112017

A body is a stone is a river is a rock, is a tongue is a shard. A stone is a bird is a body.

These Are Powers | 052209

After we transcended space and time with dance moves (Pterodactyl and These Are Powers), we dare to pass through a passway with a handwritten warning; "Open this door and we will fucking kill you!," to find catacombs of homemade quarters, living and otherwise, down a dark hallway, passed a tank-toped man offering us cocaine, through a door that looked like a window, to the top of a stairway with a locked hatch, back down and we go LEFT this time, through a black hole and suddenly on top of the world - Williamsburg bridge and Chrysler building, and what sits atop this rooptop metropolis all to ourselves? A POOL, a TRAMPOLINE, a HAMMOCK, and a VOLLYBALL NET. We made use of them all, and just before we escaped, footsteps trailing us, he took this picture:

Blueberry Corpses | 022508

I work in a somewhat industrial neighborhood is West Berkeley, near the Marina. There are lots of places that sell doors, windows, sinks, tubs, lumber, bricks, fencing, tile, that sorta thing. And one place the sells nothing but giant wooden grizzly bears. And a paper warehouse that smells like blueberry corpses.

In fact when I first moved to the East Bay I very briefly work at a custom glass place just around the corner from where I am now. Wilson Glass. They made windows. It was fun. But like most areas around here, they're gentrifying this sonofabitch and puttin up condos. So there was this old warehouse covered in graffiti and I'm pretty sure a bunch of punks were squatting in it, but I watched them tear it down today.

It's like Spring around here. Everything is confused and blooming, especially rosemary and jasmine and cherry blossom, and the whole dang town smells like honeysuckle. I could use you around here.

The Shortest Distance

Last night I dreamt I was in a massive, maze-like hotel. I was searching for you, overcoming physical obstacles, solving riddles to gain passage through secret halls, at times just shouting your name... Everyone I met knew I was looking for you. Some were helpful and others clearly wanted to impede my search. The dream felt LONG. Not more than a day but decidedly not less either. In the end I never saw you or even came close, but I woke knowing I was making my way to you, still.

Do It For Your Daddy

06032016

Emotional terrorism. A years-long con whereby every tender and loving life moment is orchestrated by uncaring social scientist hackers and in the end you find out none of it was real. They have proof.

Best-Case Scenario

I am thinking of walking in McCarren Park and taking an inventory of trees. Not as many as Dolores, and definitely less interesting. "This is not a park," I remember saying, "this is vacant lot full of hipsters on Pendleton blankets. This park is a lifestyle brand."

"Yeah they also have kickball" she said. And I wondered how long I'd last.

The same day I watched my new neighbor stomp a rat dead with his foot wearing nothing but cheap flip-flops. He did it so quickly and so casually. Alex looked at me, angry for getting us into this.

Still I put my plants on the bar-covered window sills and Alex brought home day-old croissants from work and we made the most of it, at first just happy our apartment was warm against the brutal winter, then realizing the temperature was actually rising inside until we slept without clothes, on top of the blankets, with all windows open and still, we roasted.

The heat announced itself with a series of loud metal pings that we called the dwarves. We lived off those free croissants and grew pale from insufficient winter coats and malnutrition. I can't remember ever taking a bath, or even what the tub looked like. That was January.

Before that, a tarantula infestation in California woods. That summer we lived off of a bulk-pack of veggie dogs leftover from a friend's baby shower, who at 22 was the first of us to get knocked-up. We didn't know it at the time, but Alex would be next.

In our shack in the woods we had nothing but a hardware store "hook and eye" latch to keep our door secure. This was not a sanguine "who needs locks" type of choice, but instead a kind of youthful safety roulette. Our neighbor kept a sawed-off shotgun by the front door and would make sure it was us coming up the path late at night. We felt safe. But sometimes search lights from a police helicopter would pass over our windows again and again, searching for someone who ran from East Oakland towards woods, seeking asylum.

Once Alex watched someone hop our fence and steal her bike in mid afternoon. They'd even made eye contact, and thus entered into an unspoken agreement to just carry on as though the other wasn't there. This was a best-case scenario. Still, when I came from work she was cheerful and presented me with a tiny lizard in a mixing bowl that she'd caught before the whole bike thing.

We passed a few more weeks like that in the shack and by the time the tarantulas got bad (one dropped from the ceiling onto my body while I was in the shower) we only had 3 days left in California. In preparation for the move we had a yardsale in the parking lot of Trader Joes — no one stopped us. The purpose of course was to downsize but we mostly just ended up buying each other's stuff, me unable to believe that she was selling her sheepskin rug and her incapable of understanding why I'd part with my Dallas Cowgirl boots.

The last thing I bought before leaving the Bay Area was a leather jacket I couldn't afford. For six months I'd been paid cash, under the table, and in that format money can feel like a lot more than it's really worth. But I needed something to make me feel on par with New York City, and I thought my vintage sundresses and wooden beads wouldn't cut it.

Alex on the other hand made clear in advance that she has no plans to let New York change her in any way. In our last days she grew out her leg and armpit hair in defiance, as she grew sad and apprehensive about leaving the place she'd lived her whole life. To cheer her up I taped up a picture of a Dominican girl in huge door-knocker gold earrings, metallic fuchsia hot pants, and brown lip-liner. I wrote "OUR NEW BEST FRIEND" across the bottom.

I tried to picture our new best friend visiting us at the shack and listening to records with us, or sharing a veggie dog on the concrete slab we called "the living room," but nope. She had to be in Brooklyn, and so did we.

Compatibility Mode

He compartmentalized so beautifully, but each time I degraded, changed dramatically, violently swung from hating him to loving him. From understanding — even sympathy — to utter distain, and all the other boring, obsessive qualities of being in love with someone who isn’t in love with you. “Dickmatized” my girlfriend called it. And I wanted it to be that stupid.

Bad Kid Events

I always told her she smelled like pee and she would be all no I don't, but really, she did. It was probably just some teenage ammonia funk. Teenagers are gross as hell.

She hung out at the bus station and was friends with all the crusty punks and she knew where to score. She knew all the bad kids and she got invited to all the bad kid events. She was cooler than me and she was younger than me too, which is fucked up. It put me in a real tough position in terms of my social standing – sure she was dope but she was in middle school.

Symmetry from The Mercadantes on Vimeo.

Serenade

012709

I had a dream that I had to go live far away from you and it was awful and there was a flood. I miss you, I love you, my butt hurts, let's get a kitten!