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.

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