This has happened before

I abruptly jerked from my sleep and instantly remembered being there before, when I never have been. I looked around, and the resemblance faded into a gradient, starting at the banisters and ending in the corners of the room, as if the recollection were right there, sneaking around in the shadows, just out of my reach.

The distinct impressions that future memories leave--in the form of smells, flashes, and lighting; the colors of the paint and the creaks of the stairs--are the residuals of dreams.

I had been there before, in a dream. I remembered being there before I ever was.

The fifth dimension is tricky, and it's all the more because we're only 3-D creatures, incapable of anything but small flashes of clarity at random, meaningless intervals. Most of the time, they come and go, and they end up being nothing but a good dream, something that couldn't or wouldn't ever happen, and you file it away with all the other good, improbable dreams.

But maybe it will happen. Or if it doesn't, then it did on some plane of time, when you chose another path. Maybe what you're dreaming is glimpses of a future--not the future--that exists somewhere. Maybe they're gifts from the past versions of yourself, put there to guide you along to what you're supposed to do with this one.

Normal deja vu at places I've been to before happens frequently. But this--this is rare for me. All these things are happening in a positive feedback loop that I no longer have the power to stop. I suppose if this were the wrong way to go, it'd be too late now to change it. And that's something that I'm going to go ahead and thank God for, because if I had to think about it and make every step meticulously, then none of it would have ever happened.

It looks like I might be lighting that fire under my ass way quicker than I originally anticipated. Every few minutes, I feel a door opening somewhere that, only 48 hours ago, was locked with fear and doubt. I've none of that any longer. Everything will happen, and is happening, quicker than I have time to think about. I think I trust it.

The Land of the Dead Bugs

I need a decompression. The last few days have been excruciating, but oddly invigorating.

I discovered bedbugs in my box spring about four days ago. I won't go into the nightmare that ensued, because I've been complaining about it for days. And in all actuality, the baseboard-cleaning and furniture dissection and disposal of beds has turned into something... uh, somewhat therapeutic.

Throwing away things has always been kind of cathartic to me. It's really hard for me to do, but when things happen that necessitate the mass removal of crap that I don't actually need, I jump at the opportunity and never look back. My bed had a pull-out drawer where I just piled up old school stuff, like returned papers and homework and things. I thought I'd want to keep it for one day when I forget everything I learned from LSU. But instead of picking through it and wasting hours of precious bug-ridding time, I just got a garbage bag and shoved everything in it. I can't explain how good this made me feel.

It's like a chance to start over.

I lit a fire under my ass after that. I've had a degree for over a year now, and decided that along with my less-cluttered life, I'd quit my job too. So I put in a month's notice on Thursday. I've already got some leads on jobs, and have for awhile now--just haven't had the courage to follow through on anything. For the longest time, I said it had nothing to do with courage, and it was everything to do with practicality and finances. But what I was really saying, was that I didn't have the drive it took to make things work. I make more than enough money to pay my bills every month--I just don't exactly live frugally. I guess by comparison, I'm in the most frugal category, but I'm not comparing anymore. I'm just looking at the numbers, and how I could better spend my money while possibly taking a pay cut. I'm not concerned with the way others spend their money.

Courage has everything to do with it. I've been living without it for years now, and it is destroying everything I love about myself. So I'm done with that--I'm tossing it in the garbage bag without picking through every little detail and wasting more time. The illusion that I have to be absolutely secure every hour of my life has prevented me from taking any sort of step forward. I'm done being scared; and I truly do not know what's going to happen after this, but I don't give a shit anymore.

Hello, life! Opportunities! Changes! Low budgets! Absolute uncertainty and leaps of faith on par with Kierkegaard! See, I do remember things I learned at LSU without keeping all that crap. And I even failed Existentialism. Like, really failed, with a giant red F.

In other news, I've written and published my first few articles for the Tiger Weekly. They're free and around Baton Rouge. My first lead story goes to press for Wednesday of this week--check it out, it took a lot more work than it looks like. And I'm getting paid for it, although minimally, it's still a payoff.

A Moppy Sunday

I keep having these dreams that my teeth are falling out, or I'm mopping the floor. Sometimes my teeth are falling out while I'm mopping the floor. Or that I'm so busy mopping the floor that I don't realize my teeth are falling out. Very unsettling.

In the dream dictionary, tooth loss symbolizes powerlessness, working with the teeth as a symbol of power. Your teeth are what people see when you let your guard down and smile. They are a symbol of power, but only when you combine confidence and self-image.

Well, maybe the confidence thing is right on the money. I'm not very gung-ho about myself lately. I feel like a knick-knack. You know those antique, nicotine-stained old things your grandmother's grandmother had when she was a little girl? Some of them had actual uses that mattered in their hayday, like a washboard or a burner cover. Now that they've been rendered obsolete by the washing machine and electric stoves, there will come a day, probably soon, where no one is left who remembers their purpose. I feel kind of like that.

My confidence and self-image are falling out, I suppose. I'm sure you can't trust those books anyway. Maybe all it means is a glimpse into eternity; this is my lot, this is what I deserve. Sentenced to forever remember what I gave up for mediocrity's sake; for the ability to mop the floor until my teeth fall out.

