The Search for Life in Distant Galaxies by Rudy Lemcke.

Ed Marker must leave his home of forty years in San Francisco's Tenderloin District. 

Through a collection of eccentric and pseudo scientific studies, drawings, maps, diaries and scrapbooks that have mysteriously turned up in San Francisco's GLBT Historical Society archives, we are able to piece together a day that transforms his life.

The Search for Life in Distant Galaxies is a hybrid narrative that has been written and designed for the Internet. It is a story of dislocation and the struggle for reintegration. 

The narrative can be accessed in four ways: 
1) By viewing a chronological series of events that take place on this transformative day in the life of the main character. (Follow the hyperlinks in the menu).
2) By exploring the contents of the 1968 box that contains maps, image galleries and videos. (Follow the hyperlinks in Ed Marker's 1968 box).
3) By downloading a series of texts that are meant to be read in specific sites located in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district. (Go to Appendix A, Site Readings, and follow the directions).
4) By downloading the 15 part audio podcast and taking a walking tour of Ed Marker's world.
(Go to Appendix B, Field Recordings, and follow the directions).

The story is dedicated to Rachel Marker.

Ed Marker's 1968 Box

There was nothing particularly noteworthy about his life. No string of accomplishments that would follow his name on an obituary page, no possessions of any real value or great wealth to be fought over by his survivors—he had no apparent survivors. Only a slightly weathered bankers box with the date 1968 written on its side remained of Ed Marker.

The box contained several notebooks, photo albums, drawings, a few maps, a collection of old postcards, a couple of books, a small box of 8mm films and some other miscellaneous odds and ends that he had kept for reasons that were his alone. How this box, out of all the precious clutter that he had accumulated over the years, ended up in this particular place at this particular time remained unclear. 

The Apartment

He lived in a modest third floor studio apartment in the heart of San Francisco’s Tenderloin District. In the past forty years he had lived in many places but he had been here the longest, and over the course of time it had developed a type of gravitational field that spiraled out from this small private space into the world.

The apartment was crowded but obsessively orderly. One wall was filled with shelves of notebooks, binders and paper folders. Another wall held his library of books. A row of filing cabinets formed a screen between his bed, his drawing table, his desk, and the rest of the room. Any other free space, which was in short supply, was covered with drawings of distant galaxies--real and imaginary; strange and wondrous places and the creatures that inhabited them; maps of planets; star systems both known and unknown; and sketches of strange flying machines that could travel to these distant places.

This was the center of his universe and the place he called home.

The Chalkboard

He installed a chalkboard on a wall in the entranceway to his apartment where a mirror had once hung. This would be useful for his work, he thought.

In the past, he drew pictures on the chalkboard of constellations that he could observe from his rooftop or images of newly discovered planets, or the dates of oncoming comets, or meteor showers, or mysterious looking galaxies that he copied from science magazines—or just dreamed of—ideas that he wanted to keep fresh in his imagination.

Over the past few months, something had happened, and these images of a fantastic cosmos had given way to seemingly ordinary drawings of floor plans of places where he had lived over the years; of places that should have been all too familiar but were now becoming more and more difficult to remember. It troubled him that there were gaps in his memory, places that were simply blank. He thought that if he tried to recreate these floor plans by drawing them on the blackboard then he would remember the missing parts that eluded him. But each plan he drew became covered with clouds of eraser dust and smudges where he had unsuccessfully tried and retried to visualize what had been there.

Some pattern, some strange logic must be at work, he thought, a reason for this emptiness, for his forgetfulness.

He tried to understand this space that seemed lost, blank, inaccessible—yet was still present like the blackness between the stars—this dark matter that now seemed to possess an uncanny hold on him and on everything around him.

But the floor plans were gone now too, had been erased along with the pictures of ancient galaxies.

Ending One

He left the chalkboard hanging there – in all its beautiful singularity.

Ending Two

The chalkboard had become his daily reminder, a large To-Do list.

And every evening after he brushed his teeth, he erased the things that he had accomplished and wrote a new list of things to be done when he awoke.

That evening he wrote on the blackboard: 1) Get more boxes from the Packing Store... 2) Find a place to live...

Manifestations of Violence

He opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet near his desk.

The cabinet contained three drawers that were labeled as follows from top to bottom: Chaos + (Appendix A), The Paradox of Entropy, Big Bang(s).

