My Own Little Peace

The other day I found an old story I had started writing a few years ago. I had completely forgotten what I wrote and it was like reading something by a completely different person. It was really funny and creative and reading it brought me so much joy. However, it was also a little sad because what I do remember is the reason I stopped writing. I stopped writing because I showed the first few chapters to someone to get feedback and they basically told me it sucked. I felt so embarrassed that I gave up and never finished writing the story. Reading it now, I really wish I had kept going. It definitely didn't suck and I should have believed in myself instead of the opinion of one other person.

What I learned is that, if you really believe in your art, you shouldn't ask for external validation. Of course there's times where feedback can be helpful, but be careful about who you ask. Find someone who you know will at least encourage you to keep going and being genuine to yourself regardless of whether or not your work resonates with them.

I decided that my way of honoring the younger me who worked so hard on the draft she put together, which was funny and creative and awesome, will be to breathe new life into it and pick up where she left off.

I was working on a book that I completely forgot about and never finished. It surprised me and also made me laugh so I had to share it (I don't really write like this anymore lol). Here's an excerpt:

“HARD CORE PORN!!!” Mike bellowed at some unfortunate tourists, imitating the street vendors peddling their wares. Hot Dogs! Genuine Cajun Cooking! Ghetto Burgers only three fitty! then Mike: “HARD CORE PORN!!” Nobody indicated interest in making a purchase.

I decided to join in supportingly. “Soft core porn?” I suggested in a low, sultry tone to passing tourists who had snubbed Mike’s loud offer.

“HARD CORE PORN!!!” Mike hollered. 

“soft core porn” I cooed.

I am uncertain how long we kept this up, as my perception of time came and went in gross, unwelcome waves. We received surprisingly few acknowledgements; our seedy offer folding in seamlessly with the debauched hustle and drug addled bustle. A permanent, Charlie-Sheen’s-forever-bachelor-party vibe in the New Orleans French Quarter.

Earlier in the evening, we had purchased two hits of acid from a teenage girl sitting on the step outside Checkpoints. After about a half hour of no visuals, we cursed her for burning us and turned to a new connect. Aha hooked us up with some green jelly tabs that did the trick. The rest of the night is a demented blur. Mike had gifted me a small baggie of cocaine that was in his possession. He told me blow makes him throw up. Why he had it in the first place was unclear, but I sat down on a tree stump next to the fire station to do a few bumps. The chaos of the tourist jammed streets was all the cover I needed. With all the real crimes being committed in the Big Easy, one grows acclimated to a certain false secure feeling while engaging in recreational drug use.

In a city where sex tourism and alcohol abuse make up the best part of the economy, it’s easy to believe that in fact most of the people around you are tripping balls, and those who aren’t really have no business being here at all. 

“BUTT PLUGS!! HARD CORE PORN!!” Mike publicized his latest offer.

I have a vague memory of someone with a bong stopping us for a smoke break on his front step. New Orleans was that kind of a city. A well meaning observer sees two belligerent nut jobs running down the sidewalk, hooting and hollering in the queasy depths of an acid binge, pupils dilated, sweat pouring from foreheads with pulsing blue veins and crazed grinding smiles cracked across their sticky, pale faces. He thinks to himself, those guys could use some mellowing out, packs a bong and invites them over. There is no other city in America that even comes close to the ill-advised hospitality, the genuine New Orleansness, of New Orleans.

It was a comfortably warm October night and Mike and I had made the lack of arrangements that goes well with staying out all night long. My Chrysler was safely parked in a neighborhood with no meters where I was unlikely to find it until I sobered up the next morning. We had no plans and nobody knew or cared where we were. Or so we thought. 

We finished the bowl, thanked our new found friend whose face we would never remember, for his hospitality, then resumed our walk around the neighborhood. 

I don’t remember the chronology of events that night, so I’m taking some liberty in the order in which I tell the story. At some point we had some weed and some candy. We sat on the front steps to some house in the Quarter and asked passersby if they’d like some M&Ms. If they said ‘yes’, we shared our candy with them, then invited them to smoke a blunt with us. If they said no to the M&Ms, we inquired if they’d like to smoke a blunt with us. We even made the acquaintance of an older gentleman who gifted us a handful of magic mushrooms in exchange for walking directions to a good burger place.

“Do you know how to blow smoke rings?”

“No”

“Do you want to learn how?”

“No”

“Ugh, look it’s easy. Just make an O face.”

