𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗲’𝘀 𝗧𝗮𝘅 𝗕𝗮𝗿 Got a New Wall

Dispatch
09-20-02023

In a post last month, I accused 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗲’𝘀 𝗧𝗮𝘅 𝗕𝗮𝗿’𝘀 fenced in parking-lot-turned-patio of looking like a COVID slap-together turned permanent. This post is my correction. The chain-link rent-a-fencing was temporary all along, and I’ve left with egg on my face.

A cinderblock wall has been erected — a no-joke 7 footer that could give the Huns a hard go of it. I’m a huge fan of this new wall, it's now easier to indulge my fantasy that 𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗲’𝘀 𝗧𝗮𝘅 𝗕𝗮𝗿’𝘀 (𝗚𝗧𝗕)1 2 is its own demarcated realm, separated from the city of Phoenix Arizona by a metaphysical border akin to the threshold between waking life and 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 — all the way up to building-boxed rectangle of night sky. I don’t even mind the old parking paint stripes slashing the asphalt. I treat them as records of a mystery pasts, like the Nazca Lines of Peru. I have begun to believe they were made by ancient aliens — the parking lines I mean, not the Nazca. I’ll soon be on Joe Rogan discussing these theories . . . then, off to congress.

𝗚𝗧𝗕 feels 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 now, and that suits my currents. This past year, my 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 have upped their vividness game. Its left me wondering whether my 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 are growing to resemble waking reality, or my waking reality's 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 qualities are unveiling themselves. Regardless of directionality, both forces are equalizing to a point where waking from a 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶 feels as fluid as walking out of the supermarket into the parking lot. At this rate, the delicate bubble-barrier is sure to ᎮᎧᎮ*.

On the topic of delicate barriers and 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶 logic . . . last week at a concert, the singer of the musical duo, Reyna Tropical, took a between sound pause to conduct an earnest land acknowledgement of a more literal nature. I was invited to consider that beneath the venue's concrete, dirt plunged down for hundreds of miles. It was a touching moment, but left me with mixed feelings about all that 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. The ground has started taking on an eerie mystery I had previously reserved for oceans. At times, standing topside feels as ominous as floating over a deep sea trench, where way beneath lurk toothy monsters that thrive in darkness and great pressure. It's an on-the-nose metaphor for my unconscious, one that I did not invite on land.

It came all the same-same though, like that famous first fish — the one that decided fins could also be feet.

My motorcycle has begun to feel like a jet ski — this part is fine.

I’ve been trying to write more 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. This post was supposed to be a an update on the 𝗚𝗧𝗕’𝘀 back patio renovation, but keeps wandering towards introspection. This makes me nervous. It triggers a fear I’ve had since my teens of disappearing up my own navel. My introspection feels like an umbilical sometimes — oxygenating the external reality as it flows in, getting me high of it . . . an 𝘌𝘓𝘍 𝘉𝘈𝘙™ I never lose.

Is 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 supposed to be exospective? A process of collaging external facts into news? I'm not even sure what news is, let alone where to find it. If news is interesting, then everything is news. If news is true, then nothing is news. Shit.

The other morning there was a cop at 𝐌𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞, seated at one of the less ideal table-for-twos near the sun-facing double doors. I thought about following him in a clandestine manner, waiting for some news to emerge. (ᴄᴏᴘꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴊᴜʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀᴠᴇʀᴛ, ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ).

The officer is seated across the table from a non-descript PYT. Two iced coffees separate them — the cop’s coffee is black, the PYT’s is well creamed. The meeting has that tragic, close-to-home feel of a first date that is not going great. Not bad . . . but not great. Dating must be tough for cops, especially if they don’t care for politics. I imagine the lion’s share of singles who will meet a uniformed officer for coffee romanticize an edge-lordish power-over dynamic that feels exhausting for all parties after a few hours. It could be spicy to go for a drink with someone strapped up with 3-5 weapons I suppose, fantasizing about all the ways I might be protected and served. All of a sudden, I feel like listening to 𝓛𝓪𝓷𝓪 𝓓𝓮𝓵 𝓡𝓪𝔂.

