Everywhere has a history, but San Francisco’s is more tumultuous, more chthonic, than almost anywhere else.  Everyone here has an underground group, a shibboleth, a hole-and-corner meeting spot.  There are cultures that I will never find, much less understand.  Cryptic street art, the Bohemian Club, ships buried in the ground.  In this space, I’ll try to capture those unknown histories, those secrets, those glimpses you catch when passing a narrow alley or a doorway, on the bus, in the park, on street signs.  San Francisco is a place where you can come to get lost or where you can come to find yourself, or anything in between that isn’t quite so conventional.  This is the edge of the frontier, no matter the direction whence you came, the place where, when we could go no further, we looked up, saw it was good, and put a stake in the ground.

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