Past Tense Future Present

A scene shifts back and forth in my head, just waitin' for some calling. Who's really calling, some voices from the past? No, I think it's the future tryin' to tell me something. But the sad thing is I forget this shit just as soon as I wake up. I don't know, maybe I'm meant to be doing something else? Ten years ago my days were spent trying to learn the newest manual variation, I think the last thing I actually completed was a switch-stance frontside varial to switch-stance fakie manual - a pretty cool trick - but where'd it get me? Sitting in some office typing here on the last day of Jan 2005. The big silver A/C unit above suddenly turns on and its loud, but I like it because it covers the stale silence that sits in this room like dust that never settles, like small particles that float around in your water glass and never fall to the bottom. But when it turns on the shock is great, and instant. I just begin to get into it when in cuts off, dead. The silence is so stark then, I can barely stand it. I spend most of my day waiting for the damn thing to turn on, then shut off, and turn on again. An endless, antagonizing struggle that never finds a rhythm. Rhythm in struggle? Sure, why not. Everything has got a rhythm to it, even the negative things.
Where is this going? I don't know, and I think it helps sometimes to not know where yr heading.
But I do remember, before sleep, 10 years old in bed. Staring up at the popcorn ceiling and just trying everything to fall asleep - it was always hard, still is - but once that heater started up (or A/C) the lovely low hum would soon wash over me and gently lull me into a deep, blue sleep. I loved that sound, and I miss it now, the white noise of yesteryear.
So all is dream, and the nights when I do dream - and remember in the morning - I always feel some sort of peace. But mostly what I remember are the strange, soft voices of the future mingling with the present to help coax the past into speaking a bit. And they do speak sometimes, but it'd be much easier if I had the sound to go with it, the filtered drone of yesterday today.

Thaddeus Welch (the night in fruition)

This collaborative short story originally appeared in Alstroemeria issue #5. I always liked it, and thought that it was time for a little resurrection of sorts. Schuyler Feekes and I both composed this back in 2000 during a strange night in a small shack/cabin in Stinson Beach, California. The cabin had a name, Thaddeus Welch, and Schuyler and I speculated that it had some sort of past life, much different than its current incarnation. Read on.

Dusk, sea in background, the great Pacific, brooding, ominous, and vast as ever. Waves bash against the shore. The shore not far, just down below the ridge, the water cascades there, rushes into the sand - fine granules, millions upon millions, never counted, and how should he know? He never stopped to count them, they just fell off his surface and into the rest. He moved slowly in this twilight hour, not really knowing where to go, but somehow knew where he was supposed to be.
If he were to add granule upon granule life may dwindle, his at least, for time was of the essence and these little details were better saved for when movement ceases. Being at an area stopping to enjoy the sublime alpenglow while brown pelicans hover above and dive into the icy Pacific, eventually coming up with food and sustaining life. He always knew, somehow, that his wandering would only last for so long, and it always came when he least expected it. Between something and nothing lies everything. Suddenly, he realized that he was making too much sense, thinking much too much when he should just be moving. It was not his fault - it had been so long - and he was just like everyone else during these times. These excursions forced him to believe in the banality of his existence, his reality was void of any 'true emotion', but the sensations were there - moving, thinking, feeling - but really it was just the basics, the simple act of just living - sometimes good, sometimes bad, hungry, tired, happy, sad. This all really didn't matter because he was a shell of some sort, brought to life by this swirling seaside with salty ocean air thick with moisture that would sustain him for a while. As long as he kept moving he figured his lifeless mass of still-form now beckoning to thrive would keep going, somehow.
Knowing the cold as some might, feeling skin and private areas move and shrink. The moisture ridden air remained still and heavy, night was falling, night was coming soon, and the cold would set in even worse. Thoughts ran through his head - kill, run, hide, behave, accept, ride away. Trying to set the mind on the here and now and not let what was to come bother him too much - no easy task - but he managed to sustain a temporary comfort. His path was laid out there in front of him, along the wet edge of an immense body of water. He trudged along as sand, broken glass, and miniscule pebbles passed slowly through toe-gaps. He was morphing into some biological mutation, becoming more of an animal than ever before, more human with every step. He was enjoying this strange time in his life, lingering time, because he was now able to focus clearly on what was happening.
The night carried on and slowly began to transition into day. Some velvet dawn brings on the new mist, such that it consumes his movements and his time in this moment is ceasing. He is starting to feel his nerves fray, as if all sensation is leaving, all that which he enjoyed for this short stray was leaving much too fast. This time cannot be placed anywhere, so temporal, so shifty. Half the world asleep in dreams too incalculable to measure. Hazy dawn of waking - still moving before full arrest of day consumes his life, his life now moving.
This time he was sad, for it would be another hundred or so years before he would get the chance to manifest again. Still so much to do, so much to see, love lost but never found. He found something here, at least he moved for awhile, and saw things through unbroken eyes not glazed over from relentless years on the shore - too much sun, sand, wind, and time...his time was expiring as this new day was beginning. One last look around. Time thin, day coming. All thoughts expiring. Movement of shadows now apparent in morning light, coming over him, looming like some ominous storm. He stoops, he sinks, he moves to escape - not fast enough.
Still life on a beach, a shell, some young boy passing by picks it up and puts it in his pocket. It's a souvenir, a token of this place, this time. Somewhere all the shells move back to the sea.

