dream!
the flip side of reality
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imploded butts
music with juan
interadct with sculptures, one of sun god holding a bone
twisted freeway art of D.F.
We've rented some movies to watch with Carolina-type friends. Erica is in a sad mood and I try to cheer her by sitting with her on the couch. We watch "Fame". We are perched on the roof or upper floors of an art museum in Mexico City; below us is a twisted elevated freeway that snakes through the upper regions of the vertical skyline... it is just as much art as it is function... in fact, function has been sacrificed a bit as giant trucks have extreme difficulty navigating steep drops and hairpin turns. The traffic is gnarly; I'm glad I'm up above it all and not caught up in the twisted mess below. From above it's beautiful.
Pete drinks some mushroom tea. That surprises me.
pat vs. the aquatic gorilla
This part is hazy and far back, but somehow I end up in the Biological Matrix, which is generated by something as organic as people’s minds. Inside the biological matrix you can do anything you want; you create the situations and the reality, and your personal responses to it. Now that I think about it, I’m describing dreaming, amn’t I?
In this particular matrix scenario I am in a vast wilderness, hundreds of miles of rolling hills and forest, with the occasional outcropping of old Appalachian-looking rock. A friend who seems like Sam Moses has set up camp near this huge mountain and we engage in a sport which in theory should be like snowboarding but in actuality is like surfing a big steep wave. It’s like a wave that churns but doesn’t travel… a giant standing wave out in nature. You hike up the back side of this hill and then drop in. The ride is just like surfing, and if you drop too far to the right you go over the falls and get chashed. But it’s so easy to just climb right out of the whitewater and do it again. Sam is much better at it than I am, and by watching him I see how this could be extremely fun.
***
I finally visit Pete’s place in Taiwan. It’s a cheery, sunny, high-ceilinged apartment with a spiral staircase up to a small upper level, like a loft, that looks down into the rest of the open architecture. Carpet is a light cream color everywhere and the floors and walls seem fragile. Looking down into the kitchen from above, I see this funnel-like feature… the counters and walls all sort of lean into this one spot that is a chute of sorts. (It reminds me of the tiny bathroom Pat and I and Mike had in Mission Hills, a vertical little space where every surface seemed to be a ramp leading into the toilet, a funnel effect that resulted in many an unfortunate toothbrush event. Gotta keep that lid closed. One time, a clear glass Sungod mug with a handle, which had some plants growing in it, fell from way above the toilet and landed on the tank lid. The tank lid shattered and the cup walked (tumbled) away with a mere chip.)
Pete’s funnel dropped out into an area in the tiny garden between his building and the next. His main floor was on the second story of a brick apartment building.
***
Brick: Erica and Mom and I are leaving a brick building that is my Mother’s place. Normally we would hang out there a while after she got up early to go to work, but Erica and I have done something recently that makes her not quite trust us in there alone, lest we damage or set awry some important project that’s going on. No problem. They walk out the door and up the alley first, and I follow a dozen paces behind. They are already out on the main street when I remember I forgot to feed the dolphin that Pat has asked me to take care of while he’s away.
So my mom tosses me the key and I let myself back in. Every time I do this, I’m a bit nervous that when I open the hatch to drop a fish into the tank the dolphin with take my hand off, sop I decide to feed the fish instead. When I open the hatch for the fish, I see a series of images that could be real life but I think is a documentary about something that happened there recently. It’s one of those not-clear-if-I’m-watching-a-film-or-living-it dreams:
Pat is at Sea World late at night and simply has to feed the dolphin before leaving. It has been a while since he hung out with the animals so he suits up and crawls down through the hatch. But something has gone wrong and either the wrong animal is in the tank or Pat has gone down into the wrong tank. In this tank is the aquatic gorilla, a light brown furry bipedal creature that looks like a gorilla the size of a brown bear. Its eyes are buggy, and stick out on floppy stalks three inches or so in front of its face.
It wouldn’t normally be a problem to go into the aquatic gorilla’s tank; he’d been in there a thousand times and the gorilla is docile and is comfortable with Pat. But On this day the gorilla is in a terrible mood and before Pat even realizes he’s in the wrong tank the gorilla attacks him from behind. As soon as it attacks, or maybe as soon as Pat entered the water, the dream is in slow-mo, as you’d imagine an underwater fistfight:
The gorilla sends Pat spinning 180 degrees on his body axis with a simple slam to his shoulder and then it’s an upper cut that sends Pat into the air (water) and then onto the floor. Then the gorilla is all over him, biting and thrashing and pounding with manic force and speed. I watch with dread, horrified, certain that Pat will perish.
But Pat amazingly recovers from the first attack and attempts evasive action, but the aquatic gorilla is quick, and is on him once again. The fight continues across a catwalk and on a series of ladders that lead to a deeper floor below them. As the struggle goes deeper and deeper Pat is getting thrashed. His right arm is bleeding, and his face is swollen from the beating. A few thoughts go through my head: “He must be about to run out of air by now” and “it’s a shame; Pat is so athletic and this may ruin his active career forever, if he even survives.”
