There's a Crack in My Crystal Ball

The entirety of last week, I was deeply unhappy; my soul possessed a supreme discontentment – even the bits of soul down in my pinky toes felt it! And the worst part? I couldn’t even put to words why. Thoughts could not embody this disturbance in my being. It drove me crazy.

For days, I woke up with a frown that barely shifted with each passing hour. A reason to pin this crappiness on would have been marvelous, but it took a while for me to properly interpret it.

As most of you know, I am in college finishing up my junior year with a double major in Psychology and Creative Writing. The double major had been something I was 100% certain of even before I set foot on campus in the fall of 2012, as well as plans to go on and get a Master’s in Psych. Freshly 18 years old, I had the next 6 to 8 years of my life planned out as far as academics, and at least 4 years of that I was undoubtedly sure of.

Now that I am on the cusp of finishing my 3^rd year out of 4 in undergraduate studies, the post-graduation future is looming and the pressure of that unfortunately has pushed me to be the most stressed out I have ever been in my life, and I do not say that lightly. I do not get stressed because I don’t allow myself to, but over that week I had to admit that I was discontent with something and stressed out about it. But what the heck was it? I needed more variables to fill in this equation – thus far it was all question marks.

I had been doing what every decent Christian does – pray. Most of my prayers that week consisted of me asking for clarity about my future, about where I was supposed to go and what to do. A couple weeks before that ultimate-stress-week, I had been telling God to make it obvious when He lets me in on my future plans, because I know I’m not the best at interpreting between my feelings and God’s intentions. I distinctly recall saying during family prayer time for God to sledgehammer the obviousness into my head if need be.

Careful what you pray for, kids.

Stress-week was emotionally and spiritually painful (sledgehammer to the soul?). Wednesday night I finally found a faint glimmer of clarity: I didn’t want to go to grad school in Psychology anymore.

It was a feeling before it was a verbalized concept, one that presented itself in tears before words.

There was an acute internal trigger, and through the sniffles I verbalized to myself why I was so discontent. I had realized I didn’t want to go to grad school in Psychology and I had to tell myself it was okay. It’s okay when plans change – now is much better than later, too; for instance, in the middle of a Master’s program for Psych I sure as heck would not have wanted this realization. And anyway, it didn’t currently change much, although initially I thought it changed everything (more stress).

I wanted to write. As soon as I admitted that to myself, I was rushed with alleviation. I wanted to get an MFA, go to a graduate school program that would better my skills. Writing is my passion and has been solidly since 2010, but the seed was planted years before that. Writing is something I cannot live without, while psychology can remain dormant without much fuss – there are so many indicators of this that I feel a fool for not seeing them. Last semester I didn’t have any creative writing classes whatsoever and didn’t have any time to write creatively, so academic papers took over. By the end of the semester, I was crazy with the need to write something, anything creative.

Over spring break (February 28^th to March 8^th) I was home with my parents, and the very first day I was there, my dad and I had a lengthy conversation about the future. At that point I had still been sure about my Master’s-in-Psych decision, and I told this to him. He squinted his eyes a little and gave a small smile, saying he thought years ago that my idea was that creative writing is the capstone and psychology was going to be a helper in that realm. Writing was the Pacific Ocean and psychology was just one of the many rivers that eventually leads into it. Instead, psychology had taken over, in retrospect I think because I had career-minded thinking and had already written off using a creative writing major as a potential future career.

Funny how people on the outside have more insight into my own mind.

Later in the realization week I got Chinese take out for dinner. I happened to walk out with two fortune cookies and for some reason only cracked open one. The fortunes was unsurprisingly inconsequential and irrelevant.

On Sunday I got the urge to crack open the other one, just because. I hadn’t even planned to eat it. The message inside made me roll my eyes and smile.

God finds himself hilarious.

And I blessedly find myself in the arms of pure contentment. 

Carving Ruts (and Getting Stuck)

On Wednesday, my very first full day in Milan, I got lost. For two hours. 