The Alta Days

Dreamt of the Alta house last night - a place I lived at from 1997 to 1999 in Rohnert Park, California. I lived there in a little room in the back. That same room was occupied by many a cheap renter prior to my arrival. A cold little room it was, and when winter hit, the walls would become damp and anything placed near them would turn green and covered with a fuzzy mold. Ahhh, I loved that place - its faults and all. But my story is only half of a much bigger story, for this place could tell tales, yes sireee, this rotting little house located in the "A" section of RP (hence the street, Alta) had many a tale to tell. Some of my fondest memories of this place are listed below, in no specific order.

Martin's (Marteen), Jufel's, and Ernie's Saturday night porno fests: This was the funniest thing. These three guys, very nice guys, I must add, are in no way perverts, well...maybe a litte. But these guys would do the funniest things. Before I lived in the house, on Saturday nights, these guys would rent about half a dozen porno flicks and watch them after a long evening of drinking cheap beer and smoking strong weed. Schuyler and I would usually come back to the house after being at a local party and find these guys sitting in the living room watching the rented pornos. They would be sitting there, on opposite sides of the room, with small couch pillows on their laps. Inevitably, in the early morning hours, one of the guys would sneak back out to the living room, when nobody was out there, and watch the porns again. Funny.

Schuyler's "all access" room: Schuyler's room was in the back of the house, and it was the only room that had a bathroom and functioning shower attached to it. Everybody who lived at the house had to go through Schuyler's room to get to the shower. I recall tip-toeing through his room in the early and cold morning hours while Schuyler slumbered with his mouth agape and one leg dangling off the side of his bed. It always smelled weird in there. But Schuyler never complained about anybody passing through, and sometimes you might even hear little rumbling sounds coming from the big guy.

Yoni's rotting room and infamous 'poop photo': Yoni is a great friend who now lives in Chicago, but he used to live in the Alta house. Yoni has a new website at www.drawingsbylight.com here you can read stories and see images of everyones favorite man-child. Yoni and Todd, another Alta resident, would be considered second generation Alta dwellers. Schuyler was there since Alta's inception, so I guess that kind of makes him the 'Godfather' of Alta. I moved in around the beginning of the third generation, after a failed attempt at post-college existence with my parents in Sothern California's desert wasteland . Yoni, Todd, Schuyler and I would become the heart of third generation Alta. During this time Yoni worked at the Outback Steakhouse - a gruesome and overly indulgent chain restaurant existing on the outskirts of Home Depo and Wal Mart. Yoni was a line cook there and would come home late at night covered in greasy, stinky, and slimy Outback grime. His soiled clothes would utlimately end up in a small pile somewhere in his room. The smell emanating from there was horrible, like rotting meat mixed with molding bread. I would pop my head in his room from time-to-time and almost pass out from the smell. One time Todd took a horrible photo of Yoni crapping in the bathroom. Todd would often talk about the reaction of the Costco photo dept. employees when he came to pick up the developed prints. I'm sure they were traumatized a bit, and that always brought a smile to my face. That photo ended up behind the refrigerator when the last of the Alta boys moved out. A gift for future generations.