Hey, Mushrooms Have to Grow Too.

On a bored day, I tend to rearrange things obsessively. I really enjoy getting the most out of this small space I have, and trying to make it feel cozy rather than tiny is part of that. I've come to love my dilapidated "garage apartment" (as the landlady calls it), and all its quirks. Signing the lease was agreeing to fix problems as they arise, and I understood even though it remained unsaid as I left her house.

Not big problems, like the time a tree fell on my bathroom during hurricane Gustave. Little things, like the giant crack in the tank of the toilet. The lack of a P-trap entirely on the bathroom sink. The window unit pissing water all over the hard-wood floor. Truly, this place has forced me to become acquainted with the use of power tools and caulk, hammer and nails, and weather stripping. I'm almost happy about that; it's gotten me out of the habit of letting problems get infinitely worse before I get off my ass to fix them. The difference? It's my home, and I've never thought of it as "just an apartment".

Here's a secret that could have been the worst thing I've ever done: I didn't even look inside this place before I signed the lease. At $375 a month, located in a nice Mid-City neighborhood where most people have families and pay more than $800 for one bedroom, I really should have looked at the place. But I didn't.

And when I got the key, I came here immediately, no power or water or heat. I put votives on the windowsills and set up camp in my future bedroom, and slept on the freezing wood floor. The only thought in my head was that I'd never, ever had this much space to call my own, and I thought it was fake. I thought it would be taken away from me because it was too good to be true, so I wanted to get as much time in it as I possibly could. It felt like a vacation.

Growing up, if I wanted alone time, I had to go to the bathroom or wait until everyone was asleep to take over the living room. I'm not sure if it's because I've always had to share a room, but I now require periods of time behind a closed door to retain sanity. It has to be that way, and I don't often come across people who understand that. Sure, everyone feels anti-social every once in awhile, but I want to kill people if I don't have a night to myself once a week. I'm a textbook introvert.

("But wait, doesn't she wait tables?"

Yes, and I had to force myself to do so. It was a conscious effort to be more outgoing. It didn't work.)

But even when the bills rolled in and didn't stop and got bigger, it still felt like a vacation. And on nights like these, when Tommy's at work and no one is bombarding me with stimuli or beer, that I remember what release I felt years ago upon walking through the door. I realize how vastly I have changed as a person within these walls, and how much of it is due to these walls.

I've become more assertive and insistent; decisive, both confident and stubborn. I've coached myself through issues and conflicts, and learned to compromise when my selfishness wants everything my way. I have become more myself than I ever have been, no matter how many times I've thought I was losing it because my sisters weren't around. I've fallen on my face a lot in the 3 years I've lived here (literally and figuratively), but if someone is always there to pick you up, you continue to get too drunk. Growth can be painful, but it's necessary. Also necessary: a few walls to keep your emotional insides contained while it happens; a place where you can let them splatter all over the floor if you need to, and the ability to say, "fuck it, I'll clean it up later." They might need the air anyway.

And aside from the occasional mushroom growing in the bathroom, no quirk has been too much. At least my apartment has less quirks and more structural integrity than I do.

The mushroom was close, though.

Tired

I've been running so hard this week that I have blood blisters on my feet. Just about burned my fingerprints off yesterday holding a plate for a jackass who wouldn't get his damn hand off the table so I could put it down. I've never consciously swallowed pain before--I just took a big gulp and hid the searing in my throat until I had a chance to run cold water over it.

When that shift finally ended (still can't believe it did, actually), my friends were drunk and wanted to get drunker. Tommy had to meet someone at a bar, and wanted me to come. I wanted A Beer, as in one, because I knew I had to get up at 9 to endure more abuse all over again.

We ended up at a different bar, having shots forced upon us from a drunk ex co-worker. He just kept buying them, and they were awful. Things like "espresso tequila" and Jager. So all in all, I had 1.5 pints of beer, 2 gin and tonics, a shot of Jager and that fucking espresso tequila...in that order. It wasn't like your standard "aww I can't take shots.... well, OKAY." It was more like "I can't do that shit tonight dude. No, really, I have to fucking get up in the morning and I'm already way drunker than I wanted to be" and he just stared at me like I'd offended him. Tommy was of no help. I've never been more pissed off about having to take a shot, and NO ONE else at the bar wanted it.

So, I had to stay up and chug water until 4am, sleep until 9, wake up with the worst goddamn hangover I've had since freshman year of college, and sling meatloaf and lasagna in hellfire-temperature skillets for 4 hours.

Bad days.

Personals

I'm chipping away at my grand to-do list. Friends, I will soon be employed by two newspapers and a restaurant. I keep telling myself, this has to work, this has to work. As long as I'm doing something about this planet-sized boulder on my back, I don't mind having it there for another few months.

And then, there's my living situation. I currently share a one-bedroom apartment with my boyfriend of almost three years. A few months ago, I told him I wanted him out. Not mean like that, but more of an "I need my space" deal, as in "our relationship won't make it much further if I continue to live with you".

