CHAPTER I: Yes.
“I don’t own a car
I’m super good at riding bikes
A hoverboard and a Rockstar
is all I want outta life.
Also, guess what…
I never finished high school
I really like to rhyme
You might think it’s uncool
But I do it all the time.”
I wrote that little gem of a poem while I was laying on a couch in the middle of the street. Well, not the middle exactly. The previous owner had left it in an open parking space. Seeing as they were giving it away for free, I decided to claim it for the time being. 4 o’clock in the afternoon was that time, and I figured I’d spend a few hours as the owner of the couch and pay it forward by leaving it there for someone else. During my brief stint as the owner of a piece of furniture I learned a great many things. Chief among them being that if you stare at the sky long enough you will fall asleep. After that there is a good chance you’ll have dreams about it opening up. From there you will see that behind every daytime sky is a frozen ocean of black opal. In this dream, Earth will be the soft center of the Tootsie-Pop, and the aliens will be the child impatiently chomping down. Then you’ll wake up and realize the reality of the situation is just like that but in reverse. To me that makes perfect sense. Being asleep is obviously the opposite of being awake. So…
I don’t know where I was going with that, but I have a feeling we’ll be circling back around to it at some point. For now I’ll stick to where we started. My nap on the couch was top notch, and absolutely necessary. The only thing I didn’t like about my days as a couch-surfer (in other words homeless) is that I was never really alone. Don’t get me wrong, I picked that lifestyle on purpose, but there is very little solitude when you are continually outdoors. I’m what some people would call an Empath, meaning I am a psychic sponge for the thoughts and emotions of others. Whether you believe in that sort of thing or not it doesn’t matter. I don’t, but that doesn’t change the fact that psychic energies affect me in ways I don’t think they affect most others. For example, it is completely unnecessary for me to watch the news in order to know what's going on in the world. I don’t need some robot to tell me that there was a shooting at five different schools in the same day when I can just walk through a crowd and soak up the vibrational raincloud created by that specific series of events. You know it when you feel it. I try to take as much of it upon myself and transform it into creative energy before sending it back out again. If I had to label myself—which I don’t—but if I did I would say I’m an R.O.F.—Reverse Osmosis Filter. I can’t escape this filtering process if I'm always moving to new open spaces with new problems. When you’re in an enclosed room with familiar walls you feel separate from the madness. Obviously it’s just a trick because walls have virtually no impact on the invisible wavelengths. But, at least you can watch the trick. While that’s going on you can let your own thoughts think themselves while you go off and do something else.
It’s the absolute best.
Most of the time my mind is spinning millions, if not thousands, of miles a minute. It circles around idea after idea after idea. I seize any opportunity I can to remain silent and center my focus on none of those ideas. That way the idea can wrestle out of the static on its own and present itself in a clarified form. Then I take that idea and execute it as soon as I can.
The idea I got from sitting on that couch was whether or not it would be possible to fill up balloons full of paint and then throw darts at them. In a perfect world the balloons would be packed to capacity and the colors would explode onto the surface. The purpose of such a highly scientific experiment would be to see what it looks like when a balloon full of paint explodes, obviously. The paint would create a mapped result. The reason for such an experiment would be to have fun. The point of it all would be the end of the dart as it flies through the air.
As I’m writing this I can say that I’ve long since had the chance to conduct this experiment. I’ll tell you about the result when we get there. The only thing to keep in mind is that I had paint on my mind when I left the couch and went in the direction of the Venice Beach, specifically the kaleidoscopic mine of dilapidation known as The Ocean Front Walk; which I now called home. This girl Vera and I migrated to the coast from Las Vegas two weeks prior, and we didn’t even know each other that well at the time if I’m being honest.
I was a roadie turned lighting engineer on tour ten months out of the year and she was a tattoo artist full time at the Linq. We only interacted tangentially through a group of friends—The Young Ruffians—with whom I would stay when I wasn’t galavanting around the country with metal bands. During these layovers of mine we’d had a few bonding experiences of course, such as the day we went hiking in the desert and found a functioning elevator inside of a cave on the outskirts of town, but I digress. That’s a story for another time. Mostly we just partied with our buddies, made jokes, and went a whole lotta nowhere very fast. At a certain point though, that lifestyle could’t sustain itself, and I think we both came to that conclusion at the same time. I was stretched thin, unhealthy, and I’d lost my interest in the music industry—the touring aspect of it anyway—and she was feeling stagnant in her career. Ten years into being a tattoo artist, and it wasn’t doin’ it for her anymore. It wasn’t about the art, it was about the shop, the personal reputation, the drama, the portfolio, etc. etc. Bottom line is, something had to change. So, one night I was sitting out front of The Palms staring blankly at a billboard advertising the Twins of Evil Tour, waiting for my friend Travis to pick me up, when Vera showed up instead. I got in the car smelling unabashedly like a hundred sweaty teenagers pee’d on a cigarette.
