November Dreamer

City Park, New Orleans

On Wednesday morning, I went with a friend to City Park in New Orleans. It was the first time I'd been there since my mother and I went to see the New Orleans Museum of Art when I first moved down there in July. That morning, we walked around the sculpture garden and sat by the lake, talking about absolutely nothing and everything. The sunlight was warm, and the skies were blue that morning. I felt like a cat, ready to curl up in a ball and doze off for the rest of the day.

It has become more and more apparent to me that I live as if I were in the midst of dreaming. I go to classes, I study, I socialize, but the core of my being isn't here. I escape from the banality of the present, because my mind is fixated on the idea that there is something greater for me out there. I keep dreaming of the day that I finish writing that goddamn story--because when you've become obsessed with an idea for eight years, it becomes inextricable from your being. You think that your gift was bestowed upon you so that you could give it back to the world.

Then, there is also the issue of my solitude. As we sat under the veils of Spanish moss draped across oak branches, I tried explaining to my friend, though I doubt she understood me. Most people don't. They ask me if I don't ever get lonely, but what they don't realize is that from time to time, I do. What pushes me through is the same blind faith in the future -- that there is something greater out there. I bide my time. I wait. And that when the time comes, I will know it in my gut.

Whiplash

I can't remember what I've already mentioned on this blog previously in terms of what's happened in my life, but fair-warning -- this will be a bit of a rambling post.

In late August, two days before my first exam, my car was hit by a bus. I wasn't in the car when it happened that Sunday morning -- in fact, I didn't find out until I came out of the school building in the evening after studying all day. In many ways, I was lucky. I wasn't injured. My car could still run. The police had come and written up an accident report. I had the bus company's insurance information. Accidents are common in New Orleans, and more often than not, you'll end up in a hit-and-run or the person who hits you has no insurance. Despite knowing all this, when I got back to my room, I burst into tears, out of sheer stress and frustration.

It took me two months to finally track down my police accident report. Last Friday, my car was finally fixed. I'd driven my newly repaired car for less than a week when it was hit again this evening.

I was in the car this time. I'm starting to feel the effects of whiplash in my neck and shoulders. But for the most part, I'm not injured. My rear-ended car is covered with duct tape now but it still runs. I got the other person's insurance information and already filed a claim by the time I drove away from the accident site. Again, I was sort of lucky despite being unlucky. Half glass empty, half glass full. But as soon as I parked the car in front of my house, all the frustration I'd been bottling up erupted in a cryfest yet again.

Crying is a stress-reliever for me, and almost necessary for me to feel better and move on with my life. But there were a couple revelations I had in the last few hours since this accident. I've mentioned before about how I consider myself spiritual but not religious. I don't prescribe to one particular organized religion. But since college, I've come to believe that everything happens the way it's meant to happen. That there is some higher order that brings certain things into your life and takes certain things away. Some have told me they think it's a defeatist attitude, but I disagree. To me, it's a way of keeping myself mentally at peace with the outcome, because no matter what happens, you can't change the past. You can only move forward.

Even before I adopted this mindset, I was spiritual in the sense that as a young girl, I always wished to be closely attuned with the "other." I'm a logic-driven person for the most part, but I have always been curious about things such as dream interpretation, tarot, fortunes, and such. Not because I necessarily believe these things will script my future, but because I feel that paying attention can lead you to new insights you never would have noticed otherwise. This desire to seek "signs" has also aligned itself nicely with my belief of a higher order.

This same evening, I also discovered that this young man in my hometown who'd been missing since Halloween was found dead. I'd seen the missing person flyers around my newsfeed, but today was the first time I realized that one of my Facebook friends was his fraternity little brother. The man was only 3 years older than me. Moreover, before I'd driven home from school, I'd just come out of my End of Life elective where we'd discussed our last wishes -- what sort of procedures we'd want at the end of life (e.g. "Don't let me become a vegetable.") and what we'd want happen to our body (e.g. burial, cremation, donation, etc.). I'd already had the discussion with my parents before, but I'd never really thought about what I'd want for myself. It's hard to think of it seriously, because when you're young and healthy, you feel like you have so much life ahead of you.