Echobase shows for touring bands and resident band 'Eucalyptus': After about a year or so at Alta house, we started having these little parties called 'Echobase'. They were not actually parties, per se, but rather shows for friends bands. It started out very small, actually, they were always pretty small, but there were times when it seemed as if all of Sonoma County's indie-rock community were present in the small confines of the Alta house. Eucalyptus, the Alta house band, would normally play these shows as well. Eucalyptus was comprised of Todd, Adam, Schuyler, and myself. We called it 'ambient living room rock' or as Adam called it, 'mellifluous ribbon rock from rural northern california'. The band was a starting point for all of us, I think it gave us confidence and assurance that even under-skilled musicians, such as ourselves, could still create pretty and interesting soundscapes. There were sloppy shows, too drunk shows, and flawless shows that caused big grins to come across our faces when we finished playing. Eucalyptus might still exist, and you can find out more about the band through Adams Hervey's eclectic record label www.pehrlabel.com. The other bands that passed through Alta house ran the gamut. Some local, and some touring and moving onto bigger and better venues. Bands like Two Boy Army, Nova Scotia, Port Radium, Labath, Juniper Loop, Droplet, The Cananes, Mismatched Socks, and Timonium graced the stale and stained living room of Alta.

The days these were, and it seemed as if they would last forever.

Additional, glassy-eyed recollections of a time that once was:
Arguments with Yoni (always ending positively, no grudges were held); fights with everyone over why we can't turn on the heater; dishes piled in the sink; Todd studying in his room wearing his trusty gray beanie; Scooter the rabbit humping everyones arm - Todd used to let him finish because he thought he'd get 'blue balls' if he didn't; banning the lumbering and disgusting TC from Alta; the dummy I made disguised as TC (one night Yoni climbed into the dummie's clothing and scared the shit out of me); me puncturing my eardrum with a Q-tip and almost passing out; Yoni putting Icy Hot balm all over his testicles; feeding the incessantly barking dog next door a 'hot sauce sandwich' just to shut him up; the garage lined with Pabst beer cans; the air; the smoke; the drink; the heat; the cold; the smells; and above all, the friendships that were forged there and will last a lifetime.

RIP
520 Alta Ave. 1995-1999

Sometimes Chimes

there's a place
you cannot file

under events past
under days future

ungrip the dark

and

rise

for sometimes chimes

Spastic Sleep

Sometimes I have spastic sleep, yes, spastic sleep. I really don't know what causes it, but there have been times where I've been peacefully sleeping, when suddenly I start flailing around in my bed as if I'm trapped in Cube 2 'Hyper Cube'. Just the other night my spastic actions came about in a fury of arms thrashing and body convulsing. I rarely know that I am doing it, mostly because I am very very much in a deep sleep, and can only recall fragments of my actions upon awakening. One time I accidentally elbowed my ex-girlfriend in the eye while under a bad spell of spastic sleeping. I was dreaming that somebody was trying to grab me, and I guess my subconscious self aligned with my physical self for a short moment, and caused me to lash out in fear and hit poor ol' Raychassles. Man, I really felt badly about that, and of course I didn't mean it, of course not! I would never hit anyone, unless it was justified, and I was defending myself for some reason. I tried to explain to her that it was an accident, I mean, truly an accident, but she was kind of a bitchy person anyway, and told me not to have those sort of dreams anymore. Er...OK...I'll try not to have those kinds of dreams anymore, I told her. That was a loooong time ago, and I've erased the "Ray" years from my mind.
These days my sleeping patterns have been alright, that is, until the other night. My fiance', Sarak, tried to wake me up after my spasm. I did groggily come to my senses, and luckily nobody was injured during the fit. She told me that I was really thrashing around, and convulsing a bit too. The first thing I thought of was the scene in the Excorcist, where the doctors first come to see Reagen as she was flopping up and down in her bed, rising in-humanly, and resembling a fish desperate to get back in the water. Maybe it was not that bad, but I did recall having some sort of troubled dream, where again, somebody was trying to attack me. It's incredible how dreams can combine with the physical self and compel people to actually 'do things', i.e. sleep walking, sleep waking, talking, yelling, etc...I've even heard stories of people who have actually made full meals and eaten them while being asleep the entire time. One time, while visiting my parents after being in college for a couple of years, I was sleeping in my old bedroom, and at one point I got up to go to the bathroom - no big deal, 'cause I normally do that - but when I woke in the morning I was laying on the couch in the living room. I had no idea how I got there, I wasn't drunk or anything. Sometimes in the morning, when the alarm goes off (it's set to NPR, so I wake to the sounds of early morning news), my weird, short dreams in that space seem to revolve around what they are talking about on the radio. It is really strange when that happens, but I kind of like it too. It's as if the sounds of the news are infiltrating my dreams, and there in my head a very strange and surreal story is unfolding - part me and part real world stuff.
The singer in the awesome, mid-'90s band Hum once said, "Sleep comes to everyone, while we wait for the Sunday afternoons." My Sunday afternoon is every morning, and my every morning returns all the time.