Searching this drawer filled with folders with names like: shame and loathing, unusually cruel, indifference, abuse, remorseless, surprisingly disturbing, foreseeable, frequently missed, senseless, unavoidable, particularly painful to look at, unusually common, predictable, and a particularly large file named uncategorized—folders that were bursting with old photo clippings from magazines and newspapers—he carefully withdrew twenty images and pasted them into a new black scrapbook. He wrote on its cover, Manifestations of Violence (1968.2.1). Its index number indicated that there would be more work done on this subject.

“I really need to reorganize things,” he thought to himself as he started to insert the scrapbook along side the other notebooks that lined the shelves of his small room.

He then pulled it back from the shelf and inserted it in a box next to his desk that he had labeled 1968. This box contained several other notebooks and maps and miscellaneous items that he was beginning to assemble for a new research project.

The Future

He looked up from his desk at a drawing that he’d copied of Hubble’s Deep Field and then turned in his chair to face the interior of the room.

The walls were covered with hundreds of drawings on odd scraps and bits of discarded paper. They formed his private array of dazzling star systems both real and imaginary that had grown dense over the years.

He began unfastening images from a section of drawings that he had hung by the single window of his room that opened to the fire escape and lead to the roof of his apartment building.

Although faded by the sun, he left these particular drawings there because he liked to look at them at night, in the starlight—when they seemed to come to life. He began lovingly inserting them into a portfolio that he had labeled, The Future. They were drawings of an imaginary world that he had created in his hippie days. Some of them were drawn at Doyle’s, some of them in Golden Gate Park and Land’s End; he didn’t remember exactly. They were part 2001-A Space Odyssey, part Yellow Submarine and other utopian fantasies from the late 60s. They pictured a multi-dimensional world inhabited by magical fairies and creatures that battled with the forces of light and darkness. These drawings were from an earlier time in his life; a time before he began his more serious work; a place where he believed everything was possible.

The Future would go in the 1968 box with other research materials and ephemera that he was gathering from his archive—parts of an imperfect past that needed sorting out.

His More Serious Work

On Saturdays he would go to the San Francisco Public Library to read and do research.

He opened a fresh notebook and copied a section from the new National Geographic Magazine that had arrived that week:

Mystery Space “Ribbon” found at edge of Solar System.

 “NASA's Interstellar Boundary Explorer, or IBEX, has just produced new images of the solar system that has shocked astronomers. This first full-sized map shows 9 billion miles of atoms surrounding the solar system that scientists are describing as looking like a ribbon. This completely defied expectations: astronomers believed the atoms were evenly distributed rather than densely packed together in this ribbon formation.”

"That could be an unbelievably remarkable coincidence, or it could be a fabulous clue that somehow this external magnetic field is actually imprinting onto our heliosphere through some process that we don't yet understand."

He then drew a sketch of the data image from the magazine and would later paste it over his desk next to his drawings of Hubble’s Deep Field and a picture of the SETI project’s Big Array.

He believed that there were mysterious connections between his life and life in distant galaxies, that the movement of the universe was mirrored in the streets he inhabited—that the great secrets of space and time were contained right here and now, in the place that circumscribed his life. Years ago, he had given up on the idea of a grand unified theory of everything, but he still believed that seemingly random patterns of places and events were aspects of a thought that was greater than the sum of its parts and that if we studied these fragments that we could come to understand something of this great unknown.

This was not just some fleeting flash of insight into the connectedness of all things that he had had on an acid trip in Golden Gate Park in the late 60’s, which it had been, but the idea of revealing these phenomena as they wove around him, of unraveling these threads, had become his passion and lifelong quest.

And so, over the years, the events of an ordinary life were transformed into an epic research project.

He mapped his neighborhood in search of evidence of collapsing stars, of meteor showers, and of wormholes that linked the various dimensions that were constantly shifting as he moved through the streets. He kept meticulous notes and detailed journals that chronicled the events and phenomenon that he witnessed in his daily life in the Tenderloin.

This work, he believed, would explain some of the paradoxes of life here on earth—why there was something rather than nothing. He believed that his work, in spite of the sacrifices that he had made in its pursuit, would make a contribution to the understanding of our place in the cosmos; that this was a worthwhile mission, and a life worth living.

He often fantasized about being a real scientist, an astronomer working for NASA, being on a team of scientists that would lead to the discovery of extraterrestrial life and how different his life would have been if he had gone to college, had a mentor, made different choices, had not been sidetracked by the unfortunate circumstances of his past. But that was not his path and even Galileo and Copernicus had to find their own ways, had times of uncertainty, despair—lost hope—and had been outcasts too, he reminded himself, and this thought gave him comfort to carry on.

