I’m daydreaming more than I used to. Not just casual sorts of fantasies, I’m talking near-hallucinations. I’ll be in the middle of a meeting, or driving to work, or writing an article, and my attention will just kinda drift off, you know, and it’s vivid–like I’m actually there, in it.
I used to do this a lot back in grade school. I was in a weird position, see–my parents sent me to this quasi-sassy day school, kinda sorta quasi-elite, so there was this implied relationship I had with the other kids: we more-or-less had to like each other and get along because our parents were part of the same peer group. Problem was, though, I was moderately effeminate, and although I was really athletic and stuff, I always wanted to play on the girls’ team. Basically, kids were friendly with me ’cause they had to be, but they were kinda wary, too.
As a result, I’d spend hours–days and nights–thinking up elaborate ways to make my classmates like me. These daydreams always involved some sort of threat to the group, and I’d emerge as the hero, chasing down the bad guy and kicking his ass….
As I grew older, the fantasies changed. I acquired three little brothers, and I became obsessed with the idea of protecting them. Whether the threat came from snipers (remember the early 70s?) or mass murderers (hello, Helter Skelter anyone?) or boogeymen (the trailers for The Town That Dreaded Sundown traumatized me), in my mind I was always defending them from someone or something. I’m still not completely sure why. Maybe I didn’t think dad was living up to his role as Protector of the Household….
For the past decade or so, though, I haven’t been prone to such thoughts–certainly none as regular or vivid. Since high school, I’ve been pretty good at cultivating friendships, and once my brothers passed puberty, I figured they could fend for themselves.
Then, a couple of months ago, things changed.
Today, as I walk through the French Quarter and Faubourg Marigny, as I drive to the suburbs of Metairie and Algiers, I see lines on the streets–glowing lines, tracing every path, every inch of road or sidewalk or parking lot I’ve ever traversed. Molecules of me have fallen to the ground, turning red and sticky. The more times I’ve traveled a particular route, the brighter the lines glow. When I’m in planes, I can see them, criss-crossing the country, like the maps you find in in-flight magazines showing airline hubs and flight trajectories away from them.
I think it’s a result of my new-found family–my growing awareness of the tiny circles in which we live and the many times I’ve crossed the red, glowing paths of Callie, Tiffany, Diggie. It’s hokey, I know: it’s the same facile revelations people have when they touch beds George Washington slept in, or when they walk the streets of Jerusalem thinking You-Know-Who walked the same road two millenia before. But I can’t help it.
There’s another fantasy I have–one I’ve had before, in slightly different ways. I’ll be in the middle of something–usually driving–and suddenly think, “If I woke up right now with a complete case of amnesia, how could I piece together where I am, what year it is, what life I lead?” If I close my eyes, I can see the landscape as it must have appeared 300 years ago–lush, marshy, sparsely populated. What separates me from then? I inspect the t-shirts of passersby and wonder: are they definitively 2001? Or could they just as well be Goodwill finds from 1988? That girl on the sidewalk: is her haircut fashionable or unfashionable? Or ironically unfashionable? Is the car I’m driving new or used? Does it have a cd player or a tape deck? Most importantly, the songs on the radio–are they current or retro? Were they released before or after the 11th of September, 2001?
Ultimately I think that’s it: I think it’s my way of figuring out what’s changed.
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