Three Forms of Crystal to Get to The Great HIGHway

  
There was too much speed last night between the street racing and the methamphetamine. But I'm not exactly sure the drag racing actually happened although I do have a ruby I stole from some guys earring. I did end up hands and knees on the floor scrubbing with Target-brand Pinesol. That was much, much later after all the lines blurred and disappeared. It was also after a red dot in the shape of a pimple I just had to pop. My friend wasn't too pleased. Who really likes it when a friend obsessively stares at you and suddenly gets up from his seated position on the couch across from you and decides that he has to kiss you and as he is kissing you pops your zit -- the same zit you probably obsessed about in front of the mirror and tried to cover using concealer that made it look cracked and caky instead --  even though you're screaming and pushing him off and your other friends are laughing hysterically? At least I was able to blame it on the speed.

It started at what was supposed to be band rehearsal. We went to our studio off of Taylor and Ellis and were greeted by another band, Crystal Antics, in the hallway. They were taking a smoke break talking about the stupid-ass Supreme Court decision to give corporations people status regarding political contributions. (Quick not: Really? Fucking really? Corporations are not people! I don't care what the law says. If you cut off their head and it doesn't kill them, they are not a person.) Our band mate Nick hates politics and cigarettes, and he was in an awful mood thanks to his boyfriend telling him, right before practice, that he was in fact impotent and that that was the reason they hadn't had sex in over a month. (Little does Nick know that his boyfriend has also been giving blow jobs to a boyish 19 year-old.) The greeting in the hallway was a little too much for him, so he rushed past them up to our studio and unlocked it. I stayed behind talking to Kristal trying to get the dish on a party or something for after rehearsal. She suggested I just hand with them. They were going back to her place to meet her dealer later and there was always a part afterwards. Gallagher, our other band mate, paced back and forth between us until I finally made my way up to our studio.

When I opened the studio door, Nick was on the paisley worn-out Craigslist couch smoking a joint and crying. He was definitely not in the mood for rehearsal, so we skipped the feigning practicing and and just smoked another joint and shared a few beers. I was the only one who actually out my instrument (the keyboard), plugged it in to the monitor and started practicing. Gallagher offered to drive Nick home and spend the night just to make sure he was okay. We lollygagged for about an hour and then Nick and Gallagher left. I went back into the hallway. Kristal was sitting at the top of the stairs smoking a cigarette, so I asked to bum one and lit up. I haven't smoked since I was 22. It felt rebellious.

We discussed the Supreme Court's (or more specifically fucking Justice John Roberts') ruling a little more, but got bored with trashing the USA. There's only so much trash talking you can do until it all becomes as boring and trivial as the fucking trash your talking about. Then our flirting (yes, I should call it what it actually was) turned to drug taking, which raised my spirits for some possible sex that night. Impaired judgment is how I find most of my sex. (It's also how I found crabs and gonorrhea, but that's besides the point.) Kristal grabbed the silver chain around her neck and pulled out a little metal cylinder etched with serpentine patterns. She unscrewed the top and gently pulled up. As the top was lifted a thin spoon was revealed a few small white particles clung to it. Kristal turned the cylinder sideways and slowly inserted the spoon. When it came back out a perfect little mound of cocaine rested on it. She put the spoon to her nose and snorted. Then, she offered me some. Of course I didn't refuse.

A few more snots, and she escorted me back to her studio. Her band mates were doing shots of tequila taking a break for "creativity" and "inspiration". When Kristal walked in it was back to business and everyone went back to their instruments ready to play. I say on their green plaid worn-out Craigslist couch (I think all of the furniture in all of the studios was from Craigslist) and eased in to my high. This was so much better than going home and pacing my bedroom back and forth waiting for sleep. I closed my eyes and listened to their scratchy, fuzzy music.

I must've fallen asleep because I woke up to Kristal bent over kissing me, her band mates in the hallway read to heat out for the night. "You coming with us?" She asked with only her upraised black pencil thin eyebrows and a few bats of her eyelashes. I kissed back in response and stood up.

Everyone piled into Tera's navy windowless child molester van. It was packed with equipment that we sat on top of. About twenty minutes later, we were at Kristal's house in the Sunset. Everyone stumbled out of the back and spilled into the pink two-story that looked like all the other houses on the block except for being the only one that wasn't a shade of gray or tan. It was immaculate and sparkling, a very big contrast to the dump of a studio we all had at the Ellis space. I was eager for more drugs. More intoxication equalled a better change with Kristal.

