celestinatakenbydreams-blog

[celestinatakenbydreams-blog]

Glasgow (part 2)

It is past curfew by the time I've returned to the convent. Don't ask me why I thought staying with nuns for a few days while in a major party city like Glasgow was a good idea. Standing on the stoop of the old church, I am tempted to start shouting “Sanctuary!” But as the crowds from the local colleges pour past me and into the nearby pubs, I shrug my shoulders and decide to join in on the fun. Traipsing down the street, I come across the sounds of live punk music. Clanging drums and a rasping Scottish voice travel to me from a basement bar below. I march down the cobblestone steps and into the venue. There are four men in their twenties on the stage, their drunken abandonment clear. The lead singer is wailing away at the mic with his eyes shut tight in a sort of pained ecstasy. 

I head to the bar, the crowd thin. The bartender introduces himself to me. Adäm. He a tattoo artist. Hailing from Poland, he’s in Scotland on a work visa. He pours me glass after glass of water. I’m trying to stay awake. I ask him for his Instagram and he rolls up a pant leg instead. On his thigh is the phrase, “Art,” which is enclosed in a scribbled box frame. I tell him I've never had one. "Come over tomorrow and I'll do you your first tattoo yeah? Free." 

I consider proposing I come over after his shift, but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.  More customers pour in, the place becoming crowded. I drift towards a group of six who are chatting amongst each-other. They inform me that the three men are part of a traveling music group, and during our conversation it is revealed that they have a bunch of rooms booked in a nearby hotel. After an hour of pleasant chatting, I reveal my situation, admitting how tired I am. 

They chat amongst themselves for a moment, and I can see the most maternal-seeming woman of the group arguing on my behalf. They come back to the table and one of the men hands me the key to his hotel room. “Our band manager booked it, and there’s an extra bed since one of our band-mates is going home with a girl tonight.”

The bandmates and I stumble out of the bar into the bright light of the morning. I wave my see-you-laters to Adäm as he heads off down the narrow cobblestone path on a black bicycle. In the morning I wake up and they drop me back off at the steps of the convent. I creep back into my room and sleep washes over me. I awaken with a fierce hunger in my stomach, and as if on cue, Adäm texts me with the proposition that we eat before he gives me the tattoo.

I realize I haven’t even decided on what kind of picture I want. I consider my safe night spent in the bands hotel. My days spent in the convent. And that I would want a sincere and positive message etched into my flesh. I glance through a website with Celtic images, finally deciding on the symbol for “blessing.” 

A crescent moon with three drops of rain, I like the aesthetic appearance of it as much as the meaning. 

Adām shows me the lesser-known parts of the city, we walk and talk until our extremities (our tongues, our toes) are numb. When we arrive at his flat, he heats up some tea and a kettle and gets to work.

It’s over in a second. I had him give it to me stick-and-poke style so I wouldn’t have to feel any needle dragging on my skin. The tattoo is placed coyly in the area just below my neck and between my shoulder blades. He dabs some coconut oil on it and I feel no pain. 

That night we creep into the Necropolis, an ancient graveyard situated atop one of the city’s highest peaks. 

We climb atop a krypt and discuss god, love, the devil and witchcraft. 

A chill sweeps through the night and we both turn instinctually. Across the field of tombstones, a man is running naked in the dark. I grab Adāms hand. We take off down the hill, laughing and afraid.  

[celestinatakenbydreams-blog]

Glasgow (part 1)