As I've established in the previous post, I have extremely poor navigational skills and have shed my extrovert skin (either that, or I've grown an introverted shell), so despite the fact I was armed with a detailed map of Milan, it was little help. 

It was my first time powering through the metro stations alone (that morning my roommate so graciously let me follow her down the streets, through the stations, and to the university), and I've had very limited experience in dealing with these trains and tiled subways that at times smell faintly of urine. I had successfully made it from the university to the final stop near my apartment, but I managed to surface out of the station on the wrong street. Though I was still relatively close by, it was the biggest mistake I could have made. 

Since it was my first full day ever being in Italy, the only streets I knew were the one where my apartment is located (which just so happens to be a tiny little diagonal side street that's about half an inch long on the map) and where my school is. Otherwise, the names are all jumbled to me. 

So I simply started walking. At the very least, it was a worrisome but great way to begin creating my internal map of Milan in my area of residence. I kept walking, sometimes turning corners when I thought I saw a street name I recognized. And I kept walking. And walking. 

It was starting to get dark (at almost six on the dot it's pretty much night time) and I'm not yet comfortable being out in the streets alone after dusk settles. That was when I actually started to worry. My feet were cold and wet due to the rain earlier that day leaving numerous unavoidable puddles splashed all over the sidewalks, and the map tucked in my bag was as much help as all the street signs I was passing by. 

A few possibilities for help zipped through my head. The first one was to simply stop a kind face on the sidewalk and ask them if they knew where my street was (I figured I could get that far, but understanding their response would have been the hard part). After only a moment, I banished that idea. Earlier that day, I had been researching Milan and it's quirks, things to expect, what the people were like, etc., and I had read that the Milanese were very cold on the streets. That last thing I wanted was to make someone feel threatened in some way and cause trouble I couldn't even understand. 

Option two was getting more and more inviting, though less doable. I could get a taxi and simply tell them my address and pay for the trip regardless of how far it was. If I was totally out of my district, I would just have to eat it and deal with it; at least I would get home safely. The only problem posed was that there were no free taxis, even as I continued walking down several streets, looking out for any cars with taxi hats. Isn't that the way, though? When you don't need one, they're all over, and they hound you, but when you do, not a one is in sight. 

Darkness crept over the tall buildings, bathing everything in shadows. Lamps began to pop on. 

It was down to option three. 

Without hesitation, and with all the gratitude my tired body could muster, I pulled out my phone and called my mom. We had set up an international access plan so that if I ever needed to call her and I wasn't in a wifi zone, I could (for an extra fee, of course). I figured this was an emergency (I had absolutely no idea where I was in a country where I barely knew the language, and I'm just an idiot when it comes to reading maps) so I stayed put under a street sign as the phone rang. 

She answered and it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I said “hello, how are you, I'm lost!” in a joking, cheery voice, though I really felt far from it. We got down to business immediately. Dad joined in, too, once I told them where I was and they mapped out my route home, telling me where to take turns and when to stay straight. 

Forty minutes and a run-up phone bill later, I was back at my apartment. Apartamento dolce apartamento.

I hung up, wandered to my room in the apartment, sank onto my bed and cried. I was so relieved and thankful for the connectivity, especially after having none from Dulles to Milan, that the pressure built up over the time I had been walking, and I finally had room for the release. I thanked God for my safety out on the unknown streets for so long, and also my family and the fact that I could reach out to them. Without that connection, I am honestly not sure when I would have gotten home. 

It was a more or less terrifying learning experience, but I can now proudly say that I went to the university and back without any issues this morning! And I went and got some groceries! It's also sunny outside today, which doesn't happen very often in this season, so I was being set up for it to be a good day from the start. I managed to slow down a little bit during my travels and take lots of pictures. They'll be up soon, if the wifi chooses to cooperate!

