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...The five of them gathered outside in a line, facing the rollup door in the alley. From inside, voices. A guitar feeding back and Punk Monster yelling at George. Farther down the alley Pigeon Man was trying to shoot a pigeon off a telephone pole. His rifleshots echoed off the tall dark tenements that leaned back from the sidewalk.

The five of them looked at each other. The two women were dressed in nightgowns and the men wore leather jackets. Urine soaked trash surrounded them in the alley. Fenton knelt down and gripped the bottom of the door with his fingers and the others followed. They strained. The door lifted slowly and then smoothly gave way and they walked into a cavernous room filled with smoke and light. At the other end the band turned with their eyes wide. What the HELL Punk Monster said.



1997

The Terra Incognita loft took up the entire top floor of a dilapidated but beautiful old light-industrial building in a tenement-filled block of San Francisco's South of Market district. I rented it cheap, as raw illegal space full of code violations, recruited a motley collection of roommates, and built it out as a combination of public and private space: residence, studio, gallery, performance venue, dance hall, social and ceremonial center, etc.

The first year was a wild ride, after which I had to rebuild the place. I've told stories from that year many times; some of them were adapted for this pamphlet, which was intended as the first in a trilogy, a personal bohemian testament. I've distributed copies to most of my friends and family.

 ...On the big day they marched around the columns of an insurance company skyscraper, shouting "Life!" "Trust!" "Security!" while Joe counted time on his wood blocks. A video crew followed them everywhere. Accompanied by Fenton's droning tape loops, Joe stood modestly on the steps of the Stock Exchange, narrating the old legend of the Little Boy and his Digging Stick who destroyed the Evil Serpent of the Underworld and founded a venerable financial institution. For a climax, they helped the Bike Messenger climb upon a hideous monolithic sculpture in the public plaza below the city's tallest building.

He crouched like Atlas on the black stone of death, one arm aloft, tethering the others with strands of multicolored cloth as they ran around the stone in a great circle. It was essentially a maypole dance. Awestruck bike messengers gathered with their radios, spreading the news. Bystanders were interviewed by the video crew. Many believed it was one of the city's ancient and sanctified traditions.