I pulled out a joint to share with everyone as we sat in her white living room. I have never seen so much white. The walls, couch, television stand, art, coffee table, lampshades, book covers, and bric-a-brac were all various shades of white or opal or chalk. The smoke hung loosely in the air adding more white to the room and gave me something to zone out to. I started counting each particle I could see. I was lost somewhere else entirely and didn't notice that the drug dealer, Aron, had arrived and was collecting money from customers. He was ready to leave when I finally returned to the living room and asked for $50 worth. He pulled out a baggie and threw it on my lap, grabbed my money, and headed out. Everyone stared at their baggie for a few moments until Kristal put on some Album Leaf and brought out razors. That's when everything changed.

Just as Kristal sat back down, I saw it. I don't know why I hadn't seen it previously. It was in plain sight: big, throbbing, red, circular, just left of Kristal's nose. I had to have it in my collection. Suddenly, lines appeared on her coffee table looking as if the table itself created them as the earth creates mountains. As suddenly as they appeared, the disappeared. Our noses a hurricane forceful enough to topple rock. then another line. Another hurricane. Another mountain. Another snort. Until there was one lone ridge on the flat plane. My compulsion and obsession grew with each line until I finally excused myself to the bathroom.

I looked at my red bloodshot eyes and my dry teeth. Everything in the bathroom was glittery clean and a perfect white. It made my eyes yellow in comparison. My skin looked a sickly green and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick all over the bathroom. A cough/gag brought a little of the beer back into my mouth, and I swallowed it back down. The lingering tasted of bile required some mouth wash which I found neatly tucked under the sink along with the tampons, pads, and a bottle of Plum Punky Color. I turned on the sink and washed my face hoping to forget about Kristal's pimple, but after the water fell back into the sink I saw reflected in the mirror a zit on my face in the exact same spot as Kristal's. When I went to touch the side of my nose, it was smooth. I knew my reflection was taunting me. I had to have Kristal's popped zit. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and went back to the living room.

She sat there laughing at a joke someone told. I didn't hear the lead in but the punch line as "And that's why ducks quack." The punch line was fucking stupid. It had to have been the copious amounts of intoxicants that made it funny. Even then I didn't et the joke, but I didn't care. As she leaned back in her chair, her long straight purple-black hair, such a stark contrast to all the white, glimmered, and I was momentarily lost in the waves of light as they rippled down her hair. Then, she looked straight at me, the pimple taunting me. It was time to be popped.

The toilet paper already in my hand, I strutted over to Kristal and kissed her. As her tongue met mine, I reached over with my right hand and squeezed. She screamed, "What the fuck!" and slapped me. I kept pressing the toilet paper to her nose. I had to collect every last drop of zit innards. It was going to be mine and mine alone. I clutched her back with my left hand to make sure she wouldn't escape. Her hands started pounding my chest, and a few more slaps struck my cheek. Everyone else laughed maniacally. At least I was good entertainment.

Another friend, Jasmine I think, realized someone else would have to intervene if  was to let go of Kristal, so she grabbed my ears and pulled backwards. I let go instantaneously and tumbled to the ground hitting the edge of the table on the way down. The drugs flew into the air looking like someone just exhaled on a winter's night. A collective gasp echoed as I stared at the toilet paper that now had a large red dot almost covering its entire surface. It was much larger than the zit.

"Martin, what the hell was that for?" Kristal yelled. "You need to get the fuck out of my house. I can almost forgive a zit fetish, but, Jesus, spilling our speed...that's unforgivable."

I couldn't look away from the toilet paper dot. As I stared at it, I was drawn deeper into it -- a very intimate and comforting feeling -- and noticed the dark crimson blood, the light carnation mucous, and the burnt sienna scab. It was a drug better than coke, weed, or speed. The dot grew its familiar fibers, each hair reaching out to me, and I began to fall towards them.

Another slap raced across my face bringing me momentarily back to her living room. I looked up from my toilet paper trying my best to give apologetic eyes.

"Get the FUCK OUT! NOW!"

"I'm sorry," I replied in a hushed voice barely audible. "I'm sorry", and my words were swallowed coming to rest in the pit of my stomach. I knew as I looked around at the angry expressions and sitting on edges of seats that I was no longer welcome in this space. I knew I had to leave. I clutched the dot in my hand feeling the hairs tickle the ridges of my fingerprints, grabbed my jacket, and left. The door slammed behind me, and I hear the house vent gossip and snickers.