At some point, however, I understand that Pat was playing simple defense, in order to not have to hurt the gorilla. But at some point when he knows that will get him killed, he strikes back with renewed energy. The gorilla has the strength and the size advantage, but Pat has the kind of technique that only comes with a complex human mind, we’re talking martial arts and psychological strategy, and within minutes the gorilla is mincemeat, a bleeding, oozing, boneless pile of flesh and hair, twisted into the metal of the infrastructure.
Pat swims to the surface and out the hatch. He is tired and beat up, but his injuries prove to be somewhat superficial. The aquatic gorilla is dead, and Pat feels terrible since they were fast friends, in a way. This incident would be excusable by Sea World corporate policy, since he was after all attempting to save his life in an unprovoked attack, and he had full authority to be in the tank with the gorilla, but he is ashamed that he had to kill for his own life, and decides to pack up and leave Sea World forever.
So he puts his jacket on and makes the rounds, saying goodbye to all the animals. It’s an active place at night, and with all the humans gone, the primates take care of nighttime business. Moneys and chimps in white lab coats run around with clip boards and training reports, checking on the aquatic animals from catwalks that run across all the pools in this indoor cavernous facility. Pat calls them “my little scientists”. Most of the animals are too busy or active to take time out to hang with Pat, so he just walks around, placing his hand on their shoulder or head, with a “goodbye, my little scientist” here or a “farewell, Gumbo” there.
By the time he has finished the rounds and has his backpack slung over his shoulder, two girls, coworkers of Pat, show up for work early in the morning. They have just finished their overnight shifts elsewhere as waitresses. He has stuck around to tell them what happened and to say goodbye forever. The girls are generally pretty dumb, and see him off with cheerful smiles.
Bye Patty! Bye, Pat
traffic
I'm in massive amounts of traffic, but it's all moving very quickly. We are all going to the same destination, some sort of convention, maybe, and it's very social: Everyone can see and talk to each other from our vehicles. I saw "vehicles" instead of "cars" since I think we are in something that's more like trains or buses.
At the destination we all check into a hotel; I'm staying in a room with my family and maybe Mike Crowe. It's a luxury hotel, and in our spacious multi-level suite we find a fireplace, a jacuzzi, couches, bar, etc. Aunt Betty is there as well, and just outside our cluster of suites is a living room-style lounge. I peek around the corner to see who is in the suite next door but as I move toward the open door, the moving air from my moving body slams it shut. I fear this may anger the guests and I pop back into my place but moments later as guy comes around to tell me to take care of his dog while he and his wife head down for a meal. Either he or she is a distant cousin of mine, and despite the presumptuous move of assuming we'd be happy to take care of his pets, I have no problem with feeding the dog.
I wake up the next day alone, either in the hotel room or at home. I have the whole day to myself but by the end of it I get hardly anything done and haven't even left the house. I watch a movie, don't shower, and lounge around in the window sill watching the traffic a few floors below. Hm, I gotta get more motivated if I'm going to take advantage of this type of free time.
Then when I'm feeding Sparky, he escapes. Again. Afraid of me, he bolts, up the walls to the ceiling and into a tricky corner. I'm nervous he will sneak into the attic and never be found again, where he will likely die. I set up a latter and get a little box to catch him in, and I think by the end of the dream I do catch him after all, but I'm always afraid that I will hurt him in the process.
restroom installation art
A group of us are going to the Pirate's Den on a Thursday night. I'm looking forward to it and will be meeting friends there. Erica and I and a friend of hers head off in the Nova in an area that looks like the western part of Sweetwater Road. It's still afternoon. Usually the Den isn't open until late but it must be because of our early sunsets that everyone is ready to go out earlier.
We all have to pee so we stop for gas and while the car is fueling we go use the toilets. I walk through the main office of the gas station and am surprised to see countless pieces of consumer electronics for sale, rather than the usual assortment of candy bars and motor oil. TVs, DVD players, stereo systems. They are all black and every model is different, and the floor is aging but clean white tile. It reminds me of one of those stores in downtown areas that sell TVs and cameras and luggage and Reeboks, all stuffed to the high ceilings in a claustrophobic street-level store.
I pass through all this to the restrooms and am instantly surprised by what looks like a tall man standing right next to the door inside. It's actually just a statue, and I look around to see the whole room is full f them. The whole restroom is an installation art piece, and an unlikely place for one at that! Gas station toilets are usually so soulless so this is a very pleasant idea.
There are about 8 statues around the room, each one a meticulous replication of a member of society. Old man feeding pigeons, boy standing with a stick, businessman. (They are all male, and I imagine the ladies' room has female statues.) The statues are carved from stone, or at least appear to be carved from stone, and then coated with shiny brown paint so they have the luster of chocolate. In fact, the entire restroom, floor, ceiling, walls, fixtures, is this uniform semi-shiny brown.