I wonder if cops resent being fetishized. No way I’m going to ask.

All this really happened by the way. If this isn’t 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, call it an episodic memoir. Don’t call it auto-fiction, unless something is controversial. Anything controversial is not my own opinion, but that of an 𝗜𝗻𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁 that resembles me and shares my name. If something feels 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝔂, it is because I feel 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝔂. If none of it feels 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝔂, that confirms it. My dreams are as banal as I feared (ʟᴀꜱᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍᴛ ɪ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴡᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰɪɴᴇ. ɪ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋꜱ ɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ).3

Shit I forgot to follow the cop. I’m a terrible 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. This really is just a review of 𝗚𝗧𝗕’𝘀 back patio renovation then.

Um, ★★★★★?

𝗚𝗧𝗕 did it right, ripping up the asphalt to sink the wall a foot into the dirt. My Earth-as-ocean fear returns momentarily looking into the open trench. I keep thinking I see the wall sinking out the corner of my eye.

The wall is doing a wonderful job enclosing the conversation I am having with a friend. They work for a carceral justice non-profit. One of their soon-to-be ex-con clients is looking for job placement, but doesn’t want to end up working for a ᗯOKE company that, quote, ‘lets people identify as fish’.

This seems oddly specific. I type ‘people identifying as fish’ into 𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐨™ to see if there is a fish-person discourse I’m missing out on. I only find unsettling images of fish with human-like faces that I won’t soon forget.

My friend has to explain to the fish phobic client that, by and large, the only outfits willing to hire an ex-con and offering half-decent pay/benefits in this FUBAR economy are what would be colloquially known as ᑭᖇETTY-ᖴᑌᑕKIᑎG-ᗯOKE.

I feel for the ex-con. I find myself in ideological double-binds everyday, most occurring during purchases, or when I start to empathize with a cop on an awkward date.

Our convo is cut short by the commencement of 𝓒𝓐𝓡𝓔-𝓔-𝓞𝓚𝓔 fundraiser (all proceeds going toward the aforementioned non-profit). The entire PhoenixALT diaspora has turned out to sing nostalgia tunes for the cause.4 Teenage Dirtbag has a lyric about a kid bringing a gun to school I’d never noticed, and the first verse of Elton John's Bennie and the Jets is troubling indeed . . .

♪♪ 𝙒𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 ♪♪

The scene of this strange coalition offering a portion of the 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞™ proceeds to the incarcerated — fish views aside — reminds me of another tender solidarity saga. In 1985, a group known as the Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners held a benefit concert (called the Pit of Perverts), raising a large sum of mola for the actively striking British miner unions. The miners, being a hypermasculine bunch, had some misgivings about accepting the Queer cash, but they were in a desperate spot. Months later, the miners showed up too support a pride rally, leading to one of the most binary blasting coalitions of the 20th century.

That type of team up seems like a 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶 . . . but it’s also low-key happening before my Tequila glazed eyes as the 𝗚𝗧𝗕 security guard takes a break from door duty to breathe one last breath into MGMT’s played to death hit, Electric Feel.

All this is much more strange and lovely than my 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 of backpack redundancy. It’s good to remember, we’re all the descendants of fish.

Reading more David Foster Wallace has given me an urge to take acronym liberties.

. . . and footnote liberties, for that matter.

I did have an interesting dream recently. My grandfather’s 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟖 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐮𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧™ 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧™ was stolen as I talked with a friend on the sidewalk. From there it became one of those maddening dream plots where one is doomed to spend inordinately large hunks of time trying to reach a location while unending setbacks plague the effort. One of the setbacks became the new mission objective as I encountered a different friend in a line of folks auditioning fora porno. Nothing explicit is happening in view, but numerous neon sex toys are strewn about forebodingly. Dream-me decides this is a more fruitful venture than trying to retrieve my grandfather’s 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟖 𝐄𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐮𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧™ 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧™, and grabs a spot in line. I wake up before my audition, but take the dream as an auspicious sign from Freud. I fire off an app to an e-commerce role at a sex toy company Linkedin™ had pinged me about the day before.

I opted for Miss World, by Hole.