Well, I must not have explained it very well. He's still here, tossing his laundry about, clipping his beard in my sink.

Sunday night, I reminded him by asking if he'd been looking for a place. He said no, and that he didn't understand why this was happening; all his other friends were getting married or engaged, and moving in with each other. In his mind, he feels us stepping backwards.

Maybe we are, who am I to tell? All I know is that I need, NEED, a place where I can do what I want to do all day. And with Tommy living here, I can't do that. If I can't do that now, what happens when he pops the question? If we continue doing this to each other (i.e. me yelling at him incessantly when he doesn't pick up after himself, or his telling me to stop reading books and writing all the time), then there will be no future. It might sound like a step backwards, but it's a healthy step, whatever direction it may be.

I admit, sometimes I wonder what the hell we're doing with each other. Sometimes it seems like we don't have anything in common anymore; I'm bored with his interests and he's bored with mine.

I know living apart will aid some of this, but the only thing I have hope for is that it will be okay no matter what happens. And no matter what happens, this was the right decision, and I did it for myself--against social norms and expectations, against what people tell me about my relationship ("you two are so right for each other!"), and against my own weak desire to stay in constant comfort. Fuck constant comfort. Nothing good, valuable, or important ever came from such an environment. How will I pay the bills? If I want to live alone badly enough, I will pay the bills by any means necessary. If I want to be a freelance writer badly enough, I will find a way. I just need space to know that these things I say are true; that I can pay the bills, freelance for a living, etc. I just don't know those things for sure yet.

I know I can, but I haven't. Makes all the difference.

Heartache Gumbo

Gumbo is sacred. It is the stew-soup of the south. Outside of being a regional delicacy, southerners tend to guard the process as a ritual; something "foreigners" to the southern states shouldn't bother to try and reproduce. For a long time, I felt this way about gumbo, but couldn't explain why.

When I was young, gumbo day was something like a holiday. It usually happened in between Thanksgiving and Christmas, using the Thanksgiving fried turkey carcass as a base for the stock. If any of us kids had any plans that night, they were cancelled as soon as the news spread. On more than one occasion, my friends actually cancelled entire social events to come to my parents' house and eat gumbo.

Yes, it was delicious, but that's only half the reason it was so important. My friends loved gumbo day because so few of their families sat down to eat together. Of course, when you're a teenager, sitting down to dinner with your family is a bother, because you have so many other important things to do. So none of my friends minded not eating with their families, until they sat down at our dining table. It's something you don't realize you want until it's right there, and you've been without it for years.

When I finally (yes finally) moved out of my parents' house, I had a lot of trouble making my apartment feel like home. I know everyone has trouble with that, but my family was so... rich in informal tradition that I really noticed when it was gone. It was like an un-nameable void in my soul, and I unconsciously bought things for my kitchen when the void took over. I thought it was just a compulsion to take my mind off things, but what I was really doing was creating a home, in exactly the fashion my parents had instilled in me when I was a toddler. Stocking my kitchen was the only thing I knew how to do, to recreate the smells and warmth of my childhood.

I lived here for years before I got the nerve to make a gumbo of my own. My father fried three turkeys for Thanksgiving, specifically so we could bring them home and make our own gumbo day. I was nervous, especially about the roux part--they're so easy to mess up, and if it burns, you just have to throw it out and start over.

I always heard that gumbo takes an entire day, sometimes two, to make. And it can, but my first one didn't take all day-- but it came out all wrong. Not in flavor or texture, but in feeling. The reason gumbo takes a whole day to make is because everything in your living space has to be spotless before you begin to chop. Why? Because when you're done cooking, you try to sit down on your couch full of laundry and put your bowl on the cluttered coffee table, and you can't enjoy it. It's downright unpleasant. You sit there and wonder why the smell alone isn't enough to make this place feel like home, and it's because everything is a mess. You get angry, like I did. Add to that the amazing amount of dishes and large stock pots in the sink, and you've got an erupting volcano of rage.

So when you've got a gumbo itch, no matter how late in the day it is, throw your stock on the stove and clean the shit out of everything in your life that could use it. Think about things you regret, ball them up and throw them into the stock pot--sadness and heartache are the unnamed spices in a great gumbo. And when you start cooking, there's no time to think about the bad, messy, or regretted things in your life--the roux is like a baby, you cannot leave it alone, and you have to put every ounce of attention on it for it to happen right. If your base is not done correctly, you might as well throw out the entire pot.

There's no time to think about the reason you wanted to make a gumbo in the first place. It might be because your life needs a hard day's work. Or, like me, because you're homesick--not for the place, but for that feeling: a mixture of aromas, a few people you want to feed, and everything in its place, inside and out.

When it's done, your apartment is still spotless, and you can take a break to cry if you want to, because it's hard to build a gumbo or a life. If you do this enough, eventually you won't have to measure anything anymore; it'll be a feeling, not a tablespoon. You'll somehow have everything you need to make it right when you need to; no running to the store or running out of time.

And you'll never burn a roux again, because you'll know how to make it without knowing exactly how to make it. At some point, you realize that no one does.