Driven down from The Heights and cast out from a community of academics, over-achievers and esteemed members of the creative class, the people who would later become known as the People of The Willows sought refuge on the rocky western slope that faced The River.

A resilient ad hoc tribe of recyclers, tinkerers, bricklayers, petty thieves, banjo players and dock workers, the people of The Willows immediately took up the task of community building.

Though the slope’s inhospitable terrain offered little encouragement for the establishment of suitable habitation, the land proved itself to be surprisingly malleable.

The newly arrived refugees cleared brush and gathered stones to create the slightly uneven streets that we see today. They forged homes from a wide variety of architectural philosophies and planted community gardens on rooftops and in alleys, cultivating crops of succotash, brussel sprouts, sugar beets, cress and yellow carrots, while also making room for small patches of undomesticated grasses from which to feed the seventeen goats, some of whom occasionally roam The Willows’ narrow streets.

Within a short period of time, the first general store appeared, followed by a bicycle repair shop and a seltzer water dispensary (which doubled as a package delivery service). Not long afterwards, the first cast iron streetlamps were installed.

With a natural disregard for authority, The Willows has neither a school nor a police precinct. Instead, children are either home-schooled or left to their own devices, while low-level “criminal” activity is often overlooked, unless the people of The Willows deem a grievance too grotesque to accept, in which case they will police themselves.

Though the people of The Willows are loosely organized and non-hierarchal in structure, there are many characters who distinguish themselves from the others.

Amongst them:

JEBEDIAH: a bearded man with thick glasses, whose gait suggests a perpetual discomfort with his seemingly ill-fitted boxer shorts, he has made it his routine to check in on his fellow Willow people as he monitors the progress of the emerging village. Much of his day is spent visiting shops and gathering places along the two streets that make up the heart of The Willows. Though he has no dwelling to call his own, he is always welcome in the other homes of the community, and so Jebediah never lacks a place to sleep.

DESDEMONA: regardless of the weather, she is never observed without her high-collared coat, of which she has many, thus no one alive has ever set eyes upon her neck and collarbone. Her hair is kept short, with a feathery tuft of grey in front, and she favors leather work boots. She provides legal services for the people of The Willows, using most of her working hours to petition the regional chamber of commerce, as well as the city government, to recognize the legitimacy of the property claims coming from The Willows, while also promoting the cultural legacy that is currently being fostered in The Willows. On most afternoons during her lunch repast, she can be seen working on the exterior upkeep of her house on Willow Place.

DORIS: it is her life’s ambition to document, preserve, promote and perpetuate the beauty of the willow trees that give her people their namesake. Especially enamored of the willow branch in springtime, during its tantalizingly short interlude before the pods unveil their April bloom, she creates vast works of art based on them, including oversized daguerreotypes, acid etchings and intentionally crude lithographs. Easily recognized by her proclivity towards woolen shawls and jeans, she is often found by the stand of willow trees near the formerly unimpeded Furman Street – the last group of virgin willows in the county.

SIMEON: a former fireman (well, it should be noted that he was admitted to the Brooklyn Heights Fire Department’s Training Program but failed to appear for three out of the first five sessions and was thus summarily dismissed), he now works at The Willows Social Services office, advising residents about the finer details of passport applications, out of state driver’s license tests, and correspondence school programs. Always dressed in a denim camouflage jacket and a ski hat, when he is not holding court at his place of business, Simeon regularly finds himself at the end of the bar at the Weeping Willow Public House, where from he enjoys extolling the virtues of home slaughtering – that is, the slaughtering of livestock for human consumption performed in the privacy of one’s own home.

JENNY: were one to stroll through the district of The Willows, one would never “see” Jenny, yet her presence is everywhere. Many of the woolen hats, shawls, scarves, gloves, leg warmers, blankets and small rugs are made by Jenny – proudly articulating her enthusiasm for colors such as turquoise and violet – thus helping to cement the nickname that outsiders have bestowed upon The People of The Willows: the “Purple Pirates.”

The casual observer might note that well over half of all of the knitted winter hats on display on the streets of The Willows are made by Jenny’s hand. Furthermore, during the more frigid months, the goats are often seen wearing warming jackets, also made by Jenny.

