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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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Dream: Dark East Bay

Originally published at Chamber . You can comment here or there.

The feel of the underground was hushed, track lighting and recessed blue neon. It was like the skyway level of the Minneapolis downtown, or the B1 level of Montreal’s downtown, at night. There are trains, but the feel is not really BART-like at all, unless you count the frequent presence of tile and linoleum. Sometimes the trains are not really like trains either; some are sort of irregular S-shaped and as big as rooms, big enough to have seating islands in the middle, almost like a little club (though there’s no music). They slide silently at low speed through these strange hallways. People get on and off at intervals, I can’t tell if there are actually stops or if the doors just open for them on some silent signal. It is always nighttime here. The world has become purely modular, an environment in which rooms are mobile and transfer us from point to point through commercial districts, so you can get new shoes, grab some fast food, and stop off at the Megastore all while toting your mobile workstation and celphone. Maximum efficiency. Minimum discomfort. Single cells in the blood stream of the economic god Mammon.

The house is like the Goss street house, but not. It has several people living in it, with some of the activist spirit and attitude of the Acton house, but a little edgier, a little more influenced by the warehouse scene. Amazing renovations are going on inside; I remember the place as being dilapidated and decaying, but as they proudly show me, they’re repairing the stairs to the basement, fixing the broken doors, improving the furniture — making it less of a squat and more of a living space, and in time a gathering space. Flashmobs can gather here on a twitter-signal and incite protest or demonstration or art, then vanish into the wilds of month-to-month leases, temporary addresses, and check-cashing places, untraceable. The occupants seem to be a an assortment of people I might have known, or rather constructed from pieces of them. I think I recognize the voice of Armando from the office, some other dude looks like someone that reminds me of the name Andreas, was that from school or what, it’s in the way he grins. They’re collage-people, assembled personalities. It’s the only way to avoid building a profile.

I feel an irritating pressure building up, as though perhaps my sinuses are somehow expanding. I get up, look in the mirror, my face his beginning to bloat horribly, lymph nodes gigantic, eyes bulging out, face and cheeks puffing up all from the balloon-like pressure building up inside my head. I awaken. I’m sleeping on my throat, and it’s making my breathing funny. Breath locked down, thrown aside by the pressure in my head, clawing at the walls for release.

Morning, sunshine.