Ceiling is Breached

surrounded
and floating

I call from some far off place
lost in a deep deep deep sleep

nobody hears and nobody is there
I feel strange here, alone

a whisper in this space
some fragmented reality

not true not true
can I control it this time?

one time I did
and knew where to go

left my bed and came
out through the roof

over what I knew and
what was familiar to me

felt alone felt augmented
but stayed with it just ‘cause

wanted to see how far I’d get
wanted to see if I could stand it

yeah, I guess I was out there
for some time, just drifting

felt kinda good, felt kinda
strange felt that I should return

but decided to stay
because here I don’t worry

here I don’t have concerns
here I’m detached from everything

this strange place, whatever and
wherever it is, feels like nothing

sometimes to feel nothing is
a great relief

in the permanent place
too much is felt everyday

and it’s not to say I’ll stay
in this strange place forever

but I’ll stay here for as long
as I can…

to feel nothing

The Cereal Journey (aka Lost in the Suburbs)

So, I had this strange dream last night (what's new?) and it involved an incident that happened to me some several years back. It was in the time of the creamy corn moon, the time of being in school, SSU, and living in a weird house with pink carpets in Cotati, CA. I lived there with some guys from my dormitory days back on SSU's campus - a small campus it was in those days, still personable, like a glorified community college. The time was ripe with questions, which were answered by exploring the unknown in and for myself. I was young, but not that young, and the late bloomer in me had yet to rear its limp-haired self and force me to become more 'adult'. It was a time of placid navigation, a time that is remembered in strange, watery images, and drunken recollections of nights spent wondering if I'll ever have a girlfriend. Hmmm, yeah and in my dreams, of course. Late night ephemera passing through my head. Bits and pieces of my history coming together in a stream of consciousness flow, but sometimes making itself very clear and understandable. This is a true story and it happened sometime in late spring of 1995.

