Zachariah and the Cycle of Flame

 

I dreamed that my girlfriend and I were on our way to a futuristic party called, “the prom” and in this dream she gave me, as a gift, a semi bulky bag of molly and a larger bag of coke.  A few stone throw dream sequences later, I dreamed I found a little coke on a school book and was trying to do a line as my mother walked through the door.  As she came in, I placed the book under a sheet, the dust sprang and half blew away.  Fuck, I was pissed.

Back to “the prom.” My girlfriend and I were in our late twenties but we were both well dressed, on the street I circled the block several times by the entrance to the party.  With both bags of dust in my pockets, I saw security at the door and stashed the bag of coke in one of many bins aligning the floor.  As if Ikea like structures and storage existed on the streets of New York, not even particularly dirty, for everyone to use.  I stashed it behind a few other objects, in the third bin from the left behind a cloth, a roll, things I couldn’t quite make out.

Entering the party, I remember girls dancing, my girlfriend was gone.  I remember searching for the drugs to make the party better.  Of course there were more of these on the ground storage bins by the bathroom. I searched for the coke.

I have a weird thing with bathrooms in my dreams.  I know that sounds trashy but this particular dream was alluring, outside of the bathroom everything was covered in lime and purple, colors of youth mixed with hallucinations in devouring dimensions.  Dreams meld florescent feelings with walls that hold together places, bathrooms in my dreams are the size of warehouses, there are strange showers, sometimes gold or mud, sometimes doorways.  I don’t remember why this particular bathroom in the lower levels of “the prom” club haunted me.  I still could not find the coke.

I keep dreaming of a friend I had in middle school.  For the last two nights I’ve dreamed of Zach, his voice talked from the inside of my head at “the Prom.”

Zachariah, Zach.  Zach was a funny friend.  He never talked down to me because he was equally weird.  In me he saw someone to talk to, to gossip to that was unlike his other preppy friends.  He too had an older brother that was a bully.  His brother even looked evil, with small nostrils and not an ounce of kindness, his brother would grunt as he gave up the computer to us to continue his night.  His Wu-tang music always scared me…at that age…I thought you had to be violent to listen to that shit.  (Years later I did learn that Wu-tang was actually part of the dying smart artful kind of shit).  Zach and I would talk about the other preppy kids like Tommy, and Greg, he’d play me his favorite rap songs knowing full well I didn’t like rap.  But I was amused by him.  He cracked me up, he was goofy but never allowed himself to seem that way in front of the other preppy kids…he was the leader.  I always befriended the leader.  I the son of an immigrant roaming the halls of my young rich friends, searching for answers to unknown domestic questions.  The vacancy of American life.

Zach said things to me like, “only you and I are capable of keeping girlfriends.” At the time I had my first girlfriend, a blond, I guess I wasn’t as scared of relationships…as guys that were still experimenting with poking girls with words and pretending like they didn’t give a fuck.

Zach had a grouchy Jewish mother with a fro of crazy grey and black hair.  She was mean and smart and kinda cool.  She was a lawyer.  His Dad was a business man, quiet and weird,  his voice was soft and sweet like a jazz musicians’ or serial rapist’.  The  man would come home and play the guitar in the living room or in the Foyer.  I always admired his guitars and his ability to throw himself down on a guitar like he was throwing himself on an attractive model who understood him.  I remember playing a jazz song for this guy once. He played jazz…I was trying to impress him.

I used to play jazz but I was a phoney.  I took lessons but hated to practice.  I just couldn’t.  I never learned the notes, I imitated my guitar teacher’s style and played without understanding the fucking language.  I felt like a dummy.   Like understanding the pictures of books without knowing the language.

This post is long.  Its odd and personal, in my own way lol, and my posts are never this way.

Zach was in my dream last night, but only his voice.  He spoke in my head, like he was on some futuristic cell phone.  He said he was on the way to the party with two girls.  I wanted to see him.  I kept searching for the drugs.

Drugs.  We have learned to live in a way that cages us separate from our feelings, from feeling good, from living beautifully.  I cannot imagine what that would mean.

Recently, in life (not in dreams) I went to an underground bar with my girlfriend and I got the craving for coke.  Of course I craved drugs, where is beauty in being locked up in a dungeon with not a single pretty word or thought uttered among the hundreds of people that pass through these places.  You get there, and practically jump on the bartender, “save me.”  People, I assume they talk about going out to this place, that place, what about this girl, that girl, this guy, that guy, this meal, that meal.  Next to me, two guys sat in leather coats, oily curly hair, daft expressions.  They were too cool for each other!  And they clung to the beers in front of them, their butts were stuck to the bench, I diagnosed them.  They had an inability to get up and dance with the dumb gaggles of women in front of us.  I prescribe…shots.

They glanced over, my wolf eyes do their job, I shield predators from looking at my girlfriend with a frenetic urge and as a construct to satisfy their gutless lives.

Wolves with bellys, limp dicks, money and no money, lawyers and club promoters, artists, students, business men, trust fund babies, New York “scenes” are littered with self important excuses for the dying breath of goodness in the human race.  The Catcher in the Rye man, where is that damn catcher!

Fantasy worlds, like Game of thrones, appeal to us because there were simpler times.  There was honor and no honor, there were houses to fight for, legions and loyalties.  Respect was more than just Martin Luther King’s shunned and ridiculed legacy.  Maybe I just wish friendship and love, did know no bounds.

Searching for beauty in New York City you run up against walls. So many damn walls.  Cozy ones, and long ones that stretch up to the sky.  The darling sun is everywhere but Nature’s song leaves a trail of blood through the streets.

Searching for the edge.  Giving into drugs and drinking is drowning in our own voices.  Smashing thoughts with Gallager’s hammer.  Ugly and razor sharp turned liberated and steal.  I picture Phillip Seymour Hoffman, one of my favorite actors, staring into the darkness of my middle school cafeteria.  In a shadowed corner, he leans in with tears to see the razor teeth, the dance, the naughty lie…living a rich life by today’s standards.  To shed not the mortal coil but the mindless one.

The Lord of Stress is a infinity long lizard, or does he simply want you to believe his tale never ends.

The last part of my dream was cool and gross.  I have had various dreams about flight.  As my air motorcycle stalled, I saw the people that were coming for me.  They wanted to stop me from taking off into the air.  I sat on a ghostrider vehicle, embalmed in flame. A motorcycle that allows one to shoot up into the air like a rocket and leave a trail of flame.  I know its cheese but it was a dream.  In a dream circumstances are not playful.

As I tried to take off I said to neighboring villain, “my bother is coming, dip yourself in the flame and go after him. ” As I look over he, who is also on one of these motorcycles, is “warming” himself, heating up in bonfire fire, ready to blaze after my enemies as they enter the garage door.

No Zachariah.  I’m in my mother’s apartment and the coke blows away, my engine, its stalling.

 

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