I laughed

“Just make an O face! An O face, like this.”

Mike shaped his mouth into an O and made little puffing sounds, demonstrating how to blow the smoke. I laughed hysterically.

“What’s so funny? Stop laughing and let me see your O face.”

Mike and I were finally getting a chance to get to know each other better and ask all the questions we’d had on our minds. “Have you ever played happy wheels?,” he asked me.

Just then, (or maybe significantly later) Mike’s phone buzzed: an incoming call.  

“Just let it go to voicemail” I advised.

“No, I have to take this.” Mike replied.

“Why?” I was confused. You don’t have to do anything, I thought to myself. And whoever is on the other end of that call probably wants nothing to do with your fuck up, acid brain conversation right now. What time is it anyway? It’s got to be late.

The volume on the phone was high enough for me to clearly hear the menacing, low male voice on the other end. 

“Come home Mike.”

“I can’t come home right now. Jazmine and I are staying out all night. We’re tripping balls.”

“But you HAVE to come home.” Holy creeping christ. The voice was that of a cartoon super villain. Somehow I knew that wasn’t the drugs talking either. Whoever it was, they were creepy as fuck. Tonight, tomorrow, fucked up or sober, that voice belonged to a mad man.

“We can’t drive right now. We’re still coming up I think.”

“It doesn’t matter how you get home. This is your home. You need to come home at night. Every night. You will come home now.” The call ended.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK.” I gave Mike a look to emphasize my bewilderment.

“That was Rooster. Can you drive?” He asked.

“You’re not seriously going home are you? Why would you listen to that psychopath? He’s obviously nuts and creepy as fuck! Why does he want you to come home so bad? Why does he treat you like he’s your pimp? What the hell is going on anyway? Is he your pimp? Has he ever touched you inappropriately? I must be missing something.”

“Look, we just have to go.” He wasn’t kidding. I told him there was no way in hell I’d get behind the wheel of my car.

“You don’t have to. I’ll drive. I’m not even tripping that hard anymore.” He offered.

I got behind the wheel of my car. There was some comfort in knowing we were at least sober enough to find the car in the first place.

Mike pointed out turns and warned me of upcoming stop signs as we sped back to Rooster’s apartment.

If this god forsaken roadway would stop expanding and contracting, this drive would be a hell of a lot easier, I thought to myself. Or maybe out loud. Either way, Mike responded. The possibility of him having mind reading abilities was not out of the question. I eyed him suspiciously. 

“You’re doing fine, babe. Only three more blocks straight ahead. There’s a stop sign at this next intersection.”

I was going too fast to stop. We’d have to cross our fingers, hope for the best, and gun it.

Again, Mike interjected, “You know, you can go a little faster.”

I peeked at the speedometer, the numbers dissolving away as I tried to focus on them. I deduced we were in fact idling down the road so I pumped the gas. Dear god, it’s a miracle there are no pedestrians gawking at us or other motorists flipping me off. The neighborhood had an abandoned, 4 am kind of feel. It must have been some ungodly hour of the morning when even New Orleans sex tourists take a breather and weathered French Quarter hookers get a drink and rest their bones at the Spotted Cat before calling it a night.

We pulled up and parallel parked smoothly on the grass in front of Rooster’s apartment. He must have been watching from a window because he opened the door to the main building entrance as we approached.

“Well, well, well. Welcome home Mike… and… Mike’s friend.”

Evil villain voice. I shuddered. Then I smiled. I tried not to but I couldn’t help it. My acid brain was pulling hard on my cheek muscles.  An uncontrolled grin twisted across my face. I couldn’t look directly at Rooster. I knew the moment I did, he would twist into something blotchy and demonic. And I would laugh. Which I couldn’t imagine would help things.

I followed Mike up the stairs to the apartment. Rooster asked us to sit down in the room where another couple was sitting on the floor, playing with scattered tarot cards.

“Do you know why I needed you to come back tonight?”

“No.” Mike replied. I decided to let him handle the situation, since I had only recently arrived and had little background information on his and Rooster’s working relationship. 

Rooster sighed. “I didn’t expect better. Drugs…. and sex…. they corrupt a person. All this coming and going. And your friend… Jazmine, is it? I’ve hardly gotten to know her. Why is that?”

