It is so hot. SOOOO HOT. I thought I’d be able to fight through this summer with a 16″ fan in my room, but I can’t even lay down in my own bed for more than ten minutes. My daily walks are becoming dangerous. I’m forgetting to eat because I’m constantly drinking iced-something.
Earlier today, I went to Pratt to take care of some address changes and such. Then I got the bright idea to hop on the G train and go somewhere. At the moment, it seemed like a good idea, because man… the train was cool as ice. Then I refused to get off at the couple of stops I could have gotten off at, because the train was so cool. Then it started heading towards an uncharted territory, so I had to get off, drag my butt to the other side of the platform and hop on another G. Then I thought, I was born on the Summer Solstice, stop being a wuss. So I got off the Bergen stop. Then I did my typical wondering around, looking at things and people for about an hour, all with a dead zombie look on my face and an iced Starbucks beverage hanging from my left arm. Around 5pm, I realized I had nothing to eat the whole day. In fact, yesterday’s dinner consisted of chips. I treated myself to a Turkey Club at a nearby deli, and then I took off on a bus. I was half awake on the bus. Got off of it, walked home. I ate my sandwich like a zombie who hadn’t seen a brain for a week. With my trusty fan running, I fell on the floor. I didn’t bother to move. I fell asleep or passed out. I can’t remember, my brain feels like a mush. I wake up about three hours later, and I can recall my dream for the first time in a very long while.
I am with three or four other people. I think one of them is my brother. Another is an older girl I knew from Jersey. One of them is probably my friend i used to know in high school. She used to wear red a lot. Then a couple more of them are just blurry as fuck. We are in a huge lot of tall apartment buildings. These friends keep talking about a party, a celebration. I’m just going along with whatever. We end up in an apartment unit. There’s nothing on the tables, no jackets thrown over the sofas. We stand in a circle, about to discuss seriously about this party, this celebration. It is called a red party. We will make all kinds of food items that are completely red and consume then. The older girl is preparing the main course. Apparently, the kitchen has been stocked before hand, and all the cabinets are decked out with things that will allow us to make very red things. There are two problems that we face at the moment, two very serious issues. First of all, there is a pot of plant on the table all of the sudden, and that must be gotten rid of. Second, somebody must bring dessert. It’s quiet and no one is making a move. There are no volunteers. Then I volunteer. Eye contact is made and they start to cheerfully make plans again.
I am given a huge pillow case filled with things. It looks just like the one I washed a couple of days ago, except that it is the size of a bed sheet and filled up to about twice the puffiness of a regular pillow. It’s not too heavy, just really bothersome. I am told there is a key to a room upstairs and some cash in this functional bag. Then somebody puts on of some latex gloves, picks up the potted plant off from the ridiculously clean table and carefully places it in my arm. This is the same plant I gave Christine a couple of months ago. It seems to be doing healthy. Then the kids stand around giving me the solemn ’go take care of it’ look. I ask them what kind of dessert they are looking for, then I am given a very serious lecture about what you can consider ‘red.’ It cannot have a red coating with a white stuffing inside; how incredibly deceptive. It must not be decorated with leaves or pretty much anything that is not red. Any type of drizzle or jelly you want to use to spice it up must be red. The syrup cannot be a translucent red that can be seen through. It must be a dense, rich red. The desert must not smell like vanilla or chocolate, because they will make one recall the color of white of brown when smelt. There is no questioning whether they can taste like vanilla or chocolate. At the end of the lecture, I am given a stern warning: “it must look red, it must smell red and it must taste red. We are celebrating our origin, do not fuck this up.”
I leave those wackos behind, get on the elevator and move up a few floors. My feet lead me to a steel door, and my hands rummage through the pillowcase and find a key. It fits. This is another room exactly like the one I just left. Clean, quiet, unoccupied. I know exactly what must happen in this room. I place the pillowcase by the door. I hold the potted plant away from my face and take it to the kitchen sink. I flip the pot, and the plant, along with some dried dirt, plonks into the clean stainless steel surface. I wash every bit of the mess into the drain. Somewhere along this process, I think there was a chopping of the plant to make it go down better. The sink is clean, dried with a paper towel, and it seems like nothing happened here at all. I leave the room with my pillowcase and the empty pot immediately, thinking of dessert ideas. I thought of buying store made red-velvet cupcakes. It makes me laugh a little, because that might get me beaten really bad by those crazy friends of mine. I get on the elevator again. This time, there is a blonde woman in the elevator. The ground-floor is already pressed. I am not feeling guilty about the murder, but the look this woman is giving me through the whole 10 flights of floors or so is making me think maybe I should be.
I was going to go to a grocery store around the area, but I am taking an awfully complicated combination of public transportation. There must have been a bus, a cab and a train, but when I look up, I’m in a ferry boat, getting off on an island. I know this feeling of adventure and the smell of ocean hovering all around me. I have been here before, and I know where I am. This has to be the Galapagos Islands. The ferry driver even looks slightly Hispanic. I am overjoyed at the fact that I am here. Somehow, there are no sea lions, iguanas or turtles to be seen, but I know there are wonderful things for me lying beyond those trees.
I follow a path. I have completely forgotten about the dessert, the red party, the arborcide and my crazy friends. I am skipping on my feet with a slight residue of the thought that, somewhere along the way, I have to stop by a grocery store for something. I see a field of grass to my left. There are some people enjoying a picnic, walking around with their loved ones under the canopy of some very very tall trees. Then the trees start moving, and the trees turn into giraffes. Slow and gracious, they make my eyes tear. I had a beautiful walk, but the sky is growing dimmer. I am reminded of the fact that my friends might be done cooking and that I might miss out on this awesome party. I figure it’s around 8 right now, and they’ll probably wait for their desserts until 8:30. I am on an island after all, a bit of a way to travel back. When these thoughts are buzzing around my head, I find myself on a long seaside promenade. There is a neat cement road with giant boulders and gray rocks laying on either margins. To the right, there is the ocean. On some of these heavy rocks, we see a species of ape. They look like chimps, but their furs are replaced by porcupine needles. Despite their looks, they are friendly. I reach the end of the walkway where the landscape seems to say something like, ‘no further interesting things to see here.’ I turn back, head to the docks. I see that Hispanic driver standing on a small wooden plank, about the size of a cardboard box. He is magically balancing himself and rowing with a big tree branch. He slowly floats away from the land, and I run towards this spectacle. I beg him to take me with him. I explain about the red party, how I must get back before 8:30, the grocery store, the red velvet cake…all with a huge pillow case on my back and an empty pot, in which ,at this point, comfortably sits two wild baby birds, to a man standing on a cardboard-sized platform on the water which is probably incredible difficult to balance. He keeps telling me, “so sorry, so sorry.”
