If there was a championship for holding grudges, my dad would be a shoo-in for first place and my sister would be a prominent contender for honorable mentions. Me? I’d be fifty feet from the podium with nobody but a disillusioned coach to half-heartedly console my loser’s tears. It’s a verified fact that I can’t manifest, hold, or in many cases remember grudges to save my life. If there’s bad blood, I have a persistently nagging compulsion to dilute it. That’s why the following blog entry is an ode to a friendship past, a concept I never fully appreciated until I lost my good friend Felicia.
If she’d been keen on entering beauty pageants, Felicia would have made a pit stop at Miss Africa en route to the universal title, no contest. A Portuguese-South African bon vivant that not only turned heads and captivated attention with her winning smile but with her radiating charm besides, Felicia’s was the kind of character you couldn’t help but admire. Incredibly inventive and avant-garde in her architectural pursuits, Felicia’s sheer excitement for innovation and creativity always imbued infectious energy in her peers. Maternal, comforting, hilariously goofy, endearingly frightening via her penchant for brightening the macabre (“You’re so funny I just want to cut you up, put you in a jar, and carry you around with me!”), and delightfully mischievous, Felicia was the gnocchi-gourmandizing self-proclaimed Charlotte to our Sex and the City quad. And when I was privileged enough to serendipitously be her roommate my sophomore year of college, I whole-heartedly looked up to her for the optimism and joviality she sowed into every adventure we embarked on.
She was a breath of fresh air in an academic world dictated by stress-inducing GPAs and successive all-nighters. A gem so hard to come by in life that I feel I must take this opportunity to apologize for the fact that my aversion to drama kept me from fighting for our friendship when I realized too late that it was already slipping by.
While enrolled in the Savannah College of Art & Design, I had a tendency to allow my crusade against depression to overshadow the utter joie de vivre that existed all around me. And because my melancholia stemmed from a very negative, and fortunately terminated relationship, it seemed apt to my naïve mind that the solution to my sorrow lay in potential boyfriends who could hopefully allay the setbacks of my past. While this theory proved true farther down the road when I stopped immersing myself in “the hunt,” my sophomore preoccupation with courtship distracted me from the relationships that should have taken precedence: my friendships with people like Felicia, who absolutely did not deserve to be dragged to college parties so that I could inattentively flirt the night away.
The lessons I’ve learned from innumerable misadventures in life, love, and camaraderie have taught me that we as a species need to spend more time cherishing what we have, and not regretting the absence of what we want. It’s the same for every facet of life: from dismissing the incredible value of our wholly unique and life-sustaining bodies because they don’t look the way we think they should, to forgetting to appreciate the possessions we already have in light of those beyond our reach, to pulling vacuous stunts like the one I did and neglecting the people willing and eager to be close to you because you want the type of attention a bygone companion withheld.
I don’t say or express it nearly enough but I am so thankful for all the friends I’ve accrued throughout life, be they from my past or my present, 3000 miles away or a couple blocks down the street. Each of them has been so integral in the production of my current identity and will continue to be major influences on my life whether I’m fortunate enough to see them in the years to come or not. And because she was such a wonderfully inspiring and entertaining part of my college life, the same holds true for Felicia. Even if our falling out portends permanence, I’ll always look back fondly on the bizarre “Rubball” games we made up, the costumes we giddily assembled and photographed, the hirsute havoc we wreaked at Urban Outfitters, the wall art we spent hours fabricating, the pirates we rallied, the pranks we planned, the revelatory conversations we shared, and the endless laughs we emitted. Moreover, I’ll always remember and wholly appreciate the joy that a friendship so significant can instill in a life lucky enough to behold it.
Many people utilize blogs as a means of archiving life, the same way a chronic photographer observes experience through a pinhole and bisects it into truncated moments printed in silver or ink. But when life intervenes with these mediums of examination and reflection, the hobbies of writing and photographing are forced to clamber into the backseat and keep quiet while the driver attempts to navigate a slippery reality without these artistic chains fortifying their tires.
In less analogical terms, due to an adult-sized helping of work these past several months, my artwork–including the writing that I swore to revive via daily practice–has been sorely neglected. This blog and the numerous saved drafts in my post repository were put on hold in favor of tearing my hair out trying to transcribe inscrutable Welsh accents and rephotographing what seemed like an endless procession of holiday menorahs. Apparently that’s the life that happens when we’re too absorbed with our individualized distractions, so to all you ornery teenagers whose parents heckle you about your technological obsessions, simply retort, “Would you rather me join the real world and get a job trying to make photos of Peter Max’s comeback collection look decent?” Cause even your parents know you’ll get more enrichment out of “practicing your grammar” updating Facebook statuses than staring at something like this all day:
Thus, I owe this incredibly latent blog entry to a Las Vegas vacation that both commemorated my sister’s birth and ushered in the free time necessary to dust off my artistic skill set–just in time for the New Year. As such, I concede to the hackneyed tradition of auld lang sine meditation and dedicate this entry to the year 2013.
In my adult life I’ve taken a cue from the Chinese calendar and assumed the habit of naming each year that passes based on its overarching character. For example, the year one of my houses was burglarized, my mom broke her leg on Mother’s Day, and my childhood home went up in flames was deemed The Year of the Happenstance Shit Fest. Likewise, the year I immersed myself in the stress of college, endured a nightmarish relationship that culminated in an equally inimical break-up, and met a N’awlins-scale parade of freshmen jackasses was christened The Year of Building Character Out of Tears, Eraser Shavings, and Godawful Cafeteria Food. As noted in a previous entry, zeitgeist symbols of misfortune seem to have an inverse effect on my family, and the thirteen attached to the end of this year’s moniker was no different. Thus, as 2013 comes to a close, I hereby declare it The Year of the Lucky Bastard.
