if you survived the 90's
In the Mission District in San Francisco You weren't really there. Kyle and I both lived,
though. Or at least did some time at The Daily Plan-It. A cheap rent storefront, punk rock at the bottom of Valencia Street. Neighbors from The Projects knocked on the
door to offer us things they had stolen. Norteños brought green bud and talked about offin' da pigs. The roommates'
band played live in the storefront window to whoever wandered by whenever. We look back now. We were free.
because we lived in a store
Does not mean we were for sale.
Time was different then, no computers or phones
but this is not meant to be romantic. This déjà vu of rooms without windows sunless days, fluorescent lit. Nights
like the basement of Mission Station.
A kind of no–time time prevailed.
Time measured in shots and spoons. My roommate on meth obsessively cleaning his gun waiting for the revolution or a private
apocalypse. Someday, he would stay awake for centuries as time slowed to a crawl and the fluorescent sun hummed. Alive in
each moment, the tiniest seeds of an eternity, cleaning, waiting as decades slowed to a crawl and nothing came.
it was over so fast the ruins of that time still walk and talk, though, trapped as they are. In that curious amber The California
sun, if you look you can see every pore, every mark. They shake your hand and remember when and smile in the sun, that timeless
sun that falls all around gentle and slow, like an endless river. flowing always back to 16th and Mission
in the mission everything comes back. I believe in reincarnation. If there was any justice the storefront today would be a
pot club. Hey green stinking field. A Holocaust Museum. But it's just a café with weak coffee and fluorescent lights
Yet there is a kind of hauntology here in these streets that can still promise. An open-door scum labyrinth in these
SOMA dot com alleys where once a long lost creative class worked late every night to develop and popularize techniques of
anal fist fuck like the kind you buy now online at kink.com which fills up the castle A couple dark streets and decades away
from our old storefront window where passersby once saw something they wanted and they would buy the whole city trying to
What the Spanish missionaries called The Lake of Sorrows
is today filled in. Dolores Park... free Wi-Fi in the sun... the new missionaries have it all. They point-and-click and drugs
are brought to their door by freaks on bikes. It's all green. Point-and-click and my friends get out of bed and go to work
In rooms without windows following the script. dominance and submission. following orders at kink.com where they say Mission
Creek still flows down in the basement. The same way that time still slows to a crawl in the fluorescent hum and, Alive in
each moment, trace the contours, a bare glimpse. This choreography of a chilly eternal return traced here, in these drawings
of images of sex from videos of sex, as watched on a computer screen.
As a lifelong criminal I know how these decisions are made yet it still fascinates. There is enough loneliness out
there-- The credit cards in the night that write the script and pay on demand. And as I reflect on all of these melancholic
transactions I wonder if this, the insatiable demand of this timeless loneliness, is the true subject of this book.
~Erik Lyle 2014