Arrival: Part IIIa (05.12.87)

By the time I was twenty, the Bay Area night club scene had already been my outlet for expression for over two years. I had become a silent icon in a patchwork of diversity; an Aquanet subscriber in a plight to maintain social status of a crowd that vehemently needed to define themselves as outcasts. I think the fact that we all looked basically the same was written off as mere coincidence.

Tuesday and Wednesday nights I could be found in Palo Alto at the Vortex. I would move to the groove from open 'til close, grab a soda at the Jack in the Box on the way out and be home by a little after 2am. Wednesday May 13th was the first of two after mornings that would etch permanently in my repertoire of yarn.

Homeward bound, I entered 101 at Page Mill Road heading south; a lifeless stretch at that hour inhabited only by myself and a mix tape. The music was a steady thump of homoerotic undercurrents breeding a final b-side exception; Patches, by Dickie Lee. Volume low, 'Patches' played as the freeway began to light my way.

There is a couple mile section of the freeway, not too long after entering it, that lights do not illuminate. The final verse of the song faded into darkness and I remember wondering if I would ever experience the depth that Dickie Lee sings of 'Patches'.

'Patches' is a young girl on the shanty side of town. Dickie Lee sings of his love for her and his parent's disapproval, for they, do not live on the same side of town. As he looks out the window, he imagines that his inability to visit has gone unknown, leaving the belief that his love remains no more. An overheard conversation between his father and a neighbor confirms his belief; ‘Patches’ has been found afloat in the river. The songs last line serves as a reminder of youth and its unforgiving tormentors... 'Patches, I'm coming to you...'

The song began to play again and the texture of contented grief, supplemented by a teary smirk, filled the emptiness that I imagined to be mine. I felt like singing and yet, it’s not always the type of song that needs accompaniment. Mentally adrift, the brisk cool night set into my heater-less car.

My mental wondering came to a sudden halt. 'Patches' had only been recorded once. I stopped the tape, rewound it and hit play. I heard the final haunting verse, followed by silence, and again the song started anew.

I stopped the tape again and rewound. This time I rewound longer. I got lucky, the 'Trans X' song 'Living on Video' was just ending flollowed by a moment of silence, then the quite guitar intro of 'Patches'.

I hit fast foreword, then stop; middle of the song. I hit fast foreword, then stop; almost the end. Fast foreword – stop; the end. Silence. 'Patches' starts again. I hit eject and turned off the radio. I drove in silence trying desperately to apply logic to this absolutely illogical moment.

There was not even enough room at the end of the tape to hold another song. I thought to myself, "O.K. this is a little screwed up here". In actuality, the wording was probably a little less tasteful but I would prefer to remember myself as a graduate of extreme moral fiber. Ah, who the hell am I kidding...?

Hearing a song that is not there is a little freaky, but hey, this was only part one.

To be continued...

Arrival: Part II (04.12.05)

I am unsure as to the purpose of last night’s event, but quite aware of the result. This may not fall into the category of arrivals, but as I do not typically experience dream, I find myself absent in the psychological explanation that would metaphorically link this dream to reality...

I was in the back seat of a long forgotten taxi headed into the Twin Peaks district of San Francisco. Darkness cast its shadow beneath a cloudless, pale moon sky and street lights glimmered in an eerie amber glow. Destination unknown, I watched disquietly as the undivided flats moved past the unwashed windows of the car.

A passenger to my right, although apparently known to me, was indistinguishable above the upper body, almost as if he simply dissolved into a visual abyss. There was no rear view mirror to spy the driver and his ID was obscured by unknown embellishments, sparking a cause for concern. There was no one else in the taxi.

I felt a sudden pang of fear, followed by a heightened sense of awareness. I looked again toward the person to my right. His composure seemed pacified, hands gently crossed upon his lap and still, no definable features. The taxi began to slow. My eyes darted through the blackened streets for a familiar landmark. We began to veer to the right side of the road.

Time entered an altered space; our movement slowed while shadows continued, defining our future movement in an unaltered state, leaving us as ravels in the emptiness of space. Speech lost all sense of origin; modulated utterances of misdirection grumbled in the hollow stems of echo.

The taxi came to rest at the end of a long, indiscernible driveway. The world outside, turned pitch black and only the dome light of the cab, previously unlit, gave light to my surroundings. My breathing became short and deliberate. Danger had set itself upon those within. Quickly turning to my right, I was able to sheer from the stone of silence, desperations under-breath plea; “Get out”. I turned to face the driver.

Fortune has given me experiences throughout my life that many will never experience in earnest. Life can pass in the blink of an eye. Death’s doorway brings truth to life’s forefront, and that which is cared for most, pillars in the final moments of consciousness.

I saw the quirky, inquisitive look in my son’s eyes after learning something new. I saw my mother and father cuddled together on the couch while watching a movie. I saw friends laughing at my ridiculous behavior during a Friday’s happy hour. Everyone that I have ever held close, each place I have ever found comfort in, every scent that has brought joy was delivered in a cup of hast to swallow in the minute, insignificant stretch of time that it takes to blink.

A handgun was placed against my forehead; no words of warning, no demands, just a short, cold, hard silver barrel drawing my breath to a standstill. My appeal to suspend this moment lay somewhere in the moments after thought. I watched as the revolving chamber slowly turned counter-clockwise.

My body followed my head as it was thrust violently into the back seat. I seemed to linger for just a moment before blood began to stream into the hollows of my closed eyes. Warmth enveloped my forehead as though I were adorned with rays from the sun. I slumped foreword, chin resting on my chest, arms immobile. The weight of my body buckled upon its self made each depleted gasp for breath extremely short.