There was party on the Northside of town. A guy named Charles hosted the party while running around his house in his weird little short, black, mod suit. Charles was an eccentric kind of guy and he would often sneak up to me on campus and at parties and whisper something like, "You see all those girls over there? I want to fuck all of them tonight." Yeah, he was overtly weird, a bit of a misogynist, but mostly a liar. I remember once he directed a play on campus that involved Greek theories, history, philosophy, or something. I went to see the play, didn't understand it, but thought it was kind of funny. As for Charles, I think the only reason he was involved in the play was so that he could cast about a dozen half naked SSU girls and have them parade around and say absurd things throughout the proceedings. Damn, I wish I could remember the name of that stupid play, but I guess it does not matter. Charles probably wanted to be seen as being more strange than he really was, so maybe that is why he went to such great lengths to direct obscure plays, wear tight little suits, and host "art kids" parties.
SSU had its fair-shair of resident eccentric types, i.e. Adam Hervey, Monkey Boy Matt Snope, The beat poet dude, the pre-EMO girls, the shoeless hippie, Primus Dan, Kretek Ken, the Greaser, the Running Man, and so on and so on...for some reason, I seemed to be friends with most of these people, some becoming and remaining very good friends to this day.
So during this time, but before the summer solstice, many off-campus parties were held, and me and my soft-spoken friend Schuyler, would attend them. Like Schuyler, I didn't say much back then. I was very shy and extremely timid, but for some reason always wanting to be at parties, or be on the peripheral of social gatherings. I liked drinking, as I soon discovered around this time, and I liked the way it made me feel. The drink surely is the "social lubricant", as it is often called. I felt loose, happy, un-inhibited, and downright sociable when I drank. And it usually did not take much to get me drunk; a couple cocktails and maybe a beer or two. I was a light-weight and a light-body, maybe weighing a whopping 150 pounds in those days. Yeah, that was me alright - skinny, reddish hair (not balding yet), baggy clothing, and sometimes clad in prescription glasses. But I didn't care because I never considered myself something to be looked at, I always liked to be the one doing the looking, like at this party, for instance.
So here we were, no Schuyler this night, but my friend Adam H. and his girlfriend Tara were with me. We were at Charles' house with all of the avant gardists from school. I remember standing in the kitchen, drinking, when all of a sudden Charles jumped up onto a table and started shouting something. Nobody really cared what he was saying, I think he was just trying to feed his ego a little bit. Adam and Tara and I made our way outside, to the front of the house, and sat on the curb. I remember being pretty drunk at this point. I was laying down and resting my head on the sidewalk when I suddenly realized I didn't want to be at the party anymore. It was boring, Charles was annoying, the art kids were being snotty, and I was becoming self-conscious. So I heaved myself off of the warm sidewalk and kind of wobbled a bit as I began to walk away. Adam asked where I was going and I said that I had to go pee. He was saying some other stuff as I walked on. I did not stop to pee, but rather continued on my own drunken trajectory away from the noise and action of the party. Adam's voice slowly faded as I rounded a corner and continued walking down another four blocks. For a minute I suspected Adam would come walking up behind me and ask where I was going. I looked back and he wasn't there. Nobody was there. The quiet and domesticated streets of Rohnert Park were still and eerily lit by the orange street lights flickering on and off at random intervals.
It was getting late, not sure how late, but pretty damn late to be wandering around in a drunken haze. Bits of fog were rolling in and the smell of the stale Sonoma County air was becoming too strong. I had to stop walking, so I rested under a willow tree near one of RP's "strategically located" parks. I sat there and almost vomited. I held it in, but I should have just let that shit flow. I needed water badly. I didn't know where I was, or where I was going. Albeit, this is Rohnert Park, and getting lost here would be a blessing, not a curse. I think that's what it was, I kind of wanted to get lost in this town, I wanted to spend the night outside somewhere and just wake up the next day and make my way back to my pink carpeted home with the mullet headed Ryan Bevers, and the stern Darryl - both black belts in karate, and Ultimate Fighting enthusiasts.
I passed out under the willow tree. I had no idea what time it was when I woke. The fog had completely saturated the area, and visibility reached a maximum of about 50 yards. I stumbled upon a drinking fountain in the park. I sipped mightily from the weak spigot shooting up little splashes of water. I must've stood there for about ten minutes just lapping up water like some depraved and dehydrated dog. I finally got going again. It was still dark out, and I estimated the time to be around 4:00 am. I figured it would be best to head back home at this point. I made my way down the unremarkable RP streets, with every turn thinking that I'd already been there. It was a massive, mind-boggling exercise in repetition and good luck. I was becoming extremely hungry, and the thought of making it back home to eat something kept me going. I was near no stores, otherwise I would've ducked into one for a donut and some coffee. Alas, nothing but house after house, and park after park.
As I walked along I started to notice that the Sunday paper was out in front of some of the homes. I didn't really care about RP's Sunday paper. But I did start to notice these strange, boxy lumps in the paper, under the plastic wrap. After passing by about half a dozen papers I finally knelt down to see what this lump was all about. I opened the plastic on one and a box of Frosted Flakes fell to the ground. I looked around to see if anyone was watching and I quietly opened the small cereal box and began munching on the sugary, golden flakes. I'll tell you, cereal never tasted better, dry or with milk, than the night I stood there and ate a whole box of somebody's promotional cereal. Along the way I found more papers and more cereal. I think I ate about ten little boxes of cereal as I walked along that early Sunday morning. I had a loopy grin on my face. I could feel the sugar slowly making its way through my body, providing me with the necessary energy that I needed to get out of these hellish suburbs and back to my own little hellish suburb to sleep in my bed.
I stumbled, made wrong turns, stopped for metallic park water, ate Frosted Flakes, yelled at myself, and eventually found the right street, which would lead me to greater Cotati, and to Hahn Avenue, where my quiet house lay nestled comfortably between two identical tract homes. I was home, not the home I necessarily wanted to be at, but home nonetheless. Damn you Bevers for finding this place - you could have tried harder. I couldn't complain though, as I wearily unlocked the front door, shuffled into the entryway, and moved myself up the pink carpeted steps. I found my room, then my little, concaved bed. I threw myself upon it. Before I closed my eyes I thought of all the people who were going to be missing something from their Sunday paper. I played out a scenario in my head, between two neighbors.
"Hey Frank, you get your cereal this morning?"
"Ahhh, nothing here Bill, looks like somebody ripped it out?! Damn kids."
And this brought a smile to my face as I slowly drifted off into a blue, easy sleep.

