Rem Koolhaas, Junkspace
10:48// Starting on the elliptical, I read that, as I have read it before, only this time within an essay by Fredric Jameson. It reminds me of S. smiling down at me in the Detroit airport when we lighted upon two parallel escalators, mine depositing me on a floor below him.
In my dream, I was back at my high school campus, having rented a unit in one of the dorms, without being enrolled in classes, everyone was surprised to see me, an ex of an erstwhile friend of mine had shacked up in the space I had not been using, since I had spent most of my time in Gotham, from which I had traveled back through the drizzly mist via bullet train. We cuddled and that was nice.
Holden and his friends were there. There was an evening roll call, the person taking it saying my name and that of the other guy, noting jokingly that we had been taken down in an airstrike. I had an earlier dream in which I was going to a dentist’s office beneath the regional health center in my home town, which had been risen up on pilotis. Through the standard square grid of the dropped ceiling of the waiting room, a huge postmodern sculpture, in bright toy colors, of a laser beam apparatus burst through. In the bathroom the cool young African-American doctor asked when I was going to be done with school. As we had gone towards the dentist office, beneath the smoggy underbelly of the health center lofted over us, dad had two forks melted together at their handles, which he was to use to pry a bit of the truck window open to prevent the build-up of toxic gasses.
Still in bed, I rolled about feeling nice, considering this stage of my life, curling up and rocking a bit, as if I were in a pupa. My wings will return, but I must just take each day at a time and take care of myself, detaching from the outside world.
Upon waking, I thought of the last time my words had led to my civil liberties being violated, in high school, again treated as a criminal despite having committed no crime. I thought back even further, to the student in the dorm next to mine, who committed suicide my freshman year. When we returned in the spring, the roof of the field house was painted with large letters, “For [name], lest he be forgotten.” Returning the next year, the words had been replaced, “WELCOME TO THE MACHINE”. I switched from my dark blue pajama pants into my neon orange track pants, put on my Nike Free grey-red-blue shoes, went to the elliptical. Rents are due today. I nibble at an Equal Exchange banana.
11:01// Oh yeah, and Captain Sensible was singing “Happy Talk" as I drifted between dreams and reality. After posting this, I respond to the "1" on my iMessaging bubble, it is mom, who sent a screenshot of my horoscope taken from DirecTV at 1:41 in Los Angeles:
You’ll be inspired by a person who possesses some of the traits you would like to nurture in yourself. This is someone you’ll spend more time with in the future. You’re already planning it.
12:01// After a long delay, I return to the elliptical, Jameson speaking about the end of the world, “whether we have to do here with the bang or the whimper is not the interesting question,” a word that immediately brings your face, your body, your lilting voice speaking gently over me, those eyes, that look, your gaze, such passionate moments but one of so many reasons/ways I will always love you. Be well dear. x^3
12:52// I spend some time on the elliptical not reading, just looking out towards the still mostly-green canopy across the gorge. Looking down, the electronic ink pad displays an ad for a book, two people on a hike, one leaning near or against a tree, the title: Take Me With You.