Exploring Google Maps, especially the Street View, is an interesting way to artificially experience locations. Since they are captured at certain times and collaged together, there is something very uncanny about exploring a city in Google-dictated space.

I'm thinking of doing a "walkthough" writing/blog project that involves streets in San Francisco and the differences between the way I view these streets and the way Google Maps portrays them. What follows is only vaguely related to this idea, but serves as a introduction to my home in the world -- which is off the Street View grid, so to speak.

Bernal Heights, Approaches to Negative Space

Bernal Hill is the dominant feature of this neighborhood, as you can clearly see. I live at the tip of the park, if viewed as a triangle. Or, more specifically (and from a different point of view), I live here:

I've edited this map, which is clearly a Google Map, in order to convey the spaces from which the following Street Views were taken. The "views" all point toward a street that, some way or another, eventually takes you to my home. An interesting thing geographically about Bernal Heights is that it is a contained neighborhood on a hill -- Cesar Chavez to the North, Mission to the West, Cortland to the South (though Bernal Heights technically exists south of Cortland as well), and 101/Bayshore to the East. I will represent three of these four views, as Cortland does not have Street Views and any further south is outside my own personal experience of this section of town.

A: 101/Bayshore

This image, taken from a fast-moving highway, is an elevated view of Cortland Ave, which is not documented in the Street View function (fortunately or unfortunately).

B: Cesar Chavez and Precita/Bryant

The buildings in front seem to be blocking the sun. There isn't much light on this street at the moment. Precita Ave, which flows into Bernal Heights and parallels Cesar Chavez a block from this shot, is the quintessential street of a microcommunity: coffee shops, a restaurant, a corner store, a laundry, a cute park. It is the analog of Cortland.

C: Cesar Chavez and Alabama

Alabama is the most direct route to my house. The road rises steeply at the end and drops you off on a ridge that serves the many intricate pathways and tentacle-arms of Bernal streets. This shot is strangely put together; for some reason, the upper floors of a house on the street have been negativized. One wonders what this virtual (mis)representation does to the spirit of the space itself.

D: Cesar Chavez and Folsom

Folsom is a beautiful street lined with trees. This is another direct route to my house; it follows the road that straddles Bernal Hill and approaches the aforementioned ridge from a different direction. (This street will, perhaps, be my first "walkthough")

E: Mission and Powers

I never take this route, but it is important to conceive of Bernal Heights as a neighborhood with "options for escape." What I mean is this: Bernal's steep roads are only one line of flight; there are also numerous paths and stairways that allow pedestrians more freedom and creativity in the routes they choose. The point being, I could take Powers and, simply by orienting myself to the hill, could figure out two dozen routes to get home. This option is what is so charming about the neighborhood -- one can always have an interesting walk through Bernal Heights' meandering and hidden paths.

F: Mission and Cortland

Cortland is the lifeblood of Bernal Heights. Though Precita has amenities, Cortland makes Bernal Heights a legitimate neighborhood because it has one of everything: grocer, laundry, bar, restaurant, salon, bookshop, etc, etc. Coming down from Cortland to Mission is one of my most common routes and also one of the most fascinating -- Cortland and Mission are two totally different worlds: Cortland has families, a large lesbian community, and some of the upper crust; Mission is gritty and real, a mix of Latinos and young up-and-ups, and full of the life that makes San Francisco so charming while maintaining its "reality." In some ways, living on a hill is like living in the clouds; moving down the hill grounds my experience of what is real about this place.

ABC/Facebook and National Politics

I came across this article today and found it interesting. The ability to "follow" reporters in the field and possibly respond to the way they portray an issue is a complicated issue. On the one hand, I like the idea that we have extended the breadth of communication through the internet to the point that we have "full coverage" of everything, thus allowing informed, nuanced positions to be made available to everyone. On the other hand, this sort of full coverage means a loss in the spirit of change: as we collapse extension and duration into mere communication, change cannot manifest in the world-shaping ways. We no longer experience revolution, only the continual reification of the present moment, a history forever paused in an extended modernness.

Briefly, On Book Collection

Everyday needs a catalyst for inspiration. There is always the option to stay in bed, but waking up and engaging in something immediately -- cooking, reading, sudoku, crosswords, music -- increases the speed and intensity of one's thoughts. Activity is the active mode.

Recently, I have left the house each day with lists of things I want in my life. Because where I currently live is still sparse as far as furnishings go, I essentially set out to "furnish" my life. This isn't simply a desire to have something but more an active progression toward how I want to live in the world. This active progression never comes to an end. Rather, its destination is a utopia in itself: a mode of existing in the world that will never truly occur but is easily reducible to a possible description or image of existence. I've talked about heterotopias before, but there is a certain utility in the utopian vision of one's life that necessitates the idea of the heterotopia in the first place. As utopian conceptions intersect, you're left with being in the moment -- beautiful, tragic, sad, depressing, boring, lovely, and so on -- that is frozen outside the trajectory. It is interesting to come to terms with the notion that the way I furnish my life will never complete itself -- in some way, "feeling at home" in the world is accepting the inability to "complete" the home.