For some reason, 2013 was all about close calls and seemingly unfortunate situations that miraculously paid off. Sure there were some irrevocable bumps along the way, such as the Transportation Security Administration damaging a plaque that served as the lone reward for my tireless four-year pursuit of a 4.0. And all those cockroaches that liked to host evening soirees under the sink of my very first apartment? That too was unpropitious. But beyond the fleeting disappointment of fruitless job hunts and undercooked pasta, I’ve been remarkably lucky, and figure I ought to thank the Fates in writing to hopefully remain in their favor.
At the very opening of 2013, I found myself illicitly holed up in my friend’s dorm room after her roommate unexpectedly transferred schools and invited my room change request to hang in the slow-paced limbo that is bureaucratic decision making. With a Residential Assistant just several neurotransmissions away from discovering my ploy and a roomful of my actual assigned roommates starting to ask incriminating questions, I was undeniably in one of Ulysses Everett McGill’s reputed tight spots. But somehow, a horde of angels must have possessed the pen that finally checked off my room application just before my fugitive fever could reach a critical degree and Dave Matthews (because that was actually the RA’s name) could sniff me out like a Tommy Lee Jones-bloodhound hybrid and hand me over to the authorities. It was my first utter relief of many to come this year, and as if one heavenly miracle wasn’t enough it segued into what will most likely be the nicest living situation of my adult life and the cherished friendships of my Peruvian-Chinese bosom friend and what has got to be the sweetest, golden-eyed girl in both Arkansas and the whole country over.
Thus, my college career came to a close on a very positive note. I managed to secure all the classes I wanted, I got to reap the mental benefits of working myself to the bone one last time, I got to accumulate some funny anecdotes about the unnerving process of valedictorian interviews, and I got to gaze proudly upon a shiny graduation plaque, sans the impending scratches it would procure and the future realization that Los Angeles employers don’t look at your summa cum laude portfolio unless you happen to know Jim in accounting. The last few months of college were a gloriously bittersweet time in my life, and somehow, despite the anxieties, the few atrocious professors, and the awful consistency of Southern grits, it all worked out perfectly.
The next big risk that I took in 2013 was the decision to move out to Los Angeles as soon as I graduated, despite the fact that the only thing I’d secured in that town was a mere interview with a digital teching company in need of unpaid labor. Thus, with no apartment and no assurance that said potential internship would even be worth while, I packed my bags, kissed my family goodbye as soon as I got home, and headed south to the city of opportunity, my boyfriend, and smog.
And there she was, Lady Luck waiting for me in the guise of a 2000-car pile up on the I-10 East. Within two days of the big move I’d secured my first internship and within two weeks my very own back seat of a sedan-sized apartment two miles from the Arts District of downtown LA. My situation certainly didn’t merit boasting on the SCAD alumni forums, but I had a home, I had resume-worthy responsibilities, and I had a tan. Based on the numerous post-college alternatives, things were definitely coming up Milhouse.
The rest of my time in Los Angeles was speckled with an array of auspicious occurrences: from the fact that my brand new and wonderfully endearing step-cousin just happened to live several blocks away from my boyfriend; to the instance in which a club owner eschewed his own rule of no open-toed shoes and welcomingly admitted me into the bar he’d hidden behind a barbershop storefront; to the glorious sunshine that beat down on us while we waited in line to see Flight of the Conchords and Dave Chappelle at the Oddball Comedy & Curiosity Festival; to the unprecedented ease with which we moved my boyfriend to Hollywood; to the remaining tickets for Nick Offerman’s stand-up book tour that we learned about one day in advance; to the miraculous parking spots I always found after work in my boyfriend’s reputedly over-crowded neighborhood; to the incredibly friendly corporate Christmas party host who invited four of us strangers in and gave us the huge roll of remaining free drink tickets; to the fact that we always got front row seats at Upright Citizens Brigade’s free Sunday show; and to my boyfriend’s friend’s sister who just happens to know Hugh Hefner’s chef and got us an exclusive free tour of the Playboy Mansion and the cutest monkeys centerfold money can buy.
And that doesn’t even begin to cover everything that went so well in Los Angeles. Sure the basement of my apartment building was covered in literally thousands if not millions of dead flies, like a scene from a Dario Argento film, but there was something nice about the simplicity of living with naught but a bed, fridge, armoire, and hotplate. And when a new job called for me to stay with my boyfriend in Hollywood (another stroke of luck, considering the beau’s very graciously accommodating roommates), the hardest part about breaking the lease–an unnerving concept considering my stingy, suspicious landlord–was sitting in three hour’s worth of traffic to get from Inglewood to downtown. Even more surprising still, Mr. Conniving Landlord even uncharacteristically called me “sweetheart” when he signed my ending contract with a kindly flourish.
Finally, when spending more than two days with my family for the first time in a year became a priority, I was lucky that my dad and sister’s Las Vegas vacation timed perfectly with all my settled LA arrangements so that they could simply shuttle me home upon their departure. And even if we did run into massive ice-storm traffic just outside of Medford and sit at a standstill for the duration of a whole movie and three-quarters, we’re all very lucky that my dad’s skillful driving kept us from sliding off the side of the Siskiyou mountains. Thank the cliff-side ice gods.
So even with the ups and downs promised to accompany life after college, some deity with a thirteen fetish has looked kindly upon me yet again. I may not have discovered the secret to post-grad billionaire status, but the overarching sentiment of 2013 was one of providential happiness. I’m no where near to surfacing victoriously from this transition into adulthood, but with a little luck-overflow and the same sense of positivity that carried me through the major changes of the past twelve months, perhaps 2014 will prove to be just as felicitous.