He continued writing in his notebook. This time an article from the San Francisco Chronicle:

Dozens of “Earth-Like” Planets Discovered Outside Solar System

WASHINGTON — Astronomers have found 32 new planets outside our solar system, adding evidence to the theory that the universe has many places where life could develop.

Scientists using European Southern Observatory telescopes didn't find any planets quite the size of Earth or any that seemed habitable or even unusual. But their announcement increased the number of planets discovered outside the solar system to more than 400.

For some reason this made him think about the lost souls that seemed to orbit around the public library. He jotted a memo in the margin of the page to find the maps that he had made of this phenomenon.

He would later transcribe these notes into a larger book that he used as a reference for his Atlas of the Universe, the latest of many ambitious cartographies of suffering that he had attempted over the years.

Magister Ludi

On Sunday mornings he played chess at the public tables on Market Street. His favorite partner was an elderly man that he affectionately nicknamed Magister Ludi. Magister Ludi had been living in the Tenderloin since the late 50’s—since the time he had been discharged from the navy. He had been a ships navigator and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the stars. They would talk for hours about distant galaxies, time travel, extra-terrestrial life, the origin of light and the inevitable collapse of our solar system. How Magister Ludi became homeless was a mystery that was never discussed, it was just a constant, a given, an unfortunate fact of life. Unlike other players at the public boards who kept their friendships confined to the game, over time, Ed had developed a genuine love for Magister Ludi, and it troubled him that there was nothing he could do to help his friend. But this was the dimension that Magister Ludi chose to live in and the chessboard was a freely chosen portal to the alleyways and dead end streets where he lived and traveled through space and time. Even though Ed understood on many levels what Magister Ludi meant when he described the astral phenomenology of his everyday life, he could not help but feel sorrow as he observed his friend’s real poverty and increasing frailty and fearfulness.

The last time he saw Magister Ludi he was standing at the Powell Street Bart station near the cable car turn-around handing out photo copies of a poem about the coming galactic cataclysm, the end of life as we have known it—an event triggered by an unforeseen, unstoppable extra-terrestrial anomaly.

The poem was one continuous stream of thoughts that spiraled out to the edges of the page and then on to the other side where it spiraled inward until the words disappeared into its center.

Ed Marker knew that he would never see his friend again; that the portal was closing, and that there was truly nothing that he could do to change things. His chess partner was unreachable and between worlds now.

Magister Ludi had been the only person, since the death of his friend James, who understood the curious mechanics of the Tenderloin as Ed Marker did. And now, he too felt frail and fearful. He feared that this knowledge would be lost. He feared the future. He tried to dismiss this feeling, block it out, trying to erase it by focusing on his unfinished project but the thought of the empty boxes that awaited him at home only made things worse. He felt more and more like a stranger walking the streets of a city that he had charted so intimately over the years. These very streets were now becoming unfamiliar.

Walking up Eddy Street he felt the dizziness of time as his own portal to this place was closing in on him. He tried to remind himself that he might be nearing a collapsing star or actually entering a wormhole and to not be afraid. This was all in the notebooks, all foreshadowed in the data, part of the forces of cosmic change that he had been recording for all of these years—part of the expansion of the universe. He continued to walk the busy streets back to his apartment, avoiding the chessboards and any other hazardous warps in space-time.

He would eventually put the poem in an envelope, with “Magister Ludi” written on its front, inside his old copy of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, next to a letter addressed to his friend James; and place the book in the box marked 1968. 

He hoped that Magister Ludi would have a better incarnation the next time around. 

The Gates of Little Saigon

He walked from Powell Street up Eddy, then right onto Larkin and through the Gates of Little Saigon.

There appeared to be a newly forming galaxy in this location, birthing from two ancient colliding galaxies. A wondrous cosmic event was unfolding.

He made several entries about this in his field notebook that he always kept in his back pocket.

He labeled six constellations that day with a comment about the particular density of the configuration in this quadrant of the Tenderloin and would later begin to assemble this information into a map of the newborn stars.

The constellations were labeled as follows: Mangosteen, Saigon Cuisine, Turtle Tower, Pho 2000, Pagolac, Them Ky, Vietnam 2 Seafood.

He entered Them Ky.