On an unrelated but semi-related note, I continuously have to stop myself from speaking Spanish in order to communicate. It's true that Spanish is much closer to Italian than English is, but it's still not Italian. On my first day here, I was trying to confirm with a taxi driver whether he accepted credit cards in my broken/brain fried Italian, but I ended up saying “tarjeta de credito” which in Spanish means credit card. Thankfully the Italian equivalent is “carta di credito” so it translated more or less and he understood me after a moment of processing.

I think the fact that “yes” is “si” like in Spanish doesn't help me differentiate at all. I'm slowly picking up on my words and phrases in l'Italiano, mainly because I have to, but otherwise because I want to. That's one thing in retrospect I wish I had been more proactive about - learning/teaching myself the language. I brought all the resources with me that I was using, so I can still continue teaching myself, but all in all it's a little late in the game. Oh well. I'm just incredibly thankful that everyone I've had to work with so far has been nice, understanding, and known a good amount of English. It makes me feel like a rotten little North American sometimes, but I hope they can see the gratitude in my eyes and hear it when I say “grazie mille” because I mean it - thank you, very much (I'm sorry I'm so inept, that's my fault, not yours, but I really truly appreciate the fact that you didn't get angry with me for not understanding your beautiful native tongue).

Strangely, I've heard a handful of other international students participating in the same program as me talk about how hardly anyone here knows English. I find myself in the opposite situation. Everywhere I have gone and every time I've needed assistance, there has always been someone who speaks enough English to help. Maybe it's just that I've been pointed in the right directions by a certain Master Creator. Obviously it's not been by my power alone. 

Well, that sums up day two of my stay in Milan (although it was the first full day). It feels like I’ve already been here a week, and not exactly in a good way. It has been stressful, and I’m not used to that because I do not normally allow myself to get stressed. Here and now, however, I don’t have much choice. It will ease off soon once I can carve these darn ruts down a little deeper so as to fall into them easier.

As always, thanks for the support and words of encouragement!

Ciao,

V

Mortal Deficiency

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m willingly strolling, unarmed, right into the bad part of town. Christ, I don’t even have my switchblade, but that wouldn’t do me any good anyway based off the stories I’ve heard about this place. A more fitting weapon would be a machine gun, loaded to the gills. And even then, survival would be iffy.

At least I’ve got someone with me. He seems to belong to this place, so perhaps I won’t seem like such a stranger to the scum that hangs around here. Although I’ve only just met this guy – he could be playing with me when he said he’s got “something interesting to show me” back home. He definitely could turn a phrase in an enticing way.

This is stupid beyond stupidity. But I’m not stupid. Just desperate.

He glances over his shoulder to check and see if I’m still following.

Yup, this rat is still pressing the pleasure button. And wasting away to nothing in the process.

We stalk up to a very shady hole in the crumbling brick wall and although this should deter anyone in their right mind, I don’t turn and run. My escort bangs on the door twice in rapid succession. The door opens a crack (I almost expected an eye slit to open) and a scraggly, bearded man peers out with malted eyes. The contrast between this and his dirty face is staggering. At first glance he seemed in his forties, but upon further scrutiny, he’s probably only twenty-something. I blink and look down at the ground in thought.

“He’s a virgin and he wants a taste,” the escort greets, smirking as he spoke to the doorman. I want to protest in some way but find I can’t and decide to stay quiet, letting the boy speak for me. He must mean something else, I think.

The doorman blinks and nods his head in understanding, opening the door enough for us to shimmy through. The room is stark and bare for all but a chair and sad looking table. Things are getting sketchier by the minute.

Instead of stopping here, the doorman hobbles over to the far wall and draws back a curtain, revealing a door and opening it. Commotion blasts up the stairwell and I realize this is just a cover for when the cops come knocking.

We are guided down the stairs into a room bustling with people of all shapes and sizes. I hear lots of boisterous laughter and profanity and I’m sure this is the place. The place woven of rumors and full of dreams. Existing and not.

“Set down there and we’ll get you fixed up,” the doorman tells me and I do as he says. The man hobbles away into the mass. My escort sits in the rickety chair next to me and stares at me with an unmistakable sparkle in his eyes.

