In between dreams

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures--be what he is. And, above all, accept these things."--Albert Camus

My life at twenty-five doesn't look the way I thought it would when I was twenty. I had pictured a glamorous existence as a starving, would-be writer living in a crowded apartment--with a fire escape, of course--filled with mismatched furniture, stacks upon stacks of books, newspapers, takeout boxes, and a cat named Oliver. I saw myself working two or more odd jobs to support my feeble attempts at writing, or one soulless job as a cube-occupying peon in a big glass building made of windows that didn't open. I relished the thought of living in dingy wife beaters and torn jeans, the tell-tale cigarette at my fingertips whenever I wasn't drinking my fourth cup of coffee or plunking loudly on my Underwood typewriter.

*I know it's more practical to use a computer but I think antique typewriters are beautiful machines. I was so close to purchasing one on Ebay but was outbid by an auction ninja. I cried.

I realize now I will never have that life. There's a part of me that mourns the death of that dream because I had convinced myself I needed that lifestyle to give myself credibility as a writer. I thought if I looked the part, I would be a better writer, would convince myself I was worthy of the title/profession.

I have a confession: I sold out. Instead of avidly seeking creative jobs that paid pennies for a byline, I put on unfamiliar clothes I had never before owned--ones that needed to be ironed and dry cleaned--and sought out those glass buildings with pretend windows and practically begged for a cubical and a name placard. I never thought I would work in a cubical but at twenty-five, I find myself sitting in a three-walled cell every day by choice. There are days I enjoy having my own corporate work space. I have grown fond of my stapler and Post-It note dispenser. They are very reliable tools that belong to me during my tenure at my current job. I have tried to humanize my cubical with pictures and toys. Some days I enjoy my job while other days drag on for hours and not even the My Little Pony can make me smile. I look for remnants of my original dream but all I see are plastic knights waging war at various areas of my cubical.

Not all is lost. My dream didn't die; it changed. If I'm honest with myself, I changed, too. I didn't realize it at the time but in retrospect, I can see exactly when it started to veer off course.

Enter Mike.

In the glamorous writer lifestyle I had pictured in my early twenties, there was no room for love. Oh, there was definitely room for exciting trysts, dramatic break-ups, and awkward run-ins with ex's and their ridiculously beautiful new lovers; that bleeding-heart material is great fun to write, especially in the late late hours of the night over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Everything that flows from your fingertips is passionate, full of abandon, and slightly convoluted; emotional diarrhea at its finest. I almost sought relationships doomed to fail to give myself credibility. Almost.

Mike ruined everything. He entered the scene when I was looking for a friend, a fellow writer with whom I could smoke cigarettes and drink endless cups of coffee beneath a black sky and talk about real life (as we knew it). I didn't mean to fall in love with him. I intended to love him, yes, but not be openly in love with him. It seemed stupid to ruin a good friendship. Plus, if I spilled my beans and he didn't love me back, I would feel awkward and silly. More importantly, I would lose a fantastic proofreader, muse, friend.

I'll fast forward through the details and fill you in on the important part: he loves me. What does that mean? The starving writer scenario only works for a single person! In my mind, I could not have both Mike and that beautiful lifestyle. I had to choose. 

That part was easy. 

Do I regret my decision? 

No. 

For starters, I am no longer addicted to caffeine and tobacco, although I sometimes miss those addictions. They were bad for me but they made me so bad ass. All the writers I had ever known had those two addictions (at the very least), not to mention a collage of cryptic, artistic tattoos and a thousand bizarre adventures that appeared in various noteworthy pieces, the kind that get read aloud at cool writerly gatherings. Those addictions granted me access to the literary circle of brilliant, compassionate, extremely intellectual Lesbian writers at UCSD! I felt like I belonged, at least for a little while. Alas, those were the days. The tradeoff: I have a nice job and have met excellent people. They too are caged birds singing their own songs, telling their own stories of how they never dreamed they'd end up where we are--in between dreams.

Being in between dreams is not a fixed state. It's constantly shifting, changing, fluctuating. It's called living. I now realize my dream didn't die--it changed course. It is still coming into its own, still finding its shape and rhythm. At twenty-five, my in-between dream looks like a corporate job in a glass building. I am grateful for it. What does the next stage of my dream look like?

*shrug* Only God knows.

Although my job, addictions, wardrobe, and city have changed, I will keep scrawling away, littering my fragmented thoughts and unfinished stories in countless journals (paper and electronic) until my chicken scratch turns into something beautiful.

Sprinkles

Me: I've been really into triple chocolate fudge cake with cream cheese frosting lately.

You: Oh goodness my hips just exploded at the thought.

Conversations like that make crazy days at work so much better.

Good night, Moon.

I. 1:54 AM.

I received a copy of my birth certificate in the mail a few days ago. Have you ever looked at yours? I actually got choked up. Twenty-five years ago, my parents claimed me. They said, "Yes, she belongs to us," and signed their lives away. My dad was 25, my mom, 19. My eyes traced and retraced her signature, lingering over the neat, vertical loops and the carefully calculated slant. How could she have known it was going to be hard? I don't want to continue writing about this because then I'll never go to sleep. I'll revisit this soon.

II.
I was born at 8:27 PM. There's an old wives tale that basically equates one's affinity for day or night with time of birth. If it's true, it explains why I have always loved staying up late. I did my best writing between 2 AM and 4 AM with a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and nothing but the stars to keep me company. That was all it took to clear my mind. I would stand on my second-story balcony, unhinge my brain, and scatter the dust, ash, and noise into the blue-blackness of the night. Three years later, I've kicked the tobacco habit, I drink coffee in the morning like everyone else, and try to sleep at a decent hour every night. I feel so grown up. I wish I could feel grown up--be grown up--without sacrificing my nights. I miss standing on the balcony and listening to the world sleep. I miss sitting on the balcony smoking a cigarette in my underwear, brainstorming for my next writing assignment. I miss San Diego night skies the most, especially the 3 AM sky. It's a breathtaking sight--black velvet peppered with white-hot stars, and if you look closely and if the time is right, you can see Mars.

I found my best friend, my "husband of the future" while looking for Mars and other red things. It was an assignment from our Writing and Culture class. Do you know how difficult it is looking for red things at night? We walked around our neighborhood and searched for exciting red things; I was hoping for a little blood (at least dried blood) but didn't have any luck that night. I wanted to have the coolest "red" piece to share in class. We didn't see too many red things that were extraordinary. Red curbs, a dying balloon in his neighbor's living room, brake lights, his roommate's t-shirt, and the fuzzy red flowers growing on the tree across the street; they looked brown in the street light but I knew they were red, so I jotted them down anyway. The best part of that assignment was getting to hang out with Mike. I remember sitting on a cold, hard curb beneath a brilliant 3 AM sky talking about life, smoking cigarettes, and looking for Mars. I remember thinking a few things:

1. I hope I stay friends with him forever.
2. I can't believe we're friends because he's effortlessly cool while I don't even make an effort to regularly shave my armpits, which makes me uncool.
3. I am BUTT TIRED because it's 6:15 in the morning but I don't want to be the one to say good night because he might realize I'm not very cool, and then he won't want to hang out with me anymore.

III. 2:48 AM

I am finally ready to go to bed.