As a child I would take objects/materials from home and create blocks of space in my parents’ home. These spaces were mine; they cut me off from the normalcy of home life and transported me elsewhere. Sometimes a sheet or a box was my portal to another place and/or time. This place might have been an island, a jungle, a mountain range, or just somewhere far away. I felt a connection to other places and times, even as a child. I was enchanted by antiques: their ornateness, their differentness. I enjoyed the smell of old. I could imagine the scents of old wood furniture in a home built centuries before. I was fascinated by the most historic settled region of the country, New England; I thought I was destined to move there. I eventually fell in love with a man from New England.
In my adolescence my fantasies diverged from places and spaces to boys and celebrity. My fantasies were busy imagining fame and adoration for talents that had yet to be refined. I thought I would be a singer, an actress, a poet. I managed fantasizing my way through school classes. Sometimes I would excel in a subject, other times I would fail. I have no idea if my fantasies played any part in this. I was good at academics, when I wanted to be, when a subject allowed for it (that means I was somehow naturally inclined to excel at it). I spent a lot of time fantasizing about sexual interludes, though I had not had any. I had trouble connecting intimately, physically, with peers unless by altered experience (by altered I mean via drug use). My fantasies overwhelmed my mind. Sometimes to the point I would throb while sat at my desk. My meditations would last somewhere around an hour with intermittent classroom consciousness so as to make sure I was not missing necessary content. But these meditations were not exclusive to the classroom; they’d occur on drives or at home, yet not so much when out and about. I guess being busy or interested allowed me to maintain focus on the task at hand rather than drift away into erotic fantasy. Needless to say, I had transitioned from child into lascivious woman. Or at least lasciviously minded.
The relationship with the New Englander didn’t work out. I also fell out of love with New England (though appreciation is still there, for both). My interests expanded along with my age. I changed majors from Mass Communications to Anthropology, something I found to be more noble and less fame-focused. Instead of wanting to perform for people I desired to learn about them, about us. I felt a profound connection to humankind and I wanted nothing more than to integrate myself where I once wanted to be set apart. I blame this on an LSD trip I had on my university campus with an old pal. After twelve or so hours of swirling epiphanies, body waves, and sense super sensitivity, I saw the world as the epitome of beauty and I felt gratitude to be experiencing life. From then I continued to be extra sensitive regarding the human condition and the connectedness of all things. I wanted a career in helping others, but my major did not allow me a clear, distinct route for application, but innumerous routes. I don’t respond well to such options. I need direction. And I am not disciplined enough to supply my own.
Now I’m at a crossroads. I have no defined career or career choice. I just know I want something different. Maybe I will always want something different. I want to be in faraway places almost desperately. I fantasize of foreign regions, landscapes, vistas. I fantasize of treading the most aged routes, but a sheet or a box won’t sate my urges now. Only airfare will suffice.
I focus on the day of my exit.
