Category: literary

Millennial naivety. Dreamer’s disease.

I never was set up for low expectations. With my marketing degree and my 4 years working at Kohl’s, I was sure setting up shop would be easy. The real struggle would be establishing myself.

Since I was young, I fancied myself a writer. An artist. All that was missing from my wave of whimsy was the “starving” epithet in front of the “artist.” 

Some might call me aimless. I would just say young and stupid. But regardless, I felt myself stagnate with every passing day in Fayetteville. The heat of summer passed and the mild cold of winter would turn to frosted leaves. I wanted the eternal sun of the West. I wanted to live in someone else’s skin – someone smarter and happier and better. And isn’t that the dream most people seek?

El camión olía a tierra y perspiración. Una sensación de estar inundado en un pantano me bañaba como mi propio sudor. Trataba de no mirar hacia nada, ni al hombre medio parado frente a mí contra la otra pared del camión, ni a la niña y su madre enganchadas a la mano derecha. La vista se me hizo borrosa a los periferales. El ojo se enfocaba en el centro, en el corazón. Pensaba en nada más que mi propia respiración, centrándome en las horas que pasaba con mi celular, escuchando y viendo a medias los videos de meditación y yoga. Yo tenía (y siempre he tenido) un deseo insaciable de ser invencible, de encontrarme en un mundo más allá de la realidad. Y nunca antes alcancé esta meta hasta aquel día en el camión. Y las noches después, también bañadas en sudor, que se me hacían eternas. Y creo que jamás viviré tal delirio nuevamente. O, al menos, eso espero.

Of course, for all my semi-privilege, I couldn’t just pick up and move to the City of Angels. I had a savings account that had barely made it past the $1,000 marker. I had blown most of my money on art kits and dance classes and improvised trips. Oh, and college, which I had not gotten a free ride to afford. Much to the chagrin of my working class parents, I was neither talented enough to earn some sort of fancy art’s scholarship or sport’s scholarship – god forbid – and not bright enough to get a full ride on my academic merits either. I was just good enough to cover the bare minimum.

Regardless, I had never been the sort of person to listen to reason or bar myself. I knew how to work the retail world, sure, I was not the most social of people (although I could lie and say the experience overall changed my essence, I would say it was more of a necessity to adapt that changed me). Retail is relevant everywhere though. 

I started by looking at my budget. Where could I live with just enough scraped together to pay a security deposit and rent and still be able to buy a few groceries?

Craig’s List became my best friend. Some ads were sketchier than others. Some seemed normal until you looked at them hard enough and began to ask yourself “Where is the lie?” My budget was pencil slim – no more than $500 a month until I became established. I sent out so many job applications on monster and indeed and, yes, Craig’s List, too, that I thought for sure I would be in a bind once all of the calls started rolling in.

The phone was unnervingly silent. I waited as long as I could before resigning. I had nothing, nowhere to start.

So I began to look for alternatives. Some Craigslist ads advertised what to my naive 22 year old mind was unthinkable – a strange sex trade for free living situation. I stumbled upon a few links that unambiguously read “Free Housing for Live-in Companion.” Companion, I thought, scrunching my brow and biting my lip as if that euphemism was not painfully clear enough. A smile cracked my lips in spite of my disgust as I read on. “Looking for a lovely young lady to share a queen sized bed with me. I will treat you like a queen. Open-mindedness a must.” My lips folded back in a cringe. Pass. As tempting as paying nothing for rent was, my dignity was worth so much more. Although, with each passing day, I could feel myself becoming restless, and with restlessness came the inevitable shifting of my moral compass, what I felt was absolutely oh-hell-no and negotiable – the two formerly isolated concepts were beginning to blur and merge.

One day, a friend reminded me casually of the possibility of couchsurfing. “Why don’t you try it, Claire?” she asked as she sipped her pumpkin spice latte. “I mean, what do you have to lose? You keep saying you can’t spend more than $400 upfront, what could be better than free? You get on your feet, you might get asked on some weird dates or proposed some awkward cuddle sessions, but hey, why not?”

