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 |

Yellow Squares

  
I had another dream last night. This one was about my uncle, and I couldn't escape the asylum. He's not as crazy as I thought, but crazier. I understand why he's there, and if the things keep going the way the are in my life this dream is my future. I won't escape.

I fell asleep on the couch. The darkness of slumber gave way to the forests of dreams. I approached the mental ward on foot emerging from those forests. Surrounding the brick and concrete building was a large, manicured square. The freshly trimmed bushes and potted annuals indicated this was a place of wealth. The absence of feeling screamed insane asylum. I began wondering why I was here when I noticed a large red dot painted on the front door. In the middle of that dot was a one inch by one inch yellow square. Although not exactly like all the other dots, I knew I arrived.

The white (what I assumed to be marble) stairs welcomed me with glittering cleanliness. Their smooth, polished surface was felt underfoot even though I was wearing thick soled black boots. The steel handrail was sharply cold, and the flower bins that decorated the sides of the stairs were a little inhumanly manicured. Everything was perfect, crisp, idyllic like it stepped out of some 1950s movie. I put my hand on the door readying myself to push it open, hesitant because I was sure what was on the inside was not nearly as perfect as what was on the outside. I didn't want to leave the comfort of alien order. My hand trembling, I pushed. The door was locked.

I felt the thin raised edge of the red circle painted on the door between my thumb and forefinger. I followed it all the way around its circumference, and, when I reached my starting place, the yellow square in the center popped open. I peered inside, and all I saw was white: a bright blinding brilliance that burned the brown of my eyes.

I pushed myself away from the door and still only saw white. As my vision returned, I was no longer standing at the top of the marble stairs. I was inside the massive brick and concrete building with uniformed escorts gripping my biceps.

A dull voice projected from some tinny speaker far away ordered commands. "Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is only a remnant of fear, and fear is useless. You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoked to. Patients must keep all  body parts to themselves. There is no escape. Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is..."

My vision still blurry, I couldn't make out anything other than my two bald guards. One was tall, slender feminine with painted eyebrows and pink lips. Her hands pinched and my skin beneath her grip ached. The other was all tall and slender. His large black bushy eyebrows and hairy stubby fingers read masculine, and his grip was loose but forceful. There could be no escape. Panicked, I released control and dropped all my weight. Their grips tightened, and they dragged me across the floor.

"You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoken to. Patients must keep all body parts to themselves. There is no escape..."

It felt like I walked/was dragged down a straight corridor for hours. I was afraid that the movement would never end, and I started getting motion sickness. The two escorts never changed. They just looked straight ahead paying no attention to me. Queasiness finally controlled my stomach, and I started throwing up. The escorts ignored me. Strings of vomit and spittle decorated my clothes like a Jackson Pollock, which I now noticed was an insane-asylum-white straight jacket.

"You have arrived," said the tinny voice.

The escorts changed their position. The feminine one grabbed my feet; the masculine one grabbed me under my arm pits. They swung me back and forth.

"Now," commanded the speaker, and the escorts let go. I flew through the air and landed with a hard smack on my back on a cold concrete floor.

Another bright flash of white raced across my eyes, a click of a door closing briefly echoed, and I was surrounded in blackness that no sound or light could enter or escape. I fell asleep in what I perceived was a corner.

"Hello...Martin? Martin is that you? Wake up. Wake up!"

The urgency of his low whispered voice reached my ears, and I shot awake. It was still pitch black, but somewhere a long distance away on my right hand side was the faint yellow outline of a one inch by one inch square.

"Hurry Martin. I don't have much time or energy. Move. Move now! They are coming back. It is not your time yet. They are going to send you back, but I must speak with you first. Run. Run now!"

The voice was coming from the faint outline. I started making my way towards it squirming like a worm. There was something familial about the voice, and I needed to know from whom it came.

"Faster Martin! Quick. Quick!"

I wiggled myself to standing and started running. The small square grew to a large door. Behind me, I started hearing heels on tiles. I quickened my pace. As another door opened behind me, I jumped through the square and emerged in a small cube of which all the walls were dirt. A man in his forties with peppery hair sat with legs crossed in front of me smiling.

"It worked," he whispered followed by the thud of a door slamming shut. "We only have a few moments, Martin, and there is a lot I must tell you."

He suddenly looked both older and younger. It was as if his being oscillated between a teenage boy and an old man causing the image before me to look like it was in its forties.

"This is real, Martin. What is happening is real. Remember that. If you forget everything else I tell you, remember that. This IS real. This place DOES exist."

Then it came to me: he was my uncle. He didn't look like I remembered him, but my only memories were from when I was a boy and he was in his twenties.  Shortly thereafter, he was locked up. I hadn't seen him since.

"Martin. I need your help. I need you to do something back in the other world for me. I need you to visit me in the hospital, but first you need to know something. Something other than this is real. Do you understand?"

I refused to believe this was real. I closed my eyes and plugged my ears with my index fingers. I didn't want to believe what was happening to me. If it was real, it meant my dots were real, and there was and is comfort in pretending its all make believe. While it doesn't exactly excuse my actions in this world, it does make them more of a joke. If the dots are real, it means I have to do something. I'm comfortable doing nothing. It's how I manage living.

He slapped me and spat in my face. "Martin! We don't have time for your shit. Listen. This is incredibly important."

A loud booming pounding erupted behind me.

"They are getting closer. Now pay attention."

My uncle began drawing shapes on the dirt floor with his finger. They were a mish mash of symbols some of which I recognized as corporate logos. There was Apple, Nike, Shell, and the CBS eye followed by a triangle, square, and finally a large circle that appeared red to me. It was the only color in the entire cell. Something moved me, and I lurched forward. Catching my balance, I threw out my hand, and it landed on the red dot.

"NO!" Screamed my uncle, and I started falling through it. "Do not trust anyone, Martin. They are coming for you. Remember: THIS IS REAL!!!"

He continued yelling at me, but his voice became mute as I continued falling.

I woke up panicked and sweating with vomit covering my face and my pants wet from having pissed. The weird thing is the piss formed a perfect square on my couch, and all the remnants of my stomach that were now all over my face were perfect red circles. I collected every last bit of vomit in a tupperware container and flipped the couch cushion.

I made my way to bed, but didn't want to sleep. I was terrified to see my uncle again, so I sat up and wrote the dream down.

I am not going to visit him. Well...at least not yet. I don't want confirmation that what is happening is real. Denial is a wonderful place to live.

Share |