To say that all of these objects are hand-made is perhaps misleading, because Jenny actually produces many of her works through the help of an enormous loom, which occupies almost all of her living room.

Excruciatingly agoraphobic, Jenny pins her finished works on a clothes line, which she lowers to street level through an elaborate series of mechanical pulleys and levers, which then enables her fellow residents to more easily preview and select an item. When a resident chooses one, he or she replaces the item with an envelope that contains coins and bills. Customers decide for themselves how much they will pay, though if Jenny determines that they’ve offered too little, the undervalued item has a mysterious habit of disappearing from its new owner – frequently within a few days of the initial transaction. In its place, one would find a handwritten note, which states very simply: “not enough.” Once restitution has been made, the item is returned, often under the cloak of night.

RICARDO: a Norwegian transplant christened with the name of Ole Rikard, Ricardo arrived in The Willows after a stormy life at sea. It is rumored that he has fathered fourteen children, for on a few occasions, a child of mixed ethnicity who bears a striking resemblance to the wide-eyed, blonde-topped Ricardo, will be seen surveying the streets, as if looking for a lost keepsake. Should Ricardo catch sight of such an inquisitor, he will hurriedly duck into the Weeping Willow Public House or the Last Journey Café – depending on which end of the street he finds himself.

Though forever intermittently employed and always just short of cash, Ricardo is nonetheless a popular figure amongst the People of The Willows. He wows locals with his feats of strength, often challenging outsiders to arm-wrestling matches and staring contests. To this day, he remains undefeated.

It has been said that Desdemona once openly speculated what might happen should Ricardo ever face a challenge from one of the children he has cast-off, in the event that they ever return to The Willows as adults. A topic such as this provides ample fodder for late afternoon conversations when Ricardo is beyond earshot.

GEORGINA is often found seated on the front steps of an unoccupied corner shop, which since her arrival, has been re-dubbed as “Georgina’s.” She rarely moves from this spot, entertaining guests and passers-by with her impressively broad tastes in danceable music, which she shares by virtue of a portable music machine that has been connected to a set of amplifiers. On occasion, Georgina will take out a battered steel-plated slack guitar and strum along.

Though she is well read and tells tales from the far corners of the globe, no one in The Willows can recall a time when Georgina was ever absent from her stoop for more than half a day.

A lover of homemade chocolates, she typically offers one of these hand-crafted morsels to anyone willing to bring her a cup of her favorite triple-roasted Yemenite coffee from the Iris Café located on the middle of the block.

Georgina’s celebrity was greatly enhanced when it was discovered that she is one of the few residents who has ever stepped foot inside of Jenny’s lair. She has personally testified to the enormity of Jenny’s loom and, when dark sentiments get the better of the locals, is rumored to be one of Jenny’s henchmen. However, when the late winter sunshine casts its golden glow upon Georgina’s cherubic cheekbones, it is hard to conceive of her as anything else but a bon vivant, albeit a lazy one at that.

BENJAMIN: In truth, Benjamin has no business being amongst the People of The Willows, for he is over-qualified and earns far too great an income, yet he counts himself as one of them. A writer and cultural critic by trade, he spends almost all of his daylight hours locked away in the back room of his dimly lit railroad flat, keeping exclusive company with a quartet of exceptionally well-behaved cats. In the early evening hours, he will make his presence known at the Weeping Willow Public House, seated at a booth with a gin martini while reading through theater reviews from foreign newspapers.

On most evenings, he will travel to The Island to preview gallery installations in advance of their formal opening. He’ll then make a second appearance at the Public House back in The Willows, where, with the assistance of two glasses of Sazerac, he’ll fulfill his socializing needs before retiring to his apartment and four cats.

