June 4, 2004

[Nocturnal hours]

And so I'm dreaming.

My car speeds down streets I can only name while I'm awake. I'm in the town of Fremont and the air seems unnatural. My head's beating and my thoughts are convoluted with emotion. I'm suffocating myself due to a type of confusion one would experience in high school. At my side sitting relaxed on the passenger seat is she, the one bringing about this confusion. Her eyes are squinty and her smile is continual. She wraps me in mirth with brunette hair and a soft complexion. Fiddling with the stereo she flings in a CD of hers and tells me to listen to "Maps" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs because she loves this particular melodic song: she chants the words as if she were the band's lead singer, twisting along the passenger seat, jamming away to the inebriated beats. And I'm trying to get on her level, trying to feel everything she's feeling. But it's hard because I'm feeling outright guilty. I'm here in my car with this woman and I'm not even thinking of my fianc?e.

And as we pass a sign on the right-hand side of the road she says: 'That was a stop sign back there! Why didn't you stop? Keep your eyes on the road. This isn't a game, man.'

I didn't stop for the sign (whatever it was). Perhaps it was a stop sign. We make our way to a nearby school, trying our best to make a concert that has supposedly already started. But there's no music heard when we pull into the school parking lot. There are dozens of cars and motorcycles adorning the lot in meticulous geometric patterns. We head toward the school hall, seeing a vendor selling popcorn and pizza and soda and candy to the right of the hall entrance.

And she says with a smile I want to experience closer: 'Buy me some pizza.'

And I think to myself: 'If I could I would.'

This school we're at is stuffed with notable educators and brilliant students who will one day be famous artistically and intellectually. A great school. Named after a saint who was known as a Confessor. It's the school I teach at.

We come to a large group of people once we're inside the hall. Everyone's gossiping about George W. Bush and the war in Iraq. The woman I'm with flirts with me-direct smiles, animated nudges, keeping me madly interested in her. Then mystically there's no more her. She leaves me and flutters away and mingles within the various crowds filled with the faces I see all the time. She leaves me purposely, making me think of her, making me feel the guilt because I'm engaged to another and everybody here at school knows this.

A few students and faculty members say their hellos and shake my hand, but I'm looking around for the woman I came here with, asking people questions as to where she may be. All I receive are uncertain shakes of the head and unrestrained giggles.

And a student probes: 'Do you get around, Mr. Rodriguez?'

I know what he means by saying this, this eighth grade boy with dirty-blonde hair. I may be projecting that demeanor right now, but it's really not so.

And I reply: 'Such an interesting life-one who gets around.'

I walk toward the stage. The band hasn't started yet, but there's music playing from two six-foot concert speakers. And unfortunately, this pre-show music consists of distorted tracks playing from an unfamiliar CD. The music playing over the concert speakers teases the audience madly, making everyone restless and eager to see the band. And the band will be The Strokes-one of my preferred rock bands of today.

And then the show finally starts. Some band members come on the stage, but I don't recognize any of them. It's not The Strokes by any means, just some imposters holding plastic guitars. A few staff members see me and offer me a seat next to them, near students who have crushes on each other. I see a young member of The K-Mangos. (The K-Mangos was an attempted rock band I was in, an impressive ensemble of students and staff-musicians banging out cover rock songs. This young boy I see played cowbell and did a fine job at it.) I see him sitting close to the front of the stage, excited with emotion; he's sitting next to a girl he likes.

So The Strokes never perform. The show never really starts. The imposters break down the stage and smash their plastic guitars against the walls and floor. The audience is exceedingly upset. Adults and children rush the stage and pummel the imposters with folding chairs and clenched fists. The woman-this eye-catching lesbian-I drove here with is still gone. I can't find her anywhere. And not once did the woman I'm engaged to show up.

June 5, 2004

[Nocturnal hours]

Still lost. I'm in a messy bedroom with posters of fast cars pasted on the blue walls all around me. A blonde sitting next to me on the bed offers me a way to feel at ease. I don't reply to her suggestion. I want to let her do her magic, but I remain stagnant. My best friend shows up, gliding through the door with a hulking smile. But it's really not my best friend. My best friend would never act this way with the blonde. I would never act this way-well, perhaps we would've ten years ago.