I knew she was being sarcastic, and I shrugged and shook my head. “How even does that work?” As she sipped, I played with my long dark hair. For some reason, splitting my own ends where they were most damaged was calming to me. Also, I loathe pumpkin spice lattes.

My friend, Amber (yes, the most typical of all white girl names), took an extra long sip of her latte. “Well,” she said, “it’s simple. You stay with someone and exchange company for free room and board.”

“Ugh, lame!” I cried, thinking of the unsavory mix of craigslist ads I had waded through for the past week. “When does the actual, um, couch-surfing thing happen?”

“Chill, it’s not, like, prostitution or anything, girly. It’s perfectly legit, the hosts have profiles and everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had a few hookups on there, but you know, it was like totally unplanned and not awkward at all!”

I felt like my eyes rolled so far back in my head I had found the gap within the space-time continuum.

“Okay, let me back up and reexplain.” She knew the face I was making all too well. She took one last noisy sip of her decimated drink, her lips slurping hard with a desperation that ignored how annoying most people found slurping to be. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Basically, the host can offer you a place on their couch. Sometimes they have spare beds. Sometimes people make agreements to sleep in the same bed. But that’s, like, totally up to the individual.”

Sometimes I wondered how Amber and I had managed to be friends for so long. I thought of myself as being so deep, and sometimes I saw her depth as barely reaching my ankles. I pursed my lips, trying to hide a grin that would inevitably turn into a sneer.

Amber paused, tilting her head at me before bursting out into an uncomfortable cackle. The laugh shook her whole body, and she pushed her dyed red hair back behind an ear so as to avoid it covering her perfectly symmetrical face. “So, you check it out. I mean, it’s free. And really what you trade is just like, cooking and stuff. Going out on hikes. Watching movies. It’s fun. I’ve done it loads of time when I’ve went traveling. Trust me.” Her eyes pleaded with me to take her seriously, but her habitually humorous tone gave her away as insincere.

“Alright, alright,” I said finally. “I’ll take a look tonight and see what I think. Anything to avoid homelessness!”

We had a running joke about me ending up on skid row. It wasn’t the pleasantest or most PC of our jokes, but lately it was looking more and more likely.

After a bit of perusing, I realized that Couch surfing wasn’t the harlotry I had taken it for. The people seemed cool. It was just a matter of finding shared interests and going from there. I sifted for hours through pages that ranged from brief but succinct bullet lists of the person’s interests to a fully detailed novelesque description of their hobbies, goals, and various experiences with couchsurfing. Some claimed to be free spirits that always were hoping to learn something new. The majority were sociable and had likewise expectations of fully getting to know their guest. I figured that could only be expected, to avoid awkwardness. After all, this was not an airbnb you-paid-for-it experience. This was a social experiment, putting two people from different parts of the world into the same living space and seeing what would happen, what they could learn, what they could share…

In the end I was convinced, in spite of Amber’s horrible and somewhat facetious explanation. She never was good for that sort of serious stuff. Now the only issue was finding a host I might be “compatible” with, comfortable with sharing new things and exploring my new home, and yes, kind of freeloading until I got a job.

The more I thought of it in this light, the more I was reminded of my brief but impactful stints on okcupid and tinder. More so on okcupid. There was very little to gain from an app that based your preferences on impulse based on physical appearance alone. I couldn’t be bothered. But the bullet lists and walls of text were very reminiscent to okcupid’s profiles. The only difference was, okcupid didn’t come with warning labels in the form of reviews. So that aspect was much appreciated.

I became mildly obsessed. After getting home from Kohl’s, after waking up, I would begin scanning. I bookmarked different profiles. I mainly gravitated towards the film and book nerds, the ones I knew I would not be stuck grasping at straws for conversation. I tried to avoid the male profiles because my mind inevitably wandered to the idea of some form of relationship. Perhaps it was Amber’s influence, or the fact that I was still trying to move on completely from my last relationship, but I naively dreamed that perhaps my host could become something more. Without the awkward creepiness implied in those craigslist ads. But I suppose on some level I should give credit where credit is due — at least those ads were upfront.