… TO BE CONTINUED

put together by The Willows Preservation Society and written by Christian Svanes Kolding

it was already in the newspaper, as i could plainly see in the hands of a man seated in the row in front of us.

an image of mr. presley on the cover of a norwegian daily: this mysterious semi-tragic celebrity, dead while in his 50s.

with the death of michael jackson, i wonder how it feels for kids today?

the memories of mr. jackson are a combination of bizarre real-life experiences (i met him at spotwelders in venice, california back in 1994) and the fact that i had my first school vacation crush while “Rock with You” was a top 10 hit, or how my brothers and i used to habitually freak out to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” we improvised an oddball dance to that last number.

what a strange life he had.

venice, los angeles.

a friend of mine laments that this time of year makes him feel especially ill-tempered.

to quote him, he writes “All this Christmas-ness that carpet bombs our senses every December is totally overwhelming and alienating for those of us who do not celebrate the holiday. It’s no myth that suicide rates are highest in December. And why not? If you’re not celebrating, there must be something wrong with you.”

of the person whom christians are supposedly celebrating, he says, “Nice kid. Daddy issues. Founded a religion.”

having now moved back to the states, it is funny and strange to be re-immersed in “christmas culture.”

i don’t watch television, i don’t have cable, i don’t listen to commercial radio, and i don’t go to downtown san francisco during my twice a month stays up north. i have to say that this limits my exposure to the oversaturation of “christmas” commercialism to a remarkably low and manageable level.

it’s great because, outside of taking the time to send a few letters and purchase a few gifts, i hardly notice that it’s christmas.

yes, i am aware that we are in the holiday season, but it doesn’t bother me. especially down here, in los angeles, the way that enthusiasm for the holidays is publicly expressed is quite amusing compared to what we have in my home town of copenhagen.

on the other hand, when strangers wish me “merry christmas,” though most of them, in fact, have trained themselves to say “happy holidays,” i see this as an opportunity for people to actually express a little conviviality to each other, which is certainly not a bad thing.

so, when someone says “merry christmas” to a non-christian – and non-christians are a significant chunk of the san francisco population – rather than taking this as an affront, could it not be seen as an effort to reach out? not for the sake of conversion, but only for the sake of fellowship? is this such a bad thing, even to someone who wants nothing to do with christmas?

finally, there is a bright side to this – christmas day (a bit like the day of the superbowl) is a great day for roaming around the city of san francisco (or los angeles or new york) because you have the city more or less to yourself. for once, many shops are finally closed, there is a semblance of peace in the city. one can walk unhindered in the fresh air.

god jul, everyone. glædelig jul.

for friends that are overseas,

just in case you are watching the u.s. elections today, i can share with you a few different websites that will definitely consume your time while you are searching for insights into the final results.

new york times: http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/11/03/election-night-essentials/ 

which is not to be outdone by their election center:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/04/us/politics/04guide.html?hp)

beyond new york times and the u.k. based guardian, i’ve been following these sites:

http://www.fivethirtyeight.com/

http://norvig.com/election-faq.html  

http://3bluedudes.com/ProjectDatabase.htm

http://news.google.com/?topic=el&promo_msg=el

http://www.intrade.com/?request_operation=main&request_type=action&checkHomePage=true

http://realclearpolitics.com/

and of course, there’s twitter’s election coverage: http://election.twitter.com/

well, i will be checking in every now and then but today is unfortunately or fortunately, a very busy work day for me.

standing in line, waiting to be frisked, one could hear the reverb of the guitars playing on the main stage. the raconteurs, it sounds like the raconteurs.

perhaps i regretted not arriving at the venue sooner, so that i could catch several acts that performed earlier in the day, but the experience of walking onto the grass of the polo field as the sun sets brings out the majestic qualities of the environment. the nearby san jacinto mountains are reduced to serrated violet-hued silhouettes, the air cools, the fan palms sway, objects are incandescent in the twilight, even the skin glows.

there are thousands upon thousands of people milling about, moving from one stage to another. we are not at burning man. nor are we witnessing a stadium concert. it’s somewhere in between. white marquees tents with jutting peaks form villages along the sides of the field, and there are smaller tents in the middle of the grounds. there are massive towers of speakers and amplifiers, and placed throughout the venue are large works of installation art.

it’s a carnival, like the millions of carnivals that precede us, the carnivals that go back a thousand years, further back. it brings us together. we trade our wares, we swap stories, eyes meet as we sit by the campfire, by the burning light, we beat our drums and listen to the songs of others. this is no different.