The restaurant looked at first glance like the other small Vietnamese restaurants that now dotted his neighborhood. A few remnants of this year’s official San Francisco Tet celebration hung on the wall next to a plastic shrine with some plastic figurines and plastic flowers inside it. Was this the public face that the owners had created behind which another, private space existed; a hidden room where the real shrine to their ancestors was kept and lovingly cared for with fresh flowers and fruits and bathed in the smoke of sweet incense?

He ordered some Pho and looked out onto Larkin Street.

No. There was no secret room, no private space where a real shrine existed.

The galaxy of ancestors was crashing into the galaxy where his friend James had died–leaving the remnants of its violent origins behind as little more than interstellar space debris, floating in a vast dark void of forgetfulness—illuminating an unbroken here, a continuous present folding in upon itself creating the illusion of past and future.

He recorded none of these later observations in his notebook.

It was all becoming unbearable to Ed Marker. 

The Part about James

Ed Marker
4461 St. Charles Avenue
New Orleans, Louisiana 70115

James Higgins
c/o Podesto Baldocchi Florists
224 Grant Street
San Francisco, California 94108

In the envelope addressed to his friend James (unstamped, unsealed) was a crumpled sheet of paper with a grid of streets written in pencil on it and a line traced in blue ballpoint pen that charted a course from the Alhambra Theater on Polk Street to the Mark Hopkins, then down through the Tenderloin.

Ed once remarked that everything that he knew about life he learned from James. James was a year older than Ed and had moved to San Francisco from Louisiana during the Summer of Love. He wrote to Ed only once saying if he ever wanted to become enlightened, to move to the next plane of existence, and escape the wheel of dharma he needed to leave the hick town where they both grew up and move to San Francisco. He said that he had a place for him to stay and could get him a job at the flower shop where he worked and that if he knew what was good for him that he would get to where it was all happening. Ed’s life was broken and even though he was still technically a teenager, he knew that his life was probably ruined. When James described a Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park—that was all it took. Maybe he could salvage his life in San Francisco.

Ed didn’t bother mailing the letter that he had written in reply and instead put the empty envelope with James’ address on it in his copy of Siddhartha and placed it in his backpack with a few other things that he thought he’d need on the road to California.

In 1968, Ed learned about poetry, astronomy, LSD, music, art, film, and his connection to the earth and to other sentient beings.

The following year—through a complex and seemingly cruel turn of an unseen wheel, and by events whose details are not necessary to the understanding of our story but nevertheless lie as one of its black holes—the war in Vietnam had taken his friend James and would leave a rip in space and time that would remain forever unhealed.

The Part about Vertigo

How can I explain the part about Vertigo? In a way it doesn’t really fit with the other things that I planned to put in Ed Marker’s 1968 box; but in another way it is absolutely critical to understanding the origin of his idea for mapping the strange phenomena of the Tenderloin.

As it turns out, the flower shop where James (and now Ed) work is the same Podesto Baldocchi Florist where Kim Novak buys a nosegay of roses to put at the grave of the mysterious Carlotta Valdes in Hitchcock’s movie Vertigo. Ed of course, having very little knowledge of art and film knows nothing of this—has never heard of the film or Hitchcock for that matter.

So one day, James and Ed do some windowpane acid and they go to a matinee at the Alhambra Theater to see a screening of Vertigo. The movie, of course, is about a man obsessed with the idea of recreating a past that does not exist. When the part comes where Jimmy Stewart follows Kim Novak to the alleyway and through the back door that opens onto the flower shop, the very shop where they now work; James whispers in Ed’s ear, “This is where we were born.” Not understanding the reference, this blows Ed’s mind for the rest of the film.

After the movie, Ed is still high but starting to come down. James pulls a hand drawn map from his back pocket. He says to Ed, “Come on, you be Jimmy Stewart and I’ll be Kim Novak.” James walks about a block in front of Ed and motions for him to follow. They walk down Polk to Sacramento and then up to the front gate of the Mark Hopkins, across from the Brocklebank apartments. From there they begin to retrace the path of the movie. They take the route that Hitchcock lays out in the film that leads to Claude Lane and to the back door of the flower shop. “This is where we were born,” James says to Ed pointing to the place on the map that marks the location of the Alhambra Theater, “and this is where I died,” he says as he turns the map over to reveal his draft notification. They stand there silently at the back door that opens to Podesto Baldocchi’s. (But of course this is not the real back door to the flower shop; the real flower shop is several blocks away on Grant Street, and there is no back door to Podesto Baldocchi’s. This place is only an illusion that Hitchcock creates for the story.)