As blood etched my bodies outline, I had a fleeting thought; I hoped that the other person had been able to get out. Visions that once danced in the flurry of thought began to darken. Each breath, captured with small movements past my lips, grew briefer yet. Consciousness took its last tally of events, memories gave in to fatigue, and as though it had been announced as a last call, my final breath came and went with a conclusive exhale. This journey had reached its conclusion.

- I shot straight up in bed, body aglow with perspiration. A deep, lengthy grasp for oxygen bellowed in the apartment walls. Sheets saturated, my eyes raced around the faintly lit room for something to anchor to. The tale of dying in dream and the association to life outside of dream ceasing, kept me in quandary. I did not fall back asleep for quite a long time.

I fumbled around this morning to the beat of my normal routine. Sitting at the beds edge, I put on my socks. As I looked down, a shell, roughly a 45 caliber, lay between my feet. I will not be going straight home this evening.

Arrival: Part I (04.07.05)

They came again last night. On February 27th I relocated to California, attempting to give flight once again to the re-occurrences in my life. Amid the seemingly successful ruse, I again woke to the familiar, unwelcome experience of ‘arrival’.

It’s been exactly forty days since the last visit. I have extracted from my temporary retreat, a new way of thinking, allowing me to finally put forth these experiences. The component of fear, initially keeping at bay the need to vocalize these encounters, has been replaced by rebellion.

These ‘Incidents’ began sometime in 1973. As I struggle to connect the events that have led to this finale in my life, I will attempt to explain those that I recall, clearly and in explicit detail.

Last night was perhaps the least influential of all incidents; because of this, my overall cause for concern is greatly enhanced. Arrivals come in a series, or packet form. The inaugural arrival depicts the intensity of those to follow. Should an initial arrivals tone be severe in nature, the following will inevitably be easier to endure. If the initial arrival is calm, the following will no doubt be arduous at best.

My sleep routine has remained constant throughout my life; the knowledge that I have dreamt, an inability to remember that which I have dreamt, and a trip to the wash sometime between the hours of two and three in the morning.

It was during last night’s trip to the wash that the initial arrival occurred. My eyes struggled against the weight of retiring late so my way was made mostly through memory and touch. As I walked through the dressing room, connecting the bedroom to the bath, my hand felt for the closet door on the left. Assuming that my hand was in the doorway, I continued, assuming that the molding to the door was next. It was not. My hand flailed lightly in search. As I began to open my eyes to the explanation, I felt the intense chill of a substance that I’ll refer to as ‘thick fog’. Eyes wide open, senses no longer dulled by sleeps remiss, I was now keenly aware.

Cold, thick fog is the messenger for most arrivals. An area of fog, roughly eight feet square, stood where the entrance to my walk-in closet should have been. Imbedded in the fog, emanates light with no apparent source and no definite destination. The temperature outside of the fog remains and is not inherently affected.

I was instinctively repelled against the opposite side of the dressing room where I found myself almost perched atop the counter. My breathing turned short, awaiting this arrivals result.

The fog simply dissipated. I sat in disbelief as if my eye were simply unable to process the truth. Stretching my foot toward the wall, I toggled the light switch only to find things merely as they should be.

It is important to understand that these occurrences have a thirty-two year history in my life. This instance would carry no particular weight outside of the fact that nothing else happened. For nothing to happen, causes me great concern.

Darkness’ remains were filled with my inability to regain sleep. I began to search through the anthology of journals I keep, trying desperately to find some relevance to this arrival, only to find myself even more frustrated. I do not know what to expect now.

Pope Gregory and the fools of April

or Ten Days – Poof!

“Ha, ha - you fool. You fell victim to one on the most classic blunders of all time. The first; is never get involved in a land war in Asia. The second; never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line”... oh yeah, don’t every say that you were busy on Thursday, October 5, 1582.

In 45 BC, Julius Caesar introduced the Julian Calendar into the yuppie bibles of the civilized world. Silly Caesar! His calendar set forth an error of one day every 128 years, plus Easter was not being calculated properly. Hello?

1,627 years later on Thursday, October 4, 1582, Pope Gregory XIII said “nuff-a-this!” (in Italian) and implemented the Gregorian Calendar. Boy did this a mess make. First of all, no New Years celebration on March 24th! This was sort of cool though because hey, everyone could pop the cork again on December 31st. The vernal equinox (spring’s grand opening) was also a tad behind, ten days behind in fact.

Bemused by the whole debacle, people turned in a bit earlier on the eve of the 5th for it was just too much to take in plus Mercury was probably in retrograde. A little known fact is that the story of Rip Van Winkle actually got its first run in societal yarning only to be lost for the next 184 years due to the lack of a primary character.

Anyway, folks awoke the next day to discover that it was now Friday the 15th, 10 days later, and considering that it could’ve been 28 days later, I think all was not bad. Those who weren’t jiggy-wit-it and didn’t adopt the new system were commonly referred to as foolish. They maintained April 1st as the new year and would celebrate as such.

Shortening October set us straight with the new calendar. Although the world was a little slow on the uptake, the colonies of Great Britain, including America, finally accepted the change by 1752.

In conclusion, it is my belief that we take a half-a-step back. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could celebrate two New Years? I certainly do! This way, when you assess your New Years resolution and say “I didn’t lose that weight that I said I would”, you get another shot!

I’m not entirely happy with this post but hey, I don’t have anything else to put in...