This was Berlin but it wasn't.
Phantasm City was as vast and boundless as Berlin but had all the ingeniously confounding urban planning of Venice or Boston—that is, Grid system? We don’t need no facking grid system! Added to the mix were the steep slopes and scrawny thoroughfares of a Beacon Hill. The city-wide Halloween celebration was decidedly tight—claustrophobia inspiring even.
If that wasn’t enough, everything and everyone appeared as though drawn by Red Grooms channeling the spirit of Basquiat. Yeah, nice to look at in a museum but not so fun to live within. Twilight Zone-ish is what it was.
While running down a spiral staircase within a red brick tenement, whose shindig could only be better attended with the generous infusion of KY, I lost my security blanket. Yup, I’d been clutching my beloved bunny appliqued flannel from crib days tightly to my chest—possibly the only thing that’d been keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of screams. I didn’t stop though—I couldn’t. I HAD to get out of that mass of humanity. Severe regret had taken up residence in my heart but agreed to chill until after I was safely out of the crowds. Mighty decent of it, eh?
Finally I escaped the madness and found myself in the near empty, high ceilinged, Japanese tea house styled loft/office of an architect where I asked for help/directions. She offered to call my friends so they could come by and collect me.
In radical contrast to everything that’d come before, the architect's digs and appearance were more along the line of a Marisa Acocella Marchetto drawing by way of Diebenkorn.
Ahhhhh, I could breath out finally.
The dream ended there with the wonderful sleek woman making a call while I sank into the comfort of clear sight-lines, floor to ceiling windows, room occupancy nowhere near max and a martini—Sapphire, extra, extra dry, straight up with olives.
What does all this mean? Got me hangin' but I think I'll be sending my regrets to all party invites for the foreseeable future.