Ed is transformed by this moment, but not in the “then and there” of it. Only later, after James’ death, in a reality far from a Hollywood editing room and their playful make believe game, does this memory become a part of a wound that defines his life.

“There are all sorts of portals and time trips in Hitchcock’s films,” James tells Ed when they come down from their high. “That’s why Hitchcock loved San Francisco so much; Hitchcock understood how the city fucks with your mind.”

And so Ed Marker's idea about the Tenderloin holding some hidden plan of the universe can be traced back to this memory. Whether or not he remembers the exact details of this event is uncertain. It is possible that he has altered the details of the story over time.

The Dark Bride

“Please drop by for tea, DB,” read the note that was hanging on Ed’s front door when he returned that afternoon.

DB was in fact Douglas Brown and the apartment manager of the building where Ed had lived for over thirty years. Although he was not that much older than Ed, he was from a different era—part of a generation that had migrated or been exiled to San Francisco in the 50’s and early 60’s. Like many before and after him, the city allowed DB to transform himself into what he wanted to be and always felt that he was inside—a star. DB, a.k.a. Douglas Brown, had remade himself into the Duchess von Braun and one of the leading female impersonators at the Gilded Cage on Eddy Street in the sixties. DB knew everyone in the Tenderloin and everyone knew the duchess.

After his late show and after the other bars had closed, DB used to hang out around the corner at Doyle’s on Market Street. Not really a coffee house Doyle’s had a certain North Beach vibe; but it was much more queer than even the Beat scene. It attracted artists and writers and a young hippie crowd because there was no age limit and no alcohol was served at least officially, so the cops didn’t usually come around. It was the hippest of the hip, and everyone was high on Christmas Trees (Meth) and/or LSD or mushrooms or just stoned on pot. It was the best gay after hours club in San Francisco.

This is where DB met Ed and James. DB called them his little fairy flower children because they worked at Podesto Baldocchi’s flower shop on Grant Street. They called DB the Dark Bride because one of his drag acts was impersonating Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard and he had had his picture taken for the theater’s playbill in a pose identical to the famous Alfred Stieglitz portrait of Swanson wearing a black veil. They thought he looked like an evil, dark bride. DB knew that they made fun of him behind his back but it didn’t bother him because he really loved the younger kids like Ed and James who were coming around and liked to hover over them. He said that he was their fairy godmother, which in a way, turned out to be true, at least for Ed.

After James’ death, DB looked after Ed for months, making Ed become eternally loyal to DB.

As the small world of San Francisco would have it, some years later DB became the manager of an apartment complex on Sutter Street near Hyde. Ed moved in to a studio apartment on the third floor where he became part of DB’s very extended family.

The Book of Changes

So it was particularly heartbreaking after all of these years and after all that they had been through together—and this is where things come crashing into the present—that it was DB who had to tell Ed that he had to leave. The building was being converted into condos and everyone with the exception of DB, who was going to remain to manage the rehab, was told to vacate. This had been months ago and Ed was still in partial denial about what was happening. He was now the last remaining resident in a building that was the only real home he had ever known. And it had come to this: DB showed Ed a letter from the landlord that the contractors were coming in a few weeks and that the landlord was going to call the sheriff and have him physically removed if he didn’t move out. DB burst into tears. All of DB’s friends were either dead from AIDS or had moved away—and now he was the one who was sending Ed away—his flower child. He was so sorry he kept repeating. There was nothing that he could do to stop it.

DB told Ed that he could stay with him for a while until he got another place; but things were different now—he wasn’t a teenager, DB was getting old and had cats; it just wouldn’t work out and they both knew it. Ed said that he had a few leads on places to live; maybe their friend Hank could get him a room at the Ambassador Hotel. But he really didn’t know what he was going to do or where he would go.

DB told Ed that he could keep his things in his storage locker in the basement where he kept his old costumes and wigs from the Gilded Cage.

Yes, he would come back for them.

The Observatory

On rare fogless nights like this night, with the thoughts of the city far below him, he would climb the fire escape to the roof of his apartment building where he had fashioned a private observatory. At its heart was a sturdy tripod for his beloved telescope. Surrounding the telescope was a miniature galaxy of assorted pots and containers that held a small garden of night blooming flowers.

He marveled at the night sky and wondered at its illusion of stillness and infinite serenity that masked its careless violence. He loved the moons of Jupiter, and the ice caps of Mars. He loved watching Venus, and had filled several notebooks with theories about its eccentricities.