MP's Mailart Chronology Part 2

In issue number ten of the uber-underground publication, Alstroemeria, a short rant was written by myself in an attempt to put together a somewhat linear chronology of a mailart package sent to me from my good friend, Matt Pamatmat (www.absinthepress.blogspot.com). If you'd like to see this story in its pure form, lemme know and I will send you one, $2 , post-paid. Otherwise, you can read the fascinating part 2 of MP's Mailart Package Chronology below. The way this is put together actually reminds me of how dreams flow sometimes (and yr typical mailart); it is fragmented, and disjointed, yet tries hard to tell a tale. Through piecing together parts of the mailart, I am able to determine, with great accuracy, what MP has been up to within the past few months. Read on. This is worthless only if you want it to be.

1/8/05: MP sent a letter to the home of Biryckebosch during a slow week analyzing the film Mullholland Drive while drinking Maker's Mark and cooking some pasta for dinner. Not doing both at the same time, but one after the other, of course. The next night, and with some added pizazz, MP made the ol' fam a bit of the ol' Tasty Bite "wake up in a palace sweepstakes", convenient, easy to cook, MRE-esque Indian food in foil pouch. A coupon was torn for future reference, for future hope, for peace in the middle east. At a certain point in time, maybe after the Maker's Mark but certainly not before the Tasty Bite, MP took a short trip on the long bus to the small market and went to the little section and bought a tiny Monterey frozen burrito. MP Shat in the Safeway, made her day (the shit-eating grin of a safeway clerk). MP admired the action of two primates, in which one brutish gorilla said to a petite monkey, "Want a banana? Fat chance, fucker." Later, MP perused the shelves of the lesbian-friendly North Light Books and Cafe' tucked away in the ancient and dated Oliver's Market shopping center/'70s strip-mall. The local authorities have shut down the proceedings on several nights at North Light when the live music of starving artists becomes too loud. Evidently, the nearby patrons of the SSU-friendly Friar Tuck's Pub have complained about the incessant noise of the art-rock bands, and have sought to end the un-assuming cafe's penchant for disturbing the pub's "fraternity ambiance". MP also made a visit to Raley's market, which also operates in an ancient and out-dated Rohnert Park stripmall. Raley's boasts a cheese called Myzithra, and in a rare, early '80s feature, this cheese, which takes on an evil form, battles the mighty Godzilla. Whoever wins, we all lose. Small children with Billy Ray C. haircuts make me nervous, and the homogeneous city of Rohnert Park sure does produce a lot of these little bastards. MP received a business card, from lord knows who, for a Chinese restaurant called Tang Tang, located on 3rd ave in NY. The talented New York writer, Jonathan Ames, once stated that this place was his favorite Chinese food restaurant. He went in there one time and had a very nice meal, but noticed that the woman sitting at the table across from him was giving him 'heat'. This was heat, indeed, and it got hotter as he ended up taking the woman home with him after his meal. He was alone in the dark with this woman when he discovered that this was no Woman, but rather a Whoa-man! At any rate, he went with the flow and did what he had to do with this trans-gender person. J. Ames subsequently wrote a short story about the event and had it published in the soft-porn laden pages of Maxim magazine.
The World According to Geek is a novel in the works, and it is being written by MP. I was left anticipating more as the final sentence on a one page excerpt trailed off with, "Holding it upside down as it flapped its..."
Yes, time will tell, and I want to read more of MP's novel. But time will tell, as time sometimes speaks.