Many conversations began the same way. “Hello! I’m a 23 year old Southern girl looking to get out of Arkansas and move to a land of sunshine and opportunities. Unfortunately, money is an issue at this time. Would you be willing to host me until I get a job (possibly indefinitely)? I swear I make a mean cup of coffee!” Most of these basic messages went through the same revision process repeatedly. Take out a word here, add a smiley face there, swear to myself I did not sound as desperate as I felt. 

Everyday the cold dark of winter pushed closer and closer over the horizon. Time was ticking. I promised myself to be gone by the winter so I could hibernate the way the Monarch butterflies do, in search of a warmer climate to live…and die. I still had a lot of life to live, though, so the death part would need to wait. Which was part of why I insisted on avoiding craigslist like the plague. All that I needed was for someone to bite. Until then, I had to keep on dreaming.

En realidad el sueño americano no era para mí tan grandioso. Fue necesidad que me empujó, la adaptación a unas circunstancias imposibles.

Ya no tuve a quien más para apoyarme o para yo apoyar. Mi abue se murió hace 5 años. Mi familia fue dividida por líneas rayadas por el dinero. Había primos y tíos pero no quisieran que yo me vendiera así, y al saberlo, algunos se pusieron distantes. Sí, lo de la familia fue complicado, un empujón, pero tanto para cumplir como para salir de la situación en sí. Y a la vez, había tantas dudas.

Ya no era un niño. Cuando me veía en el espejo, lo primero que me llamaba la atención eran mis ojeras. No dañaron la vista de mis ojos verde-cafés, pero me hicieron sentir mucho más viejo.

En el camino, sabía que crecían cada vez más, cada vez mis ojeras se ponían más oscuras. Era un viaje corto pero se sintía como una eternidad. Como el paso del tiempo en una nave espacial.

Cruzar la frontera no es lo más emocionante. Es lo que te espera allá. Y en algún momento ya tenía claro que me iba a bajar y nadar y encontrarme en una tierra que no conocía. Oaxaca se volvería un recuerdo colorido y otro punto en el mapa. 

Se escuchan las toses retenidas de los otros pasajeros. La soledad. A pesar de que sus cuerpos quedan cerca, yo me siento lejos. Me imagino caminando por esas calles doradas y me pierdo otra vez, otra vez el conocimiento me invade y se va…

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One of the things that makes writing these sorts of passages enjoyable is the sense of melding the self with a person very distinctive and separate from oneself and creating narratives that are both familiar and distant from my own lived experiences. I started writing based on this concept after a conversation with my younger brother about points of view and what could make a love story like this more than a cliché. But I peppered tons of cliches into my character’s thoughts and perceptions of the world, mainly to provoke a sense of realism as well as one of hyperbole and satire.

I don’t know if this story is worth pursuing and writing more. But it was fun rereading something I wrote years ago. As a writer, exercises in point of view shifts really interest me, especially when incorporating the use of different languages.

I’ve been blocked in some ways from writing, although I have been honing my discipline in other areas. So that’s why I’m back here on wordpress, hoping to make posting a habit again.

Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running” has been my inspiration. I swear, I’ve had this book for the past 5 years, and that’s how slowly I have been reading it. There are moments when I don’t appreciate Murakami’s voice, his understating and candid way of casually discussing his successes. It makes me think, “If only it were that easy!” But I think it just might be, and he might have a point. Because in no way is he really implying that writing award-winning novels is “easy” but rather that it doesn’t just come out of some happy accident, some inborn, innate skill. It takes discipline. We in the West give too much credit to “talent.” So as time goes on, I’m starting to read his words differently and see the wisdom suddenly mixed in in his self-deprecating style.

Also, sidebar, I’m reading the version translated into Spanish. The title is De Qué Hablo Cuando Hablo de Escribir and — wow. I didn’t even realize the original title was way better and less redundant until googling the English title just now. For writers, I would highly recommend this book.

To honing our bodies, to sharpening our minds.