Tag: pier

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Dream Journal

Remembering “Say the Thing”, Parking My Truck in Mexico

An island of scrubby brush and dry dirt. Camp Tipsy-like event of a gathering of friends goofing off in the water on junky boats. Twice someone locates a submerged set of “black eyes”, two large stones one can stand on in deep water off the pier. As he does it the second time, I’m clambering up the pier ladder, thinking about what Chicken yelled at me during a performance, “say the thing!” (reminds me of Varrick in Legend of Korra.) Back then I thought I wasn’t remembering something, but I think I realized it may have been a cue to just say something funny or catchphrase-y. I scoop out three tiny googly eyes floating in the dark water. The sun is dim, sky is twilight, and we’re leaving the pier. Debris of a wooden shelf is sticking out of the dirt near the end of the pier, it’s sharp little carpentry hooks ready to snag. I shove back and forth to dislodge it and one or two friends pause to help.

I go to retrieve my truck from where I parked it. This is Mexico, on a pleasant tree-lined urban residential street running down a diagonal hill. Sliding down the side toward it, I look downhill and notice the name “Billy” written on the slope. The drainage channel there has gone a bit crooked. I scoop out the dirt and straighten it out, but I immediately notice the water now flowing much too fast. I try to correct it, then absentmindedly return to my truck. With the keys in my hand at the door, I notice this is NOT my truck. I turn around and notice that (since I parked) a car has been parked behind and to the side of this truck, unnecessarily blocking any traffic on the street. Indignant, I scoop up a bunch of dirt and spread it all over the hood of the car. I then turn around to get my truck, the only other car on the street, only to find this truck isn’t mine either. I instantly know it’s been towed and I’m in for hours of bullshit, equally instantly am I infallibly certain that I parked it legally. Something has gone very wrong where I parked, and I don’t know where to start with figuring out what.

Categories
Dream Journal

Rocks, Parks, Plants, and Avatars

Driving down what seems like a miniature Hot Wheels freeway in San Francisco, through a rocky little cactus and succulent park. I take what must be a wrong turn and continue driving over the road, but it’s now invisible. It’s disconcertingly like flying between the channel of rocks.

I come out the other end at a corner, noticing a small sedan parked just to the side of the intersection, practically in the crosswalk under a tree and sticking out into the lane. It appears to have been there a while as there are pieces of broken-off succulent plant growing on the street around their car. I consider rescuing some to take home.

Instead, I enter uninvited into the condo-like apartment building, in the tall flat block adjacent the intersection. There’s no lights on inside, and it has a “Miami retiree” vibe. I get lost in the maze of bathrooms, trying to leave feels like going through one after another, in the dim interior twilight.

Once I’m outside, I start writing a note to explain how the invisible road in the park must be fixed, and in the process one of the rent-by-hour bikes that’s always parked on the sidewalk in San Francisco gets knocked down. An older, gray-haired motorcycle-type guy with a goatee, his outfit covered in motorsports logos, reflexively tells me it’s knocked over and I should leave a note. He’s just passing by and doesn’t even seem to have any investment. I gather myself and rush after him and ask him pointedly “why did you feel you had to say that?” He immediately understands it was unnecessarily bossy and apologizes, yet I agree I will leave a note and say I’m sorry.

Afterwards, I use a personal gliding machine to fly directly above the rocky triangle-shaped park. There are huge spherical floating balloons holding up art projects, the work of one artist not long ago. I fly low enough to graze them. In a fit of enjoyment, I fly low over the street, wobbling to and fro between the lanes as I idly ply the neighborhood.

Walking between two fancy houses on the seaside. Modernist concrete right angled things, floor to ceiling windows overlooking long patios which double as piers, covered in tasteful potted plants. I walk between two of them (neither of which I have permission to be on) and observe how their roofs hold up a flat trellis between the homes. (The orientation switches at some point, as if I’d been looking toward the sea, or looking toward the street.) I imagine hanging a certain pitcher plant perfectly in between the two homes, such that it overhangs the walkway.

I am, by this point, also an Avatar Aang type character. A younger girl, resident of one of the fancy homes, lays down on the concrete, bereft of energy. In what I understand to be a friendly gesture, I dip my nose into her exposed armpit. I must’ve been invisible to her before, as she startles and knocks me backwards. In penance I turn myself into a potted plant with tall pointy leaves, called a snake plant. I watch the clock fast forward by a factor of 36, while in the background my unknowing allies search for the Avatar.