Now the attention was on me. There was uncomfortable silence. Was it the acid blocking some receptor in my cerebral cortex that was stopping me from understanding? What did he want from me? I was starting to get a rapey vibe. Was he trying to ask why Mike wasn’t sharing me with him? I knew he and his girlfriend were swingers. He would bring women over and his girlfriend would watch them through a mirror in the bedroom, unbeknownst to his female guests. Mike confided in me the first day I came over that Rooster had begged Mike’s permission to sleep with either me or one of my friends as some sort of perverted birthday present. 

And if that isn’t what he was asking, why should I have gotten to know him? I’ve only been here two days. Or was it longer than that? Suddenly I couldn’t recall. It couldn’t have been a week already?

“What exactly do you want?” I asked. Maybe a straightforward question would elicit a straightforward response from this mad man.

“If you are learned in philosophy, as I am, you will understand. One can only do so much, to make themselves clear. I have thought it over for some time and have been as polite as I can be. I cannot go on however, in this way. There are others to consider. My girlfriend, for one. I want to be sure, first and foremost, that she is comfortable. Do you follow? Why are you smiling at each other? Do you think this is funny?”

I had been putting all my strength and effort into not laughing. But I couldn’t hold it in. The acid was too good and Rooster was too strange. I was also terrified and laughing was all I could do. I looked at Mike and felt I could read that he was thinking the same thing. That Rooster had lost his mind. I snorted loudly, trying to suppress a laugh. Overcompensating, I considered my words carefully, then spoke.

THE BRIGHTSIDE

I love making cartoons because they're fun and leave a lot of room for creativity, but I also like doing more realistic portraits, especially since I discovered the magic of the oil paint tool in clip studio.

Anyway, I just wanted to post my art and talk about my day. Earlier this year, after a lengthy application process, I got accepted into my dream grad program. I danced around my studio apartment with my acceptance letter singing "I got the golden ticket!" and started making plans to move to the far away city where I'd be studying.

I registered for classes and it felt like everything was falling into place. Today I got my bill with financial aid taken out and realized I was still $7000 short. I have some money saved up to cover my move and housing, but it still wouldn't be enough if I put that toward tuition. I applied for an additional loan but was rejected due to my credit history, so I found a cosigner, but they were also rejected.

After everything, it looks like my dream might just slip through my fingers. At first I was upset but I've realized that, even if it doesn't work out, everything will be fine. Maybe it just isn't the right time. As much as it would have been exciting to move, I also love the city I'm in now. I have a pretty good job and there's a lot of opportunities here. They aren't the same opportunities but they're good. The cost of living here is way lower and if I don't have to put the money I saved up toward grad school anymore, I can move into a better place here. I'm currently in a shared studio apartment and my only alone time is my commute to and from work. The street I live on is also pretty dangerous. Someone got shot right in front of my doorstep last year while I was on a video call with my friends. They heard the gunshots in the background and I told them it was just fireworks so they wouldn't worry then made up some reason to end the call. It would be great to live somewhere with a little more peace and greenspace.

I love playing music and I've always wanted to start my own YouTube channel but I don't have anywhere to film right now. If I get a bigger place I can set up my equipment and start making videos and performing again. It's not what I had planned but I think it has the potential to be just as rewarding. Maybe I'll get a second chance at grad school down the road. Maybe not. Either way, I'll make the most of the opportunity.

I'm one of those people who wants to be a webtoon artist. A lofty goal, I know haha! I'm in the phase where I kind of have a story and I'm figuring out how I want the art to look. It's really fun actually! Trying not to put any pressure on myself to get it done quickly, so I can take my time experimenting until I find something that really feels right.

I'm not sure if I'll end up using this, but I'm happy with how it turned out. I've always loved art with a lot of contrast between light and dark. I'm starting to get the hang of using a digital drawing tablet too. At first it felt awkward, but I'm getting to a place where I can see how much easier it makes things compared to traditional art, once you get the hang of using the interface.

Anyway, I'll keep posting updates as I work on the concept art and get closer to putting it all together. Writing is hard work but I feel passionate about the story and have a good feeling that it's going to be something special in the end.

Life called to say Hello to curlin' up with a bottle of feelin' better than you do. What you say? Here it comes. Well right now I'm a little drunk But I'll let you know, I'll let you know.

A couple years ago I was in the back of an Uber in southern Louisiana. The driver had a local radio station on. They were doing an interview with an old woman about how to live through uncertain and chaotic times. She said all you can do it try to carve out a little space of peace for yourself.

Tumblr feels like a peaceful home for my thoughts to live. There's no pressure here to sell your ideas or be efficient or polished. You can just be honest.