I didn't want to go home. Her house was close enough to the ocean that I decided to walk to the Beach. I still held the toilet paper tightly in my hand not wanting to let it go. With each step, I felt the hairs growing and my hand warming. I paid little attention to this feeling focusing instead on the embarrassing events of the evening and disappointed that I wouldn't be getting anywhere with Kristal. I mindlessly pulled the last remaining joint out of my jacket pocked, lit it, and inhaled hoping to forget or at least to stop obsessing.

I don't know if the next series of events really happened. It was like I walked into a dream: the details are murky, unreal, and illogical. The hairs somewhere between Kristal's house and the end of the joint grew to cover my entire body. Although the fog was dense and cold, I was incredibly warm, hot even, as if a fever grew from my belly.

Somehow I found myself in he back seat of a tricked out Honda Civic with neon lime leather interior and a metallic cobalt paint job. The driver was a really, really old black guy with no hair and so many wrinkles he looked like a basset hound. He even had large dangling ears that were stretched from years of wearing what appeared to be heavy silver earrings the width of my thumb and shaped like dragons, their mouths open wide with bright rubies in their throats. We were zipping down the Great Highway so fast I couldn't even make out the ocean on my right. On the left was a bright gold board of a Comet racing us.

I black driver paid not attend to me. It was almost as if I didn't exist and couldn't affect any of my surroundings. I tried to grab the rubies because they were red dots, but there was some repellant force. Every time I reached out they swayed away from me. I still clutched my toilet paper.

The race ended somewhere in Daly City. I know it was somewhere out there because the Ranch 99 Market sign darted pasted us on the left. When we reached our destination, the car screeched to a halt, and I flew into the passenger's seat. Still the wrinkly driver didn't see me. As I tried to turn myself around so my head wasn't underneath the glove compartment, I dropped my red dot, and the driver shouted "What? Who the hell are you and how did you get into my car?"

He saw me. I payed attention only to the rubies, reached out and grabbed one, and picked up the toilet paper off the floor. Without warning, I was surrounded by a twilight pink light that looked as if it was diffused by clouds although I couldn't see any. I also couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. It was the most disorienting space and made me sleepy. I closed my eyes.

When I re-opened them, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing my apartment floor, and the clock read 7:12. My body ached. The floor sparkled. It looked like I had been cleaning for hours. My apartment smelled like pine.

I needed to know if I just dreamed everything, so I went over to my dot collection. There on the shelf was the popped pimple dot, and next to it was the ruby.

As I transcribe all of this, I realize I should probably check in to rehab. But that won't happen. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I'm not going to admit that. Instead, I'll just blame the dots. They make me do these things. they put me in these situations in the first place. I won't claim responsibility. It's not me. I'm not me.

Share |

Buena Vista's Legendary Pink Dots

 
I had to just get out of the apartment and wander today. The dream, my growing collection of red dots, and my wavering sanity complicate my life too much. I want the simplicity of before, when as I walked to work I ignored everything around me. Ignorance was my motto. Now, I walk to work and have to choose to either pass by the mural that started it all of avoid it. Each choice requires thought and comes with consequence. I hate this kind of existence. So I emptied as much as I could out of my mind, opened the door, and let my feet and Echo and the Bunnymen carry me away.

The emptiness didn't last too long. I started thinking about my uncle when I found myself on the top of Potrero Hill. When I was really young, about four, we'd come up here and sit at the top of the hill and stare at downtown. There wasn't much here at the time, and people generally avoided the neighborhood. My uncle loved seeing how the skyline changed. And this was a better view to witness that change than Twin Peaks. I miss those days of quiet observation. There was a certain detachment that could be achieved if you pretended not to care or didn't get emotionally attached to a particular building or patch of grass or tree. If you gave everything the same value, there really wasn't any difference between the new condos going up and the historic home being torn down. One replaced one. Therefore, all is equal.

Now, I know that that isn't real. A condo may be a two and that historic house may have been a one. They weren't equal, and they weren't balanced. Some one or some thing tipped the scales each time, and I am beginning to realize I am one of those tippers. We all are. My red dots keep making me quite aware of this fact.

I continued my wandering by walking down 18th Street and over the 280. It used to be an industrial wasteland whose borders were 280, the Bay, Cesar Chavez (then Army Street), and Townsend. It has been transformed over the last two decades or so and boasts an ever-growing UCSF campus, restaurants, media companies, textile makers, and coffee shops. I think this area is called Dog Patch. I always thought it was called that cause it looked like an overgrown large-ass dog run: full of piss and shit. The old name doesn't match its new flavor, but I guess that underneath all the sugary sweetness of development there is still a taste of bitter shit upon the lips. That kind of stink never goes away no matter how much you pile on top of it.