—What’s up my man.
—Well… You, me, the moon, and literally everyone else in this city. Where’s Trav?
—He ‘accidentally’ got too drunk.
—Classic.
—You can stay at my place if you want.
—You don’t live at Fancy Mansion?
—I never lived at Fancy.
I should note that Fancy Mansion wasn’t a mansion, and neither was it fancy. It was a three bedroom, one bathroom, lesser half of a duplex a few blocks away from Tropicana with two lion sculptures bookending the front door. The place was dingy, crooked, and full of holes but it served the Ruffians well as the epicenter of their tomfoolery.
—Where’s your house?
—You remember Carolina?
—North or South?
—Ha. Ha.
—Oh right the stripper.
—I live close to where she used to live.
—That sucks.
—It does.
—Remember when we partied there on Cannon’s birthday?
—You told me about that Grateful Dead movie.
—Indeed I did.
Vera’s eyes glossed over.
—You alright?
—I just yawned.
That was a lie.
—Are you working tomorrow?
—Do you ever just wanna say to hell with it?
—What do you mean?
—I don’t know. Like, sometimes I think I’d just like to move to the coast and sell art on the beach and not have any obligations other than keeping myself alive.
—Like where, Venice?
—Yeah sure.
—Let’s do it.
—Wait really?
—Yeah why not.
—Okay.
And just like that a major life decision was made.
Nowadays Vera sits there just past Brooks Avenue with her peddling her sketchbook illustrations to unsuspecting strangers. I think we’re both just happy to be out of Vegas. Unfortunately, Vera spends so much time drawing that she never has a chance to play the salesman. On top of her art, she’s got crystals, rings, miniature watercolor paintings, feathers and beads for your hair, whatever. Casting a wide net, as they say. My favorite is the tarot deck she made up for herself. She also designed a map you can use to play out different games with the cards based on the storyline gleamed from within them. It's crazy. I try to spend most days with her in order to help move all that stuff. I’m terrible at math though, so doing anything money related takes longer than it should.
When I arrived the beach the scene stretched out into a collage that smelt the way tie-dye looks. The sun was starting to go down, which usually brings out the joggers. I think it’s the combination of volcanic light, cool air, and the fact that all the yuppies are off work. If I was them I’d probably do the same. But they are always wearing headphones while they run, or bike, or hover and they never pay attention to their surroundings.
I said hello to a few of my new friends along the way. First, Eddie who does celebrity portraits on skateboards and vinyl records. Then Pete with his chosen sand sculpture of the day. Next, Ronnie the rollerblading guitar hero—I’m pretty sure the Doof Warrior in Mad Max was based on him. And Kali who does henna tattoos. She goes by Galaxy but I have yet to feel confident calling her that without snickering. It’s a fine nickname, but she told me it was from her days as a Spit Rat. I don’t know what that means but it makes me want to laugh. I’ve never gotten one of her tattoos either. Last, but certainly not the least, there’s Laurel who has a spot next to Vera’s. She sits there day after day pumping out improvised poetry on her typewriter. People will come by and ask for a poem about one topic or another; personal, abstract, comedic, illustrative, or morose—doesn’t matter. She has the knack. When I first met her I asked for a piece about Venice. She laughed and said real original, then wrote this:
The Jungle drumbeat
slammed on concrete
longing to board
the criss of the cross street
or
a yellow frisbee
red bandana dog
running over the cool
saltwater blue
hazy and lazy
pyramid palms
caught by the rainbow
lifeguard sweeping his
bleach blonde hair
in the burnt golden wind
as seagulls in the grass
feather the softly waving ground
that’s warm against the air
and tethered to the touch
of an Egyptian rug
rolled across the shoulders
of a stoner’s lunch
before the freak show
graffiti flicked
on every wall melts
the ice cold
lemonade
spiked with acid
sipped on a Saturday
outside the patio
of a sitar soaked
beachside bossanova
world weathered cafe
that always and never
is once and for all
fucking orange forever
like the shadow of Santa Monica
blown through a harmonica.
Boom Roasted.
I’ve had mad respect for her craft ever since.
And so, I was weaving my way through this crowded boardwalk of crazies when I decided to stop by Tony’s Paparizza cart to see if there were any leftovers he wanted to throw into my stomach instead of the dumpster. He gave me three whole slices, which was clutch. I wolfed down two of them and saved the last one for Lyrae. I’m not gonna lie, a few tomatoes did make it into the dumpster. I think putting tomatoes on a pizza that already has tomato sauce on it should be considered a crime.
Oh—Lyrae is Vera’s middle name, I forgot to mention that.
She was drawing on Benjamin Franklin’s face when I rode up.
—Someone gave you a 100 dollar bill?
—No, it’s a fake. I’m gonna go buy a pack of cigarettes and collect the change.