When you're in your twenties, you don't think you could die any moment. You're so busy planning out your future career and future families that you don't think about how tenuous this present moment is. The fact that my car has been hit twice in less than three months--neither of which was my fault, but simply cases of being in the wrong place at the wrong time--is a wake-up call. Because who knows? Because third time's the charm, right? The next time my car gets hit, maybe I won't be so lucky. I read a quote somewhere once. I can't remember who said it or the exact wording, but the gist of it has stuck with me ever since. Most people don't truly live until they realize they're dying.

Halloween Cinderella

I almost didn't go out for Halloween last night.

We studied until 8 PM. Spitfire had been craving fried chicken for days, so we piled up in Asian Jesus's car and headed over to Raisin' Kanes on St. Charles. As we consumed our greased piles of soul food, the conversation somehow led to the topic that had left me fuming mad at him almost two weeks ago.

He'd already given me his spiel. Now his roommate Asian Jesus was trying to articulate why he hated hook-up culture. Spitfire and I listened, patiently, commenting and objecting here and there.

Spitfire and I are older than the boys. Only by one year in my case, and three years in hers. I understood their arguments, for I choose not to participate in the hook-up culture either.

I think you're the type to put your eggs in as few baskets as possible. But you'll put a lot of eggs in.

That's how a friend described me, and in many ways, it is true.

So, I agreed with Asian Jesus when he talked about his tendency to treat relationships with such seriousness and intensity, that the idea of casual engagement of heart and body for one night with no strings attached was impossible for him. But once again, I still felt a hollow apathy about hook-up culture -- in that, I really don't care if other people choose to hook-up. As long as people don't try to force me into their culture, I'm willing to accept theirs.

I tried explaining this to my mother a week ago, and her words were eerily echoed by Asian Jesus last night. Do people who engage in hook-up culture treat their relationships more lightly than others like me, him, and Asian Jesus who choose not to? What will happen if you end up dating someone who's been part of that culture?

Perhaps I am naive and obstinate, but I want to believe that whoever I choose to date will like me enough that his loyalty to me will speak for itself, regardless of how he may have behaved when he was single. Perhaps I don't feel that the ability to separate the emotional and the physical is mutually exclusive from the ability to be faithful.

But what do I know? I have been single all my life. I watch people around me make mistakes and learn from them. But it's been an objective, detached education.

After dinner, I went back to my house. Both my roommates were gone for the night. It was only 9 PM, and I'd been planning to stay-in and study, but suddenly I was overcome with an acute feeling of being very very lame.

I didn't have a fairy godmother. I barely even did my make-up, since I was worried about getting to the club before my classmates dispersed. I put on my blonde wig, tucked it under a bear-eared beanie, paired a varsity jacket with a band tee, and drove to Downtown in my rental Ford Charger. Afraid of the traffic around Frenchmen, I parked my car by the hospital and walked for half an hour to my destination.

It was a chilly night -- the coldest I've experienced since moving here. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and walked briskly down the glitzy Canal Street. The marquee lights from Saenger Theater reminded me of that other fateful October night in New York City, except this time I was alone and thrilled by this feeling of absolute freedom.

There's something to be said about experiencing Halloween in downtown New Orleans sober. Canal and Decatur were packed with costumed partygoers, dolled up and decked out in an eccentric mix of outfits. My newfound blondness and dramatic change in appearance gave me a heightened sense of confidence amidst the momentary blips of terror. Two boys followed me momentarily, calling out and asking why I was walking so fast. At another point, someone purposely reached out to hit me on the shoulder as I walked down the sidewalks of Decatur. I didn't cuss out at them, but the very idea that I could and totally get away with it felt liberating.

In the dark haze and smoke of the club, the packed bodies pressed all around me made me feel feverish. I took off my varsity jacket and wandered through the crowd. The reactions from my friends at the club amused me to no end. I would tap them on the shoulder, and their faces would contort in guarded bewilderment until a flash of recognition would light across their eyes. "SOPHELIA!! HOLY SHIT, YOUR HAIR! I TOTALLY DIDN'T RECOGNIZE YOU!"

I was there for maybe three hours. It felt shorter than that. It was fun, but as I came home and peeled off my guise, I came to realize something. There's an immeasurable thrill in stepping into another skin for one night and feeling the freedom to act unlike yourself. But I would have been just as happy hanging out with Spitfire, Asian Jesus, and him for the rest of the night, discussing our philosophies over soul food and sweet tea, in my boyishly short black hair and school sweatshirt, in my own skin.