This essay appears in the Dichotomy 22: Creep Journal, published via the University of Detroit Mercy's Architecture Department.
I. DREAM POOLS (LOS ANGELES, CA):
The general theory is that it is boring to hear the dreams of others, but I’m going to tell you about one of mine anyway. My friend Steve and I are in his car, driving. We are suddenly very far from San Diego. He says he has a hunch, and we seem to be heading towards it. A jump cut later, we’ve left the car; we’re in the desert, walking. It’s like a Jodorowsky movie out here, only with more talking and less nudity. I look down at my feet, to see the beginnings of marshy scrub slop, which terminates at the edges of pristine aquamarine tide pools. Towards the bottom, things get fractal—there are angles and shapes down there that are man-made and resolute in their primitiveness. Boxy tapered rectangles and crinkled edge curves. I stoop down closer. He’s gloating. I squint. I’ve been told this is the best way to see life clearly. But nothing.
Tide pools hold a strange repulsion for me—the thought of contaminating them with any of my body parts is an aversion— but this is what I am forced to do. I dip my hand into the water, starfish wave and something else scuttles, sending a woody muffled mess of chiming tones and shimmering bursts of iridescent notes up to the surface. At this moment, I realize that my hand is heading towards a mass of Paolo Soleri’s wind-bells. I try to pull my catch up to the surface, but the lines are tangled, and when they break the surface of the water, what I am holding is a mess of ten bells, a readymade “complex assembly.”