The urinals are fantastic. You must navigate around al these statues until you come to an area that seems like a grove in a forest. Each urinal is a chest- to head-high replica of an aging tree stump. On real trees you will often see areas where the bark has peeled away, exposing smooth wood underneath. Well, in these sculptures that is the case, except rather than smooth wood underneath is a gaping hole where you are meant to pee.
The tree stumps are gathered in somewhat of a half circle around a sculpture of a large life-sized oak tree with branches reaching out over our heads. You can see through intentional holes in this statue and a fire burns in its core, keeping the room warm. I discover that as I pee I can aim the flow up onto the hot coals for a delightful steam effect.
By the time I finish my pee three or four other men have arrived and are peeing at their own tree stump stations.
When I exit the restroom Erica and her friend are gone. The Nova is still there, doors open. There is a voicemail message for me from her... she didn't know what happened to me so she hitchhiked home and would I please come pick her up to take her to the Star Bar? The Start Bar? But we are going to the Pirates' Den. I talk he BACK into the Pirate's Den, annoyed that she tried to use the excuse of my disappearance to go with her plan. I'm also annoyed that she up and left rather than try to look for me. What if I had been kidnapped or something like that. And it's not exactly the best neighborhood to hitchhike in.
Oh well, that blows off and I pick her up. On our way to the Den we pass the gas station again and I want to show her what is was that kept me for so long. But when I peek my head into the restroom to make sure it's clear for women to come in, all the sculptures are gone! They must remove them and lock them up for the night so hooligans don't vandalize the art.
*****
I'm driving up the 15 and get stopped by the INS for a routine car search. I know that if my car wasn't filthy and didn't have dents in it they wouldn't have stopped me, those assholes.
This is a very long procedure and it takes for ever. We arrive and wait our turn, not allowed to get out of the car until they are ready for us. The car is so full of random odds and ends that I'm sure they will take extra time sorting through it all.
Once they get to the car we go to a waiting room and they drive the car off to the inspection area. Despite the negative homeland security vibe of the inspections, all the agents are very nice and one grandmotherly one tells us she has plenty of food in the fridge if we'd like to go make ourselves some sandwiches. although it wasn't offered to us, we use the cooked and chilled shrimp that is in tupperware bins. Mmm, I'm hungry.
We pour glasses of cold tea. It's a brownish orange, like Thai iced tea. But I put mine down, can't find it for a while, and then pick up a glass I think is mine. It seems to have flecks of dirt floating in it, and the glass is cobwebby, but I sip it anyway. It doesn't taste quite right and I walk to the kitchen for a refill. just after dumping it in the sink and refilling with more tea, one of the agents comes to me and says "You didn't drink from this glass, did you? That's old arroyo water!" Eww. I'm repulsed enough to forget that I already refilled my drink with real tea and I dump that down the drain as well.
It turns out that I am driving out to visit Stefan and Charissa. They have a new home in Laguna. I'm not exactly where it is and it is dark by the time I get off the freeway so I pull around a corner and ask for directions. It just so happens that I am walking distance from their house and I walk through this dark neighborhood looking for it.
The neighborhood is closer to the freeway than the beach and it looks like an older neighborhood in Pittsburgh. Hilly and brick buildings. It's so dark I can hardly see anything, and when I do come across the odd streetlight I can tell this is a pretty ghetto area. Prostitutes and rapist-looking vans. One prostitute is full of scars and has long white knitted leg warmers. She is negotiating with a potential customer. Ick, it's pretty grim around here.
But I make it to their house and it's quite pleasant. All wooden interior and a warm fireplace-in-winter cozy feel. The girls aren't there; it turns out they had been with me in the car and were held for the more comprehensive homeland security medical exam. Eventually they arrive and they are fine. The doctors must have been very friendly because they aren't complaining about the experience, and they recount all the various types of examinations and biological and contraband scans they went through. Apparently Uncle Sam is concerned about people transporting drugs in children.
This reminds me that I have been feeling ill and should get a checkup myself so I sign in at a local doctor's office. I wait forever in their tiny waiting room until a nurse is finally assigned to interview me. He is a kindly Latino named Francisco who takes me to wait some more back in a little room. I wait for what seems like hours. As long as I'm waiting I decide I may as well go get a medical exam so I call up my doctor and schedule an appointment. Come right over, he says, so I duck out of this doctor's office and head off to another, but right when I'm arriving Francisco calls me and tells me to come right away; he's ready for me.
So I head back and he puts me in ANOTHER waiting room, a very nice plush one in the center of the building with better magazines and more comfortable chairs than the crowded one out front. Why don't more people wait here? Must be that nobody knows about it. I can see the little pharmacy from where I sit and can see that they also sell candy bars and sundries. They must need the extra income.
leftovers
Foraging for food in the kitchen, I come across the remains of some food Pat had cooked on the stove. Still in the pot and spilled around it is rice with some reheated vegetables. He probably cooked this the night before but because of the pilot light it has stayed relatively warm on the stove, though rather dried out.
Hm, is there no more?