How we're acting:

She, the tempting blonde, rubs my back and asks me to get comfortable. My best friend stands next to us and watches everything. This is a sin. I'm taken. I'm promised. I don't know where my fianc?e is. I don't know where the woman I'm confused over is-probably babbling in another dream I haven't dreamt yet. I'll run into her soon. The blonde asks my best friend to sit down, but she's only paying attention to me. He sits and comments on her body. She smiles and bears her flesh. And, God, how I want to touch her. How I want to live a life most do when placed in such situations. I squeeze my insides and tell her nothing, wondering if she'll do as she pleases. Yet, nothing happens. Yet, I'm not disappointed. Yet, suddenly my best friend has disappeared.

Then the scenery of the dreamland changes madly.

The blonde and I are now holding hands and traveling up fantastic streets like angels, floating up streets as if these streets were like thick layers of a massive cake. Quite literally: we're rising up street levels that are stacked upon each other, streets like floors of a massive building. We're becoming lost. Street by street. Level by level. There's a destination we're headed for. I don't know where. The blonde knows. I trust her. A moment ago she was filled with lust, and admittedly so was I. Yet, it appears she was only testing me. Yet, it appears she knows of how I feel about love and fidelity. So she leads me higher up the layers of these abstract streets-floating.

And as we rise she tells me: 'You're an honorable man.'

We reach the highest street-the icing of this abstract world. We enter a broken home with chipped green paint. We enter a darkened room. And in this room there's a long line for coffee drinkers along the side of a wall. People wait in line to consume coffee from ten-gallon containers. There's also another line that offers nothing but dubious waiting, this line running parallel to the line of caffeine junkies. No adults in either line. I only see my students from school in each line. Those in the line opposite of the coffee junkies wait solemnly, passive and at ease. The other line, the one blossomed with fidgety students with bags under their eyes, appears to be restless-each person eagerly sucking down caffeine when it's their turn, voraciously tearing into sugar, mixing it with powdered cream. There are countless of them, all thirsty for the substance their parents tell them not to drink, but their adult figures drink their caffeine as they say such things. The blonde kisses me on the cheek and tells me to choose which line I want to be in.

And I think to myself. I pause everything and think of how important this choice really is.

I don't need any coffee. I've always been waiting in life, so I join the shorter line and linger for whatever it is my students before me desire. I have no idea what awaits me when I reach the front of this line. Maybe the blonde knows? But then the blonde leaves me and I remain waiting patiently, slowly getting closer to the front of the line where I will walk through a door that leads to something profound. I'll walk alone. I'll be ready. A part of me says I should join the line for coffee, but I see no adventure there.

I reach the front of the line and pass through the door. I'm walking along the streets I want to say are the streets of Baton Rouge, of New Orleans. But I can't say this because I've never been to either. People are speaking languages I wish I spoke, English being my only form of communication. Jive and E-bonics being my quasi-form of communication and entertainment. (How clever those last two languages I listed are.) The streets are darkened with silence except for a few people walking here and there. And they walk with stealth and appear to not want anyone to notice them, anyone to get involved in their actions. I see a guy who looks Puerto Rican walking closer to me, this guy smiling away at this fresh face of mine. This rickety character is wearing a faded turquoise polo shirt and torn jean shorts with stains of motor oil peppered about.

And he says to me: 'I'm going to need your help. Follow me. I'll take care of you.'

I want to trust him, and so I follow. I trusted the lascivious blonde and she led me here. There must be a reason. I look deep into this man's sullen black eyes and see he's desperate. He may need me for something good or bad.

And as we walk faster I say: 'I'll follow you.'

The two of us become just like those few others on the street who walk fast and with stealth, and we appear to not want anyone to notice us, anyone to get involved in our actions either.

We come to a house, a Victorian house, and I realize that this isn't Baton Rouge or New Orleans at all. It's San Francisco. I am almost positive. It looks like we're in the Mission District, just shy of Mission and Nineteenth, graffiti and litter everywhere. But this Victorian house doesn't fit with the many others. It stands out completely. The house is bright yellow with lush green bushes everywhere before it. It's a novelty dwelling, a heavenly beacon where one may find Truth.

San Francisco. This is my heart, this Town. She has given me more than Fremont or Newark or Union City or Hayward or any other town I simply rested my bones in. The Puerto Rican tells me to come with him up the stoop and into the Victorian house, his smile still acting desperate.

To the living room he now leads me and begins unplugging a DVD player, handing it to me, telling me it's mine now. I don't say anything. I trust him. He says it will make me happy. I get the feeling he knows me, somehow he knows me, but I can't think of how it's possible.

And he says: 'Thank you for everything.'