I'm now sitting sipping coffee in the lower Haight. Seeing all the development depressed me because it continually reminded me of how much my uncle has changed, so I hopped on the 22 and left. I realize I am giving the dream actual credence. I do believe what happened in that dream is real. I do believe that that place actually exists. But what does that mean for me right now as I sit in Cafe La Soliel writing all of this shit down? What can I actually do with it? I know I can visit my uncle in the hospital, but I am unconvinced that that will actually change anything. If he sees yellow squares, how does that change the fact that I see red dots? It doesn't. It may clarify a purpose or reason, but understanding the reason requires action. As I said before, I love living ignorantly. It makes everything simpler.

The man sitting next to me is typing furiously away at email and html code simultaneously. His beautiful reddish brown eyes look up occasionally and stare at me. A quizzical expression -- hunched eyebrows and a narrowing of the pupils -- passes his face every time our eyes meet. What is he thinking? Does he see how lost I am and in return feels lost too? Does he think I am crazy because I hold his stare until he turns away? I am making him uncomfortable. I notice how many more typing mistakes he is making as I stare at him. His feet shift. Does he know I am writing about him? Does he realize that the only reason I can write this right now is because his fingers tap the keyboard? Maybe I am like the red dots: always shaping things from beyond without actually getting involved. Only that's not entirely true. The red dots always compel me to actions. Every fucking time they show up.

I need to get up and wander some more. The man to my right is leaving. I think I'll follow him for a little while. I'll let hum make my decisions without him even knowing. I just need to keep a safe distance. I only want to observe. Watch. Stare. I promise I won't do anything to him. Promise.

***written a number of hours later***

I lied. He was wearing a red dot on the lapel of his jacket. It was a pin for the Legendary Pink Dots. That's how I knew it was one of mine. It was blood red NOT hot pink.

I followed him down to Haight where he took a left. I continued behind him slowing down so he wouldn't notice. Headphones on he ignored almost everything but was at least aware enough to step over the pile of (I think human) shit that I almost stepped in. Every now and again he'd stop and shake his ass rhythmically. It was endearing.

I still hadn't noticed the pin and enjoyed his pace and direction. I found myself liking him. I hadn't actually had sex with a guy since college, but started entertaining the idea for him. He was cute and bubbly. Two things I am not.

He stayed on Haight Street until Buena Vista Park. I knew immediately what he was going to do and thought it would be an excellent opportunity to continue my stalking. One thing I should have known was: when searching for public sex one becomes much more aware of their surroundings. I'm not good at stalking. I have no idea how to remain out of sight.

He saw me as he climbed up a dirt path on the back side of the hill, and he definitely recognized me. He stopped and turned directly at me. I looked away and adjusted my cap. I didn't want to actually talk to him. I wanted to keep the fantasy a little longer. It was going so well.

He approached me looking for other people and smiling just a little. He stumbled on a root or vine or some other debris when I noticed his pin. It was staring at me the same way he stared at me moments before. I knew I needed the dot more than him.

The next set of things are all a bit of a haze. I somehow made it home, and I'm writing this at my desk. I have a very large welt at the crown of my head and it itches like a mother fucker. My palms are ripped up bleeding through my bandages which makes writing uncomfortable and a little messy. The Legendary Pink Dots pin is sitting in my collection on the bookshelf.

I remember running down the hill towards him screaming something. I think he tried turning around but instead twisted the root or vine around his ankle which made him fall. I tripped over his feet landing on top of him after my head his a branch. He hit me as I grabbed for his pin declaring it mine.

"This is for a pin?" He asked shocked and bewildered.

"It's mine!" And I ripped it of his jacked also tearing off a small piece of the denim.

He pushed me off him and started running away from me. I think i sufficiently scared him from ever coming back to Buena Vista Park. I just sat there looking at the pin and watching the tiny red fibers grow and dance. There is such a comfort in the life of the red dots. They make me happier than I've ever ben. I know I can't ever stop collecting them. And as much as I hate how they make me question and see complexity and complicate my life the moment of discovery is exhilarating. It is better than any high I have ever experienced. I need more.

I have absolutely no memory from after he ran away and right before I started writing all of this down. I think lump on my head came from the tree branch, but I am not sure how my palms got so scratched up or how they ended up with bandages on them. I just found myself sitting at my desk blank paper and navy pen laid out before me. It is now night -- late night -- and the pin is among my other dots.

I didn't want to find a dot today. I actually set out hoping not to find one, but find one I did. I cannot ignore them. It will not go away. For now, I will just ride the thrill of discovery. It feel too good. I will not connect them. My uncle will have to live in my dreams.

Share |