When I leave the house, I walk up Cortland Avenue to visit the bookstore. Furnishing my life with books is important as an act of collection that I find soothing. I have certain books in mind when I enter the bookstore, but I am also quite conscious of an overarching, socially inscribed value to authors and particular texts. Thus, when I move on from the bookstore to the man on the street selling books, I buy the "valued" book for a quarter.

Literally: I will never read the book. It falls in the pile of "valued" but does not overlap with my actual interests. But having it is part of the constitution of myself (which perhaps in this moment is broadcasting "fake") just as a bookshelf represents an individual's way of seeing the world. This isn't a totalized vision, but rather an interesting cross section of how one chooses to represent oneself. So, I buy books that I don't need and won't read for the purpose of having intellectual "capital", which can be freely traded using Bookmooch for books that I actually want to read and display on my bookshelf (which doesn't exist here, so all the books I've accumulated since moving to San Francisco are actually on the floor).

Just like the way I envision utopia but never realize that existence, I am always progressing toward a collection of books that will perfectly represent me. Obviously, the irony of this trajectory is that it goes to infinity, thus making my accumulation of books so excessive that representation becomes vague; the only thing conveyed is that I have too many books that I won't read. Simultaneously, the beauty of the infinite limit is that collection and "furnishing" are realized as active modes, as ways of articulating the spirit in ourselves.

Sound Maps and an excuse for Nomadology

The recent This American Life on various forms of cartography is one of the best I’ve heard (the one on Unconditional Love, which made me cry, is also excellent). The programs covers different ways of seeing the world through maps, which are interesting because of their hyper-specific orientation in and projection of the world. The section on sound maps – the harmonies and chords produced by the objects which surround us – resonated particularly well in light of recent experience I had on the San Francisco MUNI.

The story goes:
Due to a recent “incident” that occurred on Halloween, I have changed the path I take home from work. Instead of a straight shot from work to the bus, I walk up two blocks in order to take a different route home. This detour gives me several minutes to process the events of the evening: work, coworkers, my eating habits, my plans for the evening, and so on. Eventually, I reach the bus stop and get on.

The bus is always well lit and filled with a range of different passengers. Though the ride is seemingly entirely quiet, there is a permeating feeling of tiredness and intent; most passengers, it seems, are on their way home from work, locked into a closed space with strangers who happen to share the same obscure hours as they do. We glance ever-so-briefly, play different music into our individual headsets, look at papers left by those who came before, and always thank the driver at our stops. But getting off the bus, for me, is always the most profound.

Having spent twenty or thirty minutes on the bus – which resembles a place in limbo, where time does not physically manifest but rather emerges only as a static figure on the ticker – I get off at a stop which is quite dark. In front of me, the bus pulls away, its hum serving as a final, fading reminder of the plethora of noises that accompanied my ride. These noises, I immediately realize, comforted me in some way, assuring me of companionship; even if my companions were total strangers, we all shared the same bus, all located ourselves in the precarious space that is constantly moving without visual indication of being in motion.

I step off the bus into the street. The quietness calms me. The quietness alerts me to the emptiness of my new environment, which leads more directly into solitude. There is an image, in a movie that perhaps I’ve never seen but imagined in great detail, of the bus pulling away from a deserted street. The image is the exact moment when the bus finally moves away from sight, cutting off both visual and aural indication of its presence as it rounds a nearby corner. The environmental sound changes from a hum to a low murmur, an atmospheric sound composed by thousands of sleeping, breathing bodies in the darkened homes around me (the protagonist). And though I am calm, I realize that my wakefulness means solitude at this time of night, and I have been unwillingly thrown into this position.

Instead of idling in solitude, I begin to walk up the hill, which is quite steep, and my own breathing joins the sleeping chorus. Mine is heaving, more strained, but sparks within me a sort of tired bliss as my body tries hard to forget that my feet hurt from wearing dress shoes and standing all day. As the ground levels, my footsteps suddenly seem louder than before; I’ve become accustomed to the sound of night on these blocks and my steps serve as an uplifting beat that rises louder than the sleeping, breathing murmur.

Finally I reach my door, turn the key smoothly in the lock, and step inside. In this final transition, I realize that I have moved through various sonic environments, all of which affected my general mood:

The bus was a sleepy hum; the street was the murmur of solitude; the hill was a strained, rewarding effort; the level ground was an upbeat movement; and the turning key in the lock was a smooth, clear finale.


It’s worth noting the your sonic environment – the hums and buzzes of your home and workspaces – as a tool toward further understanding your personal practices of life and your own emotional sanity. Music theory aside (I’m ignorant here), we know what sounds beautiful to our own ears and taking the sounds around us seriously can potentially open up new ways of stimulating our ways of being in the world and serving as a strategy for changing our affectations. Though I felt solitude from the deserted street, my movement into new sonic environments changed my own feelings and allowed me to process further my understanding of myself in the world.

If nothing else, let this speak toward nomadology – a specific nomadology on the sonic plane.