He cries mad tears and tells me to go. He grabs a television set and walks me out of the Victorian house, back into the street where people are still scurrying here and there with stealth and purpose. He walks faster than me now, the television high on his shoulder. He turns and tells me again that the DVD player will make me happy. He tells me that I shouldn't worry about who lives where. He tells me that it's not a sin. He tells me that his purpose is complete.

And I feel I may need some coffee.

I walk slowly along the Mission streets-fast movements all around me from skipping souls too busy to talk with me like the Puerto Rican did.

I stop walking and begin to float, a fantastic magnetism pulling me high in the air. Up I'm traveling, the same way I did earlier with the blonde, slowly elevating to different layers of the cake, floating like an angel who ponders his place in the world. I thought I had reached the top level of the roads, the icing of the layered streets, but I guess I didn't. There are more streets stacked upon each other. Finally, I do reach the highest level-the last elevated street. But it transforms into something beautiful. It's not a street at all. It's San Francisco's Ocean Beach, but it reminds me of Santa Cruz, particularly Steamers Lane. Magically, I have with me everything I need for the beach-my boogie board appearing at my feet. The DVD player disappears in my arms, but I am quite happy as the Puerto Rican said I would be.

The beach waves look like tiny ripples, nothing worth riding and living on. The beach has many people scattered. Yet, none are playing in the water. Everyone is sun tanning, resting sullenly on the sand that feels spongy as I walk across it. But there's no sun to be found. The wind is alarming: screeching and howling everything and everyone but me. The forlorn rags of sun tanners rest dubiously on the sand and drift in their minds-no one is reading or playing with Frisbees or beach balls or building sand castles. My mind begins to drift as well, puzzling on whether I should play on the tiny waves or not. But there's something that regains my focus.

I see my fianc?e and she's wearing the ring she had recently taken off her finger. She's smiling and she shows me that she's wearing it again, regretting taking it off before. This should make me happy. This should make my confusion over the lesbian go away, but it doesn't. I'm not ever going to be the person my fianc?e wants me to be. I'm OK with that. I thought she was too. I was wrong.

I find myself still looking for the woman who wanted me to buy her pizza-the proverbial lesbian with sparkly eyes. The woman who played her music for me (the Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and kept my attention every minute. But like myself, she's completely lost.

June 7, 2004

[Midday]

I'm sitting at a table covered with green wool. There are black borders around the edges of the table that tell me I'm trapped. Robed people who appear to be druids point toward sacred spheres and rubies and stones with no markings or gleam of awe or comfort. These spheres and rubies and stones are all hovering a foot above the table, spinning mystically before me. The druids say that I'm to choose one. They say that I'm not to be afraid. Looking at their ominous persona and feeling ill, I walk away from the table and search, search, search. There's to be some Truth somewhere here, but I can't find any. My mind is on other things, other people.

June 10, 2004

[Midday]

There he lurks above the tunnel, this hollow tube a foot in length and in circumference. The tunnel is made of iron with the promise of chill and horror. I'm staring right down the barrel of this tube. I see him, this spider the size of a fist, hanging on the top rim of this tube. The tube balances itself in the air directly above my face, hovering above a complexion with a mole like a teardrop on the left cheek. And this vibrant spider looks down the hollow tube, contemplating whether to leap down and strike or to only observe what rests below. And I'm contemplating him, too, hoping he jumps and strikes my eye or my lip or my nose. Please jump and infect my skin with deadly poisons never before researched. But he doesn't jump. And I don't smile.

[Early evening]

We're in a hall that I see every workday, a hall decorated with class pictures of alumni, some of them dropouts that never completed high school or went on to college.

And the lesbian asks this confused hero with many tragic flaws: 'Will you dance with me?'

I stare at the floor, the carpet thick with vines and geometric shapes too abstract to call mathematic. My heart is beating-but I'm not sure if that's a good thing. My heart is confused-but I'm not sure if it will ever understand. My heart is foolish-but I'm not sure if that's normal. My heart becomes weak when this beauty stands before it.

It's her. My Lord it's her. It's the woman I wanted to see in my dreams nightly. Our eyes meet fully-time being paused in this dreamland-and I wonder why she left me at the concert within the past dream about a week ago. She grabs my hand and twirls herself under my extended arm, smiling the entire time, teasing me, squeezing my hand when she comes out of the turn. I want to smile, but I can't. I want this to be real, but it's not.

And I plead: 'Let me lead you.'

She disappears in my arms. And then I walk slowly down the hall, lost in the nothingness I usually find while I'm awake.

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