Some Saturdays

Some Saturdays ago I stayed up until 5 talking with John. It was me doing dream inventory and John being critical and a good listener. I drew the bomb on the chalkboard and talked about accepting death, he said: “It’s the next thing.” When death is the next thing that’s the tautological truth. I had work the next day but was typically and recklessly happy to lose one sane state of mind for another imbued with the chemicals of friendship.


I was to DJ with Dirt Girl and Snarls at Dick Village (Skylight). The wafts of cologne and top forty drugged us to that dance floor. By the time I was playing my conceptual set of bird calls (a metaphor for gender roles) someone was stabbed on the dance floor and we had to evacuate.

We peed at the Meow Wolf space and waited for John to return and unlock the door to the Rat Bag. Benji and I jumped on the trampoline. Because I am an older sibling I cannot stop myself from bouncing other people higher.

While leaping we wrote Party Girl lyrics, pretending we had access to the alcohol that was locked inside, and pretending our band was more than a concept. We puked on the trampoline and from its plastic-mesh filter withdrew a tray of sparkling cocktails.


– Viewpoint radically shifted after bomb dream.
– Nice email from Shobhan at work, thanking Bea, Jessie, and I for moving/assembling the 13 500 lb. stainless steel tables during a 13 hour day.

– Shlomoh concert in Albuquerque, which just ended up being Jayden not getting in, and me waiting in line to get metal-detected 3 times to coordinate keys/backpacks. Jessie called me while I was in line.  Cole had revealed his longstanding crush on her. I drank a beer and listened.

– Driving back home we talked about how things are not bad, they are ironic. It is a good coping mechanism to have a hyper-developed sense of sarcasm and irony. The main feeling I had was big, white, and empty, maybe a plant here and there. Today I woke up and I was not dead and the world wasn’t over. I am so excited to continue to be me.



The large, well-lit room, this is the part of the dream I woke up with. Everyone sat in a circle. There were these materials we had to disseminate, some particles put to paper and arranged in monochrome patterns. Someone dropped a black dot with a circle around it in the middle of our circle. A huge subsonic feeling shook the air and I realized it was a bomb, that we would all die in instants. First thought: “no”, then inevitability. Wished I could see my family but realized every human was equal. Radical non attachment and acceptance, feeling my last moments of life with neutral intensity.

Fake Bomb

It was so embodied, so real, but this was a fake, made to create the effects we would be experiencing with the real bomb. So the next one was pulled,  just a piece of paper dropped into the middle of our circle. Looking at the pattern of the third piece of paper, mostly black with jagged white lines, I assumed this would be what ended us. “Really, this is how I always hoped to die.”

This is the first time I have accepted my death.



Dad pouring cornflakes into jar, somehow related to grandpa Ralph’s legacy of stocking up on food stuffs.

In juvenile detention, I realized I had been there for a year and not known I was incarcerated. Climbing and flying around the space.

The guard took me out to lunch with Bea. He had ordered for us. A plate of flatbread made out of fat that could be used to eat curry etc. He handed me a little pastry with red filling coming out and asked if he could lick the bottom. I asked what kind of fat the flatbread was made from and he said “human.”

Some Point

As the ship was sinking I realized it was intentional. They were thinning the population. A guy with freckles, wispy brown hair and a brightly colored jacked was floating dead with a smile on his face. People’s fabrics were flowing behind them, everyone seemed dazed and resigned to death. Dad gave me a beer at some point.

Little Spells

Karl came back for a short spell so we hung around the Rat Bag and played dice. Angelo projected horticultural slides from some presumed-dead professor and we did Visual Thinking Strategies before heading to the gas station for whatever it is people get at gas stations.

Angelo’s senior show was the next day (the next day after what?). Coming to retrieve the fog machine earlier I met his grandmother, aunt, and parents, receiving their tea and goodwill in exchange for merely being around.

On the concrete floor of Jay’s space between the pawn shop and motel, I drifted off in the delicacy of Angelo’s fingers on piano keys.

Sipping absinth from black paper cups, Luke, Devin, and I shot fake guns and referenced Pokemon, Later the cat’s litter box was placed back inside and I visualized the logistics of building out a loft.

Bea, John, and I stayed up talking till 3am, naturally all having work the next day.


Subconscious Multi-Channel Marketing

Just now I caught up to the perpetual anniversary of sadness that marks itself subconsciously.

On Hoku’s Facebook are sparsely-placed months of posts from parents, occasionally disrupted by a friend. Today I wrote: “A feeling!”  Not even an inside joke with the dead.

My ~Temple Sit ~ dogs woke me up during a REM cycle and as the cat clawed my chest I went back under that golden-lit archway thinking “ha ha ha ha, Mcdonald’s uses subconscious multichannel-marketing to make me feel nostalgic about the dead!”

But you know it was a serious and heavily-symbolic dream about Hoku’s death, and now I remember that the anniversary is eminent.

So I wrote on Hoku’s dad’s wall about the dream, you know… hoping to make him cry, if that’s not what he was doing already.

I had a dream you, Hoku and I were walking to the airport. It was the golden sun of evening. You told Hoku to go where he was headed, and that we needn’t know where that was. Giant concrete arches demarcated where we would part ways. Hoku went through the gate to the left, you and I went through the gate to the right.”

Butterfly Sandwich Pizza

Feelings detritus left in cabinets
Big self without boots on

Don’t say it loudly!

It is me who lacks subtlety in my waywardness
polarities on a fabricated spectrum
Spectrum Organics coconut oil
quinoa and sweet potato
appropriative commodity

No one is ever good.
I am not the thing.
I wanted to be “the thing?”
is the thing what we ate?
The thing our bodies are?
The body thing of rape
someone else’s adrenaline at death
someone else’s hormones
mostly girls.

“Oh, I am sad that you killed their children?”
That is not valid.
Death a beautiful process wrought by appetite.