To mark the seasons he would shift the positions of his night blooming garden to mirror the constellations of the night sky.

It was in the garden, or looking at distant galaxies through his telescope, where he was truly happy and where he felt connected to it all.

But the part of the cosmic picture that included this scene was now fading like the light from some dying star. It was time to let go, to say good-bye. As he packed his telescope for the last time and climbed down the fire escape he imagined some future explorer discovering the garden. He imagined that it would be like discovering the site of an unknown civilization and that the explorer would marvel at how magnificent it must have been in its time and speculate about its ingenious creator.

Final Sequence

He wrote on the chalkboard: “Give telescope to DB.”

He finally had the courage to assemble the cardboard boxes that were stacked in the entranceway to the apartment.

For weeks now Ed Marker had been paralyzed by the idea of sorting through his apartment archives—frozen by the idea of organizing a lifetime of work in a set of indistinguishable boxes. But now DB had at least temporarily solved his storage problem and he knew that he had to force himself to deal with the reality of the present.

He began by packing the various versions of the Atlas of the Universe, carefully labeling each box with a date and index of its contents. He filled box after box with his drift maps, field notes, research files, outlines, lists, scrapbooks, sketchbooks, finished and unfinished drawings, folders of news articles and images that he had clipped from magazines. He packed his books, the contents of his file cabinets and the piles of folders that had yet to be categorized.

And that’s when it happened.

It hit him like a bolt of lightning. His data was flawed. He realized his entire system was flawed. He knew from his reading in quantum mechanics how the observed was influenced by the observer; yet it had never occurred to him until this moment, while sorting though the contents of his life, that he might have been polluting his own research by his failure to observe and record his own motivations, his intentions, his feelings, as part of the data. How could he have made such a titanic theoretical error? How could he have not been aware of this blind spot?

Suddenly everything he knew about the universe had flipped inside out—as if the magnetic field of the planet had suddenly reversed itself there inside the boxes at his feet.

He would have to start over. Everything must be reconsidered, rethought.

Somehow the 1968 box that he had been working on while sorting through his life had taken on a new significance. The box that he hadn’t taken that seriously, that he was thinking of as more or less a nostalgic, possibly self-indulgent meditation on his early days in San Francisco, had new meaning.

Only now as he was preparing for deep space, as he was preparing for Jupiter and Beyond, was he able to see himself for the first time reflected in this newly forming galaxy as both past and future.

He saw his beginning, when things were still in their gaseous state, before gravity, before the stars, before the solar systems settled into orbits—before things could be identified and named.

Maybe this was the key to it all, the great obelisk from his great space odyssey, the Rosetta stone; the foundational moment of the old archive, and a new archive—the order of things to come.

He made an index of his boxes and drew a floor plan of how he would store them in the basement so that DB would be able to distinguish the archives from his own boxes of wigs and costumes.

And like the flash of a passing comet through the night sky, everything was gone; packed away in DB’s basement, or given to community thrift, or thrown into a dumpster—and at that moment he passed into the future. 

The End

And so it is here where we leave and discover Ed Marker, in the center of his small apartment, its walls mottled and stained with the impressions of a distant galaxy and the artifacts of time; with only a suitcase, a bankers box, a portfolio of old drawings and his beloved telescope for his friend DB.

"No regrets," he tells DB.

Appendix A: Site Readings

The Search for Life in Distant Galaxies: Field Notes and Site Readings
Please download these PDF files and read them on location.

Download Magister Ludi Poem Front and Poem Back

Apendix B: Field Recordings

Download the 15 episode Audio Podcast of The Search for Life in Distant Galaxies.

To Download to your computer: 
1. Open ITunes > click on Podcasts > 
2. Go to the Menu bar (at the top of the page) and select Advanced > Subscribe to Podcasts. 
3. A window will pop up asking for a URL. Copy this URL into the field and press OK. 


4. The Search for Life Podcast will download to your iTunes. 
5. Copy the files to your iPod or your mp3 player.
6. Wander around the Tenderloin and listen to the story or download Ed Marker's map and visit the sites of his story.

(Screen art from audio files)


The Search for Life in Distant Galaxies was created by Rudy Lemcke.

Thank you

The San Francisco Arts Commission Cultural Equity Program - Individual Artists' Grants

Thank you

Staff and Board of Qcc
San Francisco GLBT Historical Society

Thank you

Mic Sweney
Ali Liebegott
Joey Plaster
Jeff Jones
Al vonder Haar
Rachel Marker
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