“Since this is your first time an’ all, I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen,” he begins, his rancid breath bringing tears to my eyes. I don’t flinch back; I regard him as if his words are gold. “So, you get all relaxed like and calm yourself. Do that meditation shit. And we’ll bring you what you’re here for, all dressed up and ready to go.” He smirks at me like he’s sharing with me the best secret he knows. Perhaps it is.

“It’ll only hurt for a second, but after that, all you’ll want is more. That’s usually the case with most guys like you, since you can afford it,” he explains.

The doorman walks back toward me with something in his hand. It manages to shine despite the terrible lighting.

“He ready?” he drawls, looking at me intensely. I nod, answering for myself for once. He kneels beside me and rolls up the sleeve of my blazer as well as the dress shirt underneath. “You businessmen and your suits,” he mumbles as he ties the broken rubber band above the bend in my elbow. Bringing it up to the light, he taps the syringe, ridding it of unwanted air bubbles. “Just a poke and then you’re done.”

The anticipation skyrockets in me and I go into a high before the syringe even breaks my skin. This is it. I’ve found it. This is happening. The drug everyone wants but no one can find.

And now it’s mine.

The needle plunges easily into my vein and the man presses down the plunger until it’s bled dry. A slow smile breaks my face as I stare at the red dot marring the bend of my elbow.

My escort claps a hand on my shoulder and for once I don’t mind the unwarranted contact.

“In a few minutes you’ll feel the best you’ll ever feel in your entire life. Nothing compares. Think of it this way: imagine the best sex you’ve ever had and multiply that by a thousand,” he tells me. I do what he says.

His words are truth.

But what they don’t tell you is what happens later.

The drug weaves through your veins and makes you feel euphoric for a while, but then it becomes a dependency and you can’t wake up in the morning without taking a shot. The feeling is not worth the after effects.

It sucks the nutrients from the body and feeds off them, leaving nothing behind but disintegrating skin and fragile bones.

Months later, I lay here in my hospital bed, feeling dead already. Not one of the nurses can look me straight in the face and not cringe. It is pitiful and disgusting.

I used to be a successful man. Now I’m nothing but bones and memories of what once was.

The heart monitor at my bedside slows more and more with each passing day as the remainder of the drug in me leeches all I have. The doctors don’t know how long I have to live, although it seems only days away at this point. I wish it would take me already.

I wish I hadn’t been so stupid.

-----

Fiction. Gotta love it.

Ciao~

V

Failure

Lately I've been wondering if anyone reads my blog. I'm thinking 100% absolutely not. No one reads it. I have two followers (ooh, two followers!) and I'm pretty certain they only "followed" me out of pity or obligation and that they never care to read what I put out. No matter, though. I don't really care. My life isn't all that interesting and I don't tend to write about it anyway. So if anyone likes random snippets of story ideas, then this blog is for you. Otherwise...I guess just tip your hat and carry on.

It's like a pitiful version of Facebook. Everyone posts statuses and expects everybody else to read them, but let's face it people, that just doesn't happen. Facebook is all about the person who's name is in blue bar at the top right corner of the page. It makes people incredibly self-centered. Instead of posting pictures just because you want to, you post pictures and have an expectation in your head that it "needs" to be "liked" within the first half hour of posting it or else it sucks or you're not pretty or whatever comment you're striving for.

Facebook is a big fat life-waster and ego-inflater. And I absolutely despise it's addictive power.

Yeah.

So I thought, what the heck? What if I posted some of my deepest, darkest thoughts on here? Still, no one would read it. Maybe that's what I should do, though. Since no one pays any mind to these blocky, virtual journal postings, it wouldn't make any difference.

Still, though, I won't do that. If I posted that sort of thing, someone may, by chance or destiny, stumble upon the blog and seriously consider whether I belong in the looney bin.

So, adios, I suppose. I'm sure I'll write soon.

Or probably not.