—Oh good, I was worried you were doing something illegal.
—I’m just kidding it’s real.
—Wait…no way?
—There is a way.
—What’d you sell?
—A wooden tree I made.
—Aren’t all trees wooden?
—No…Well, yes, but…
She reached into a box beside her and pulled out a whittled tree. It was only a few inches tall and it had a face.
—How’d you make the leaves?
—Industry secret. But check it out, I put a little hole on the edge of the mouth so you can burn incense with it.
—Ah we have a tiny smoking stoner stump on our hands.
—His name is Rupert, show some respect.
I tilted my head.
—My condolences Rupert.
—Do you like it?
—Of course. It reminds of those Japanese…um, what’re they called?
—Bonsai Trees.
—There it is. Oh before I forget…
I handed her the last remaining slice of Tony’s Paparizza. I’d left the tomatoes on in order to put her to the test. She inspected it scrupulously. A few seconds later the tomatoes were on the beach ten feet away. I knew she would make the right decision.
*chomp*
—Ollie, can I ask you something?
I laid down on the antigram she had painted on the ground next to her station.
—Is it polite to talk with your mouth full?
—Seriously I have a real question.
—Okay shoot.
She set down the half eaten slice and brushed off her hands. They clicked. She was wearing quite a few rings.
—Have you ever had a dream about a real person you’ve never met?
—Sure, just ask Ariana Grande.
—I mean a person you thought was only a character in your dream, but then you met them in real life.
—This happened to you didn’t it…?
—Well, yeah.
—How do you know you haven’t seen them before? Maybe they were one of the hundreds of people that walk past you every day. You might not remember them on your own time, but your mind brings them up at random.
—That’s not what I’m talking about.
—Then I’m totally lost.
—I’m talking about meeting someone you’ll know in the future.
—Alright, color me confused, just gimme the full story.
Vera shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and spoke with her hands.
—Okay, for the last, I don’t know two years now I’ve been having the same two dreams over and over.
—Any specific day of the week?
—What has that got to do with it?
—You never know.
—Well, I don’t pay that much attention. I’ve just had them multiple times.
—What’s the first one?
—The first one is that I have my own office in one of those big buildings. But it’s not all plastic business. It’s more like a loft or a workspace. People come in to look at my stuff or commission something. Some people just pay to watch me write.
—This sounds like a dream every artist living in the city has, even if they don’t wanna admit it.
—I get that, but after the second time having the dream, one new thing started happening. There would be a phone ringing and ringing and ringing but I could never tell where it was coming from.
—Duh, you never answer your phone in real life. You’re projecting.
—I managed to answer it once.
—In the dream?
—Yes. The conversation only lasted a few seconds though. I said hello.
—As one does.
—Then the voice on the other line said, “Is this enough for you?”
—I think that means your subconscious is asking if you’re content.
—Man, you really know how to trivialize the supernatural.
—Dreams are the most natural thing in the world, there's nothing super about them.
—Let’s move on to the next dream.
—Okay.
—In the other dream I’m standing in front of a water fountain like the one over in Tongva Park.
—You mean like a water playground?
—I guess. There’s concrete and water shoots out of it.
—Do you wake up having to pee when you have this dream?
She looked at me sideways.
—No. It’s not about the water. I’m standing there next to a total stranger. He’s talking on the phone but I can’t hear him. He’s a little older, maybe 40 something. A real John Stamos. He’s also wearing a tie with a bunch of constellations on it.
—And…
—Nothing else happens. That’s the entire dream.
—Let me get this straight; You had a dream about being a successful artist, later in that dream someone on the phone asked if you were content with that. Then you had a dream about someone talking on the phone. I see no flaws in the logic your neurons used to fabricate this fantasy.
—It wasn’t just a fantasy.
—What do you mean?
—I mean you’re wrong about it. Somehow, someway it was a real experience with a real person.
—Try me.
—You know that tree I sold?
—For a hundred bucks? You bet I remember.
—Well this man walked up to my square and started looking around. I didn’t pay much attention to him. I was busy talking to some kid about how unicorns should be a real thing. Based on his body language I didn’t think he was going to buy anything.
—And this fellah was wearing a tie with a bunch of constellations on it right?
—No actually. He was wearing a pink-yellow suit jacket over a plain white T-shirt.
—I don’t get the connection.
—There isn’t one there.
—Then what happened?
—Well, once the kid was gone I turned to the man and said I’d throw in a birthstone ring for free if he bought something. He said that wouldn’t be necessary and picked up one of the tiny trees. I told him they were a big ticket item, 50 bucks a pop. Then he just gave me a Benjamin and left.
—So he was a nice guy. You’re just weirded out by the fact that you had some creative success after dreaming of said success.
—It was what he said when he handed it to me that threw me off.
—And that was?
—Is this enough for you?
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