a thousand clans, a thousand tribes, convene in this place, each with their own sense of hierarchy and their own distinctive markings. and then there are the rare free radicals bouncing off the walls.

some of our friends have backstage passes and v.i.p. wristbands, granting them access to the areas that hide behind the chain linked fences which are covered in green vinyl. i’m happy to be out amongst the proletariat, the ignorant and the unsanctioned.

while making our way to one of the smaller venues, we pass a wrought iron sunflower sculpture that spits fire. we find aphex twin in the middle of a set. it’s not a rave, it’s not really a party, but there is ritual involved. an audition of sorts. it’s mutual – the festival goers perform for the performer, and, in turn, richard d. james performs for them. a troubadour for the troubadours.

part two

there was a time when i couldn’t do anything by myself without listening to the verve’s two signature works, northern soul and urban hymns. these albums had a sound that contained a self-indulgent, melancholy-infused frustration to their slightly bipolar rebellious streak that appealed to the pathetically restrained kid in me – a kid who was just out of school and looking for an honest way forward.

before he started his barefoot dance onto a path towards drug-free self-realisation through world peace and groovy beats, richard ashcroft penned songs that were poetic and angry, that youthful urgency forming a woozy push and pull that i had a hard time turning away from.

there they were again, the verve on stage on friday night at coachella. long after sunset, as the lights turned for a moment on the audience while a propeller plane flew overhead, its fuselage and wings converted into a shimmering billboard that evoked a sight from blade runner, richard ashcroft grabbed the microphone and started to sing.

they were not masterful but it was good to see them. i welcomed the opportunity to shout along to their music again.

long after the roadies for portishead had packed their gear and prince had outstayed his final note, on a saturday night heading into sunday morning, we stood outside the palm springs museum of art waiting to be picked up by a shuttle bus.

it is an odd experience, standing in line to be ushered to a secret location so that we can attend an “exclusive” invite-only event. actually, it’s pretty stupid. this is not how the ‘party elite’ do things in copenhagen and berlin and it goes against a lot of the things that are important to me.

but we are in california now – and apparently, you can’t throw a decent party without making it invite-only and then restricting the list to young celebrities of the day and the industry types who want to socialize with them (or at least be near them). then there are the likes of myself (and a few others in our gang of friends), who find themselves populating the outskirts of this particular subculture.

the party was noisy and well attended. no complaints here. it almost felt european. there was dancing, there was music: pedro winter (busy p), whom i recognized from the copenhagen daze, worked the turntables. there was a lovely pool gleaming in the electric chill of the desert air, and most amusingly, the party took place in frank sinatra’s former home. amazing.

apparently, sia furler was among the 200 people loitering about – though i failed to see her, as i also didn’t see m.i.a. (though the dj played paper planes)… it was impossible to miss the shrill-voiced chloe sevigny (who evidently suffers from a staring problem) and the equally shrill behavior of the party’s host, jeremy scott, who pranced around in red spandex bicycle shorts, shirtless beneath a matching bathrobe, his gaunt cranium topped by a dark military squadron leader cap, while he launched himself onto white leather couches and glass coffee tables. thanks for throwing the party, jeremy, but it’s hard to think of you as a bad boy while you perform for the rest of us. jeremy scott wouldn’t just grab your attention, he’d kick at your ankles until you looked his way, making sure you get a good look at one of his emaciated legs perched suggestively on a table.

all for show, one presumes, and it’s just as well. one should not express ingratitude for the generosity of the host and his sponsors, adidas and belvedere vodka – which were in abundant supply. it was brought to my attention that some guy from fight of the concordes was milling about but i wouldn’t have recognized him or anyone else who was young and famous, even if i was sharing one of the many cocktails of the evening with them.

i did recognize anouck lepere, she of the hugo boss deep red campaign, the lean and tall fashion model with the remarkable cheekbones and equally noteworthy eyebrows. i think she changed her wardrobe three or four times during the three hours that i was at the party.

as the evening drew to a close, while waiting for the return shuttle bus, we did forward rolls on the grassy lawn beneath the cool night sky. i watched jane perform a triple roll that landed her in the gutter. she grabbed her shoulder and groaned. moments later we all got back on the bus.