the bshdsflkfourne identity

See, I think I've been brought here to take over living some other girl's life. This girl is someone whose file I've clearly read time and time again until I know it by heart, though I can't remember doing it. I can give you so much of her personal history you'd scarcely be able to find a hole in my impersonation of her: it's no wonder I was chosen for the job, since we look alike, sound alike and have practically identical taste in music and skill sets, identical shoe sizes and mannerisms. I don't know who has put me here or what my mission is, but I have become so immersed as her doppelganger that my real life, back in that other place, seems like a retreating dream.

Although I can't be sure whether I am here against her will or in keeping with her wishes, I'm beginning to suspect she's on my side. I can tell because she leaves me these clues all the time. Before disappearing, she left her house very much in order, applying for loans so that I might live comfortably, arranging for her mail to be forwarded so that it would not inundate me, carefully aligning overdue library books on the table so that I'd see them first thing and return them (after perusing them, naturally, to inform myself as to her recent subjects of investigation). In general she has made it easy to take the helm. I am certain that she even planted messages for me in conversations with friends, knowing they'd remind me later of things she said, all so I could go about her daily tasks without breaking character. My relationship with her lover, after a bit of initial awkwardness, has been shockingly sincere and comes so naturally it's alarming. If he has detected the substitution he has said nothing about me being an impostor.

I don't know if she's ever coming back, this prior avatar. Frankly I hope she stays gone a while because I'm rather enjoying the life she left in place for me. If she does return, she'll undoubtedly be surprised that I may not be willing to forfeit everything to her as quickly and easily as she anticipated. In fact I sometimes feel that my superior life and world experience might even make me more fit for the role than she ever could have been.

If she does come back I imagine we'll have to battle it out at dusk on some abandoned quay, and the whole melée will end with her swimming off into the night, never -- or ever -- to return. Or maybe things will just continue as they are, until I one day stumble upon the vital piece of evidence that reveals the mysterious connection that binds me to her.

To be continued.

I guess I got my wish

If my wish was to be a full-time writer, that is. My jobby-job seems to have evaporated while I was in foreign lands, so I've decided to dedicate 40 hours a week to writing my thesis. Friday was my first day and I overslept, then left off early...nonetheless, I made more solid progress than at any time in the last few months, so I think this might work.

I'm not sure how I'll eat in the meantime, but that's such a mundane concern that I prefer not to think about it for now. I did get approved for my first (and hopefully last) round of student loans for this fall, which is also unfamiliar territory for me.

In fact everything's a bit terrifying: the notion of not working for the first time in my adult life, the notion of writing a book, the self-discipline it will take to finish that task, accepting debt that I have no immediate, concrete method of paying back...

I guess it's in order to cope with my panic surrounding all this that I've begun to think of it all in terms of there's this girl I've hired to write my thesis for me. She seems competent enough, and I think she'll eventually get it done to my satisfaction. It's a financial risk I'm taking, and I've had to take out a loan to pay her a living wage and secure her some benefits, but I think it's worth it. If she comes through, the professional rewards I'll reap will be well worth the expense.

Meanwhile, this girl has hired me to write her thesis. I know she's not in the greatest of circumstances right now to be paying someone to do this, but I need the work and she's taking a chance on me, so I'm determined not to let her down. The money isn't the greatest but it's understandable why she can't pay me more, and the intellectual experience will be good for me.

Yeah, I reckon we'll make it through.

contents may have shifted upon re-entry

And then all the sudden you’re home. And your life returns to its normal course; well, almost. You perceive it all differently now; it’s as though there’s a film over your eyes, or as if a film has lifted. I reallly didn’t think enough time had passed for this to be true but as it turns out I was gone longer, or more profoundly gone, than I had thought I was.

So the funny thing is that there appears to be a ritual of returning. I can’t decide if I do these things to overcome my culture shock or to wallow in it a bit longer. I’m one of those annoying people who’s like, well, in MEXICO, they do things THIS way, and when I was in MEXICO, I did THAT thing. I can hear myself doing it but can’t seem to contain it for the time being, which suggests to me it’s simply something I need to do, at least for a while.

There are other surprising ways in which coming home this time has been the same as last time. For example, I’ve listened to a lot of Silvio Rodríguez. The funny thing is he isn’t even Mexican. But he does sing in Spanish and is very, very depressing. If you looked in my fridge right now you’d see tortillas, beans and lots of jalapeños. I made a brief foray into the garlicky, Italianesque flavors I had been missing, but two days on I once again crave chile and lime with everything.

There are tradeoffs, naturally: being reunited with Phantom Limb, as I nicknamed my dog after the first week I spent without him. The house I live in is vacant except for me and P.L. and though I only have access to the smallest of three apartments, I’m insulated from the comings and goings of neighbors at least til the end of this month. I have commandeered the porch and its furniture, even though it technically pertains to one of the vacant apartments, and intend to make enough of a tradition of drinking my morning coffee there that the new occupants will assume the porch is part mine (hopefully disregarding that to get to it I have to climb out my bedroom window). The porch chairs and table were left by the previous tenants, and since they are upholstered in brown and aqua and match my bedroom I have decided they shall henceforth belong to me. Having a car and a bike to get around with isn’t all bad, and though it feels like someone is breathing on me at close range all day long, the humidity and the tree-ey-ness (oh dear lord, there must be a real word for that) make me feel enclosed, sort of cradled and protected. The exact opposite of the “región más transparente del aire”, as Humboldt nicknamed the Mexican plateau.

I’m still seeing the States with an outsider’s perspective, I think. Everybody seems so trashy, maybe because in the last few days I’ve made 1482 trips to the Harding’s on Howard for one thing or another. People speak ungrammatically with these threadbare voices completely spent by cigarettes and booze, and drag their obese bodies around atop irredeemably ugly shoes. And surrounding these bizarre lumbering creatures, everything made for their use and amusement is so sleek and abundant.

Except my friends, of course. My friends are immediate, genuine and careful around me when I've been away. They are sparkling and busy with any number of noble and clever pursuits. I have promised them I will come home soon.