different era, with skylights casting eerie light over the atrium. We lived above it all, high on the roof, until the sunburn and the inevitable arrival of the police forced us down. It was safer there than on the streets below, where the homeless community of Berkeley could be unpredictable and, at times, frightening.
Our makeshift home on the roof was a testament to resilience and ingenuity. With climbing gear and scavenged materials, we constructed a fort that shielded us from the elements and the prying eyes below. The police eventually discovered our hideout, amused rather than angry, and we were roasted like crabs in our sunburned state as we explained our peculiar sanctuary.
Mr. Floppy’s Flophouse
From the concrete heights of Berkeley, our journey led us to the infamous Mr. Floppy’s Flophouse in East Oakland. This was no ordinary shelter; it was a mansion steeped in history, a relic of a bygone era that once housed a bordello and saloon frequented by none other than Jack London. The elegant bar still bore his image, a ghostly reminder of the past amid the raucous present.
Mr. Floppy, an enigmatic archeologist from Finland, had transformed this mansion into a nexus of the underground party scene. Known for excavating an inverted pyramid believed to hold the knowledge of mankind, he now presided over a labyrinthine venue that catered to the city's most eclectic and eccentric souls.
The flophouse was a sensory overload, with each of its 15-20 rooms offering a different experience. In the grand ballroom, DJs and performers like Psychic TV and Olli Wisdom spun their web of hypnotic beats and ethereal sounds. Upstairs, the atmosphere shifted wildly—one room featured a naked man playing sitar, another was a hub of freestyle house music, and yet another was a black light wonderland, its mushroom garden glowing eerily in the dark.
Despite its reputation, Mr. Floppy’s was a haven of camaraderie and creativity. The City of Oakland had granted the necessary permits, ensuring that the events were both legal and relatively safe. It was a place where the boundaries of reality blurred, where the night could stretch on indefinitely, and where George, the property’s owner, would appear at dawn in a wizard cape, serving shrimp cups and noodle soups from behind his piano.
Yet, beneath the surface of this fantastical place, a more somber reality lingered. I was once invited to become a roommate there, a chance to join the eccentric family that inhabited the mansion. The openness of the place made me hesitate; I feared I wouldn't fit in, that the acceptance extended by the homeless community might not translate to the more intimate quarters of Mr. Floppy’s. George, who once exuded a warm, welcoming aura, had become more of an Airbnb host, concerned with the bottom line rather than the communal spirit that once defined the house.
The Produce Market and the Grit of SF
No matter how far we wandered, our story always led us back to the streets of San Francisco, to the produce market near Circosta Iron and the pipeline sewage treatment plant. This was the grittiest, most unforgiving part of the city—a place where survival demanded every ounce of strength and creativity we possessed.
Our trading post was more than just a shelter; it was a beacon for the lost and the hopeful. Here, under the shadow of industry and decay, we found ways to inject beauty and meaning into our lives. Poetry readings, shared meals, and the simple acts of kindness created a tapestry of human connection that defied the harshness of our surroundings.
In this urban wilderness, Elishba and I continued our pilgrimage, modern saints navigating a landscape of concrete and chaos. We built our sanctuary with what little we had, discovering a profound sense of control and purpose in the process. It was our way of living through the chaos, of finding peace in the eye of the storm.
Our journey was not just about survival; it was about finding moments of grace amid the struggle, about creating art and beauty where others saw only desolation. We were the modern-day St. Christophers, bearing the weight of our world with resilience and defiance, turning every challenge into a testament to our enduring spirit.
The Price of Ice Cream and the Cost of Dreams
Texts are completed in their transaction, a dual narcissism. The transaction of the linguistic crisis—the decisive moment, critical, connects you to a crisis. The turning point in an illness, whether you will live or die. Argument, textuality, discourse—Criticas Kritikos, able to judge.
Pieces of writing, a speech, the idea is a text. We distinguish what is and is not text. Textuality arises out of intentions and is offered up to the hearing of an argument.
So, there's an ice cream van there, selling just two ice creams with two chewing gums in it. For bloody nine pounds for two of them. Nine quid for two? Yeah, nine quid. That is gonna get nowhere. One that comes on my street, it's either one pound apiece or two pounds, like he's gonna get nowhere with that. No, no, he ain't! That's well bad, isn't it? He should know! And he only does bloody card. Stood there with my cash! Bloody hell! Well, that's well bad, isn't it? Bloody well bad! Yeah. Yeah! Bet he can hear me!
In the end, we navigate our crises, our moments of decision. Whether it's the price of ice cream or the cost of our dreams, we judge, we survive, we continue our pilgrimage through the concrete jungle.
Arik Seidenglanz 2024