Nocturnal Infiltration

Okay, so maybe I mentioned once before in this blog that I wasn't going to talk about my days much, and I really won't (kind of), but the following bits of information stem from my daily functions here at my boring as shit roasting on a hot tin roof job. Hmmm, disgusting? Well, of course it is! And that's not the half of it. These trite, everyday meanderings are now starting to infiltrate my dreams. I went for so long without having my placid work environment invading my subconscious-self while I slept. It was so nice, I would dream of wonderful things, things that brought me great joy and contentment. But not anymore. I had a bad feeling that my dreams, sooner or later, were going to start reeling with the prior days, weeks, months, and years worth of meaningless workplace memories. And if it isn't bad enough that I've now started dreaming of this place, the dreams I've been having of work are distorted and really surreal. I've nothing against the absurd dream - as most dreams are - but I do have a problem with absurd and surreal workplace dreams - they just seem to fuck me up entirely in the wrong way.
So my dream last night was about me giving everyone that I work with on a normal basis some kind of disturbing nickname, or rather "classification". So without further adieu, here is a somewhat complete list of the names that I remember from my very shitty dream. I've included a little description of the person's real personality traits, just so that you know where I'm comin' from, ya know? Onward:
The Ughnaught - The fat, stubbly pig-girl that sits behind me, and does basically what I do, but somehow gets more respect. A real cunt, totally un-friendly and fucking insolent as hell.
The Cologne Warrior - One of the "almost a partner" attorneys that work here. A total douchebag for sure. Smells like he douses himself with a gallon of shitty cologne each morning before work.
Allan as "Fred" - For the longest time I thought this guy's name was Fred, I think I would even call him Fred sometimes. It wasn't until several months later that somebody corrected me and told me his name is actually Allan.
Rough Curser - One of the IT people that sit near my desk. She's usually friendly, but has a real white-trash side to her. Will often bang things around, and curse really loudly when things go awry in IT world.
Lumpy - I don't know what the hell this guy does. Just kind of mopes around the office. A big dude, who kind of just looks like a big lump.
Head Honcho - A guy who has been here for several years. Leader of the P-Noy Connection, even though he is not Filipino. Always stands above everyone else so that he looks like some kind of dictator. Likes to be heard, likes attention, is into himself quite a bit. Attitude. Dick-head.
Two Big Hawaiians - The two Hawaiian sisters. Very nice people. Nothing wrong with them at all.
Naive Talker - New, blonde girl who speaks very loudly on the phone. I can't stand it. She is kind of nice, but also a bit patronizing. Ok, I guess. Too loud and hyper though.
Mr. Potato Head - A guy named Lance who, I think, is some kind of body-builder person? Anyway, he cooks a potato in the microwave every morning when he gets in. Nice guy, but those fucking potatoes every morning, Jesus!
Mr. Sssslow - A big guy named Marcus. Moves EXTREMELY slow. Sometimes I get caught behind him in the hall and it takes me forever to get where I need to be. Fucking move it, man!
Lil' Miss Perfect - A girl named Kim who is a complete sycophant. Total goodie-goodie. Always sticks her nose into other people's business, as well as keeping it nice and brown.
Mr. Attention - A guy named Raghu, who is really a good guy, but needs to be the center of attention most of the time, talks loud, laughs loud, whatever...
Mrs. Work-Never-Ends - A woman named CKS, who seems to constantly be working, even if she is on "vacation". Always needs something that nobody can find. A real bitch most of the time. You know the type, yes?
Rob the Knob - Jesus, not enough can be said about this fucking guy. A real talker, been here forever, a "lifer" for sure. Kind of like a good-natured school yard bully, if that makes any sense. Rumor has it that he cannot be fired, due to some contract he has with the partners. He could probably sexually harass all the women in the office and still nothing would happen to him. What a fucking idiot. Oh well. He always sneaks up behind me and puts me in a choke-hold. Makes fun of my clothes and what not. You know what, fuck that retarded son-of-a-bitch. Yeah, you got it.
Miss Bliss - One of the secretary's here. Thinks her shit smells like the freshest potpourri. Always smiling, as if she's got one up on you. Fucking brown-noser (similar to Miss Perfect).
The Intimidators (aka, the P-Noy Connection) - Ok, these guys, fucking hell man, these guys are the worst. They all gather right out in front of the building and stand there in a big gang (about 15 of 'em). Some smoke, some just stare blankly at nothing (Lumpy), and some just listen to the Head Honcho spew his self-gratifying nonsense, as he stands on a ledge overlooking the whole gang. Bunch of fucking losers. I was leaving the building once on a little break, when all of a suddenI heard all of them laughing. I turned around slowly to see if they were indeed laughing at me. They were. I asked them if they had a problem. They didn't say anything, just kind of turned away rather quickly. I was prepared to fight all of them. I'm skinny, balding, have freckles, wear glasses, etc...you know, the kind of person you want to beat-up. But I don't give a flying fucking piss and semen laden shit what you think. I was going to fucking fight all those guys. Wanna take me on? Just send me a message and we'll set it up.
Eminem - Oh Lord, I fucking hate Eminem, and I hate this guy too. He looks and acts just like the white, over-hyped, rapper.
Data Freak - Randy is his name and data is his game. The DB operator who is the biggest, fattest nerd you have ever seen. I really don't like the name Randy, it's just so, well, Randy.
Mr $$$ - Dean, the main partner here. Money is on his mind and settling cases is his game. Gives us the steady paycheck, even for writing blog entries such as this. Ha!
Mr. Mopey - Phil, the other partner. Mopes around the office most of the time, occasionally stopping in front of an Jr. Attorney's office to chew him or her out very loudly so that the whole office can hear.
Hormonal Overtake - The receptionist here. Nice but overly friendly, seems she's desperate for attention of the opposite (or same?) sex. Weird.
"Man" ager - My supervisor/manager, Rae. She is, well, you know, kind of "butchy", and gets the job done in a manly kind of way. You know what I mean, yes? She is nice, however, and I don't have anything against her.


Well, that is really all I remember from my very disturbing dream. I know there is more, but I just can't recall it all right now. There are over 100 people who work here, and I don't interact with every single person. I wish I could have names for everyone, but I think I'll wait 'til this dream resumes on another night. And I hope that this 'other night' won't happen for a very long, long, long time.

Bridge Over Murky Waters

So I drive over this bridge every Wednesday night at about 11:30. The bridge has been in a perpetual state repair for the past 4 years, they call it "earthquake retro-fitting", but I call it a bunch of bullshit. Men in orange vests smoke cigarettes and seemingly just hang out all around the edge of the bridge. Do these guys ever actually work? Huge cranes swing like giant pendulums above the slow moving stream of cars. I've never seen these cranes in action, but I suppose they do more than just threateningly loom above. I get so sick of driving over this bridge, and driving very slow to boot. Where I come from they don't have bridges like they do out here, and when I first moved here I was excited to cross over the majestic, long, and sturdy bridges of the bay. Now it seems more a nuisance than anything. The joy of traversing a man-made marvel has slowly eroded as I find myself once a week traveling slowly across a big, grey, metal trap. By the time I get home it is very late, and all I want to do is go to sleep, sometimes even forgetting to brush my teeth. I blame it on the bridge work that never ends, and never will. I blame it on the ochre colored bay waters, which hides lord knows what beneath the impenetrable surface. And I also blame it on myself, for choosing to do this, and putting myself in the same situation over and over and over again.

Sleepwaking

I woke up this morning still asleep. Sleepwaking is what it is called, and it usually occurs when one is not feeling very well, such as I was this very morning. The day before was a strangely hurried day for me. I don't normally like to talk about the day, any damn fool talks about his day, a boring and cliched forum. But I am a damn fool, a damn, balding, glasses wearing fool. The purpose of this blog is to discuss those strange, ephemeral little moments of time concerning the resting of the head on a pillow for sleep, and the time in-between waking the next day. Yeah, that's what I want to discuss. But at any rate, yesterday was a strange day because I drove all the way to Monterey, CA from Berkeley for a work assignment that involved looking through and photocopying old telephone books. I think the driving was what did it to me - I mean the reason why I had such strange dreams and felt nauseous when I woke up today. I stopped on the way home from Monterey somewhere along Hwy 1, I think I was on the outskirts of Santa Cruz, kind of near Half Moon Bay. I stopped to take a piss and to take in the small sliver of crimson sunset touching down on the far off horizon. Such a nice sight, but the air was thick and cold and my throat started to get scratchy when I got back into my car. I think that is why I felt a little sick when I woke today, and why I dreamt of Filipinos holding me hostage on an island somewhere. Sleepwaking, try it, because you've never felt more alive than when you wake and realize you're still asleep, yet in full control of everything you do.