I am coaxed back into consciousness by a soft rapping on the door. The first thing I notice is a burning sensation on my scalp. It feels like someone planted an ant colony on my head. A milky white fluid that stinks of ammonia drips down my neck. Then, I realize. I’ve fallen asleep in the tub while bleaching my hair. “Fuck.” Gripping the rusting lips of the bath for balance, I attempt to steady myself on the tiles. Grabbing the cotton towel from the floor, I hurry to the door and the knocking behind it. One of the nuns is speaking softly through the old wood, “Miss, I don’t believe we’ve nothing vegan in the kitchen. Hello?”   “That’s no problem,” I rasp to her from inside my room. I reach to my ear. The texture is spongey. It’s worse than I thought. Panicking, I rush back to the bath before she can answer. I dunking my head into the chilled bathwater, running my hands over my itching head as I slip around on the limestone, as fizzing pink water spills onto the floor. The nun keeps mumbling, she’s unintelligible as I turn on the cold water faucet. Pebbles of ice shoot out and bonk me on my head. I turn it back off and try to run my fingers through the mess of my hair. Clumps of yellow tear off into my hands. “Oh my god, oh my god!” I say as my hair sheds around me. Eyes stinging, I get up, and, naturally, immediately crash my abdomen into the sink. The towel falls to the floor. I approach the vanity mirror, wipe the mist from it. Squinting in the din of an old hanging lamp, I can see foggy distortions of my red forehead. In the upper left corner, I notice short spikes of white shooting out from my head. The woman sighs from the hallway, “Well, we just don’t have so many vegans here in Scotland, ye know. Vegetarians maybe, but not vegans.” I shuffle over to my luggage. Fumble for my cell phone. The bars are empty. No international data plan. “Ye ought to consider yourself lucky to be getting any breakfast whatsoever now, miss,” the voice huffs. I can hear the small steps creaking along the floor. The little stomps break me from my reverie. “Wait!” I call out, “Just wait one second, I’m coming out.” I open the door, poking my wild, white head out. The hunched back rotates. She peers her blue, be-speckled eyes at me. “Oh dear!” She gasps, her small body jolting slightly with surprise. Her shoulders drop, “What have ye done to yerself?”   “Yeah, I don’t know,” I sigh, pursing my lips in embarrassment. I dive behind the door as she hurries towards me. Her white slippers squeak on the stone. “Also, I’m naked,” I announce, my voice monotonous with poorly concealed embarrassment. Sandwiched between the wall and the door, my back is cold against the stone. “Oh dear,” She says, entering the room, “Oh, and you’ve made a bit of a mess of the bath too, haven’t ye? Oh, dear.” I can hear her moving about. Soon she’s beside me. There’s a frank expression on her face as she hands me the towel. Her knotted, translucent knuckles are blue and bulging with veins. I wrap myself up and tip toe out of my hiding space. She is standing amongst my strewn about clothes in the center of the room. Beside her, a pair of sparkly black tights hangs haphazardly from the bedpost. My crumpled McDonald’s bag from last night sits in the trash can, smelling of salt and stale fries. She crosses her arms over her sagging breasts, which hang like sacks of fruit beneath her pale button down. “Now, I’ll give ye a moment to get dressed, but after that I think ye should come out and think about giving yer family a call.” She closes the door with a quiet sternness, and I am alone. For a moment, I consider her suggestion. There are 4,581 miles between Houston and Glasgow. Despite the distance, there’s no time difference. It’s 7am now, meaning both my parents are at work. First, a phone would buzz in a pocket. Recognition, worry. A thumb sliding across a screen. Either one of them would start our conversation in the same way; they’d speak my name, but as a question, “Celestina?” My name which struggled to be heard between rooms and across lawns, only comfortable traveling over the dinner table, would suddenly cross the Atlantic in an instance. And I, on the other side of the line, would have to answer it. I throw on my boyfriend’s shirt that I’ve brought along, and a pair of sweatpants. My head stings less as I throw myself out of the room. The nun is already halfway up the stairs. She ascends them with painful precision; there’s no handrail to help her.   “I don’t have service in Scotland,” I remind her as I pass her on the steps. I wait at the top, watching for her reaction. She squints at my bare feet. I open and close my hands nervously as I look down on her, blocking her path. I’ve already paid the convent upfront. I add, “I’m not calling them either way.” I see her relent with a small shrug of her shoulders. Her eyes squint as she nods toward the long hallway to the left of us, treading forward. I follow her. We pass the concierge desk on our way. The priest who mans the front desk peers at me, nostrils flaring, “Well that’s different.” I hiss an exhale. “Is everything alright?” The priest calls after us. The old woman nods her head, waving her hand noncommittally. We waltz into the kitchen. I touch my hair again as she gestures for me to sit down at the rustic farmhouse table. The stove is cloistered in the room behind us, I can hear other women clattering inside it. From where we sit, I can only make out part of the sink and a few pots and pans that hang above it. A window that peers out over the convent’s vegetable garden shines light into the room. It is sparse except for some framed iconographic doilies, and a pot of tea with some cups in the center of the table. She offers me a cup, “Can ye vegans have sugar?” “Yes, thanks,” I say, spooning in heaping clumps after she hands me the steaming Earl Grey. We introduce ourselves to each other. Her name is Agnes. She is pouring herself a cup when one of her colleagues enters into the kitchen with a heaping plate of scrambled eggs. She places it on the table, not remarking on the state of my appearance.   “Hello there, I’m Sian,” she says, extending her hand to me. I shake it. She meets my gaze, and holds it, as if to avoid looking at the rest of my face. Her heather hued eyes contrast with the flushed pink of her face. Sian is plain looking, but her youth makes her radiate amongst the rest of the crowd, which begins shuffling in after her with plates, cutlery, and crackling pans full of black pudding and fried tomatoes. The smell of black peppercorns and allspice fills the room. The other nuns, eight of them, are all well past their fifties and beyond. They introduce themselves to me politely, but they talk mostly amongst themselves in soft voices. Three of the group, Fiona, Margaret, and Jean, remain silent, occasionally glancing me over in troubled suspicion. Sian notices me sipping my tea forlornly, picking away at my tomato, “Are you well?” Agnes, cutting rigorously into the dark pork fat, raises her eyebrows and discloses, as much as to Sian as to the rest of the group, “She’s a vegan.” The women at the table let out a collective gasp, save for one of the eldest amongst them, Deoiridh, who doesn’t seem to have heard. She looks about herself, confused. Agnes repeats herself, louder. The woman, whose endless folds of skin resemble a wilted cabbage, registers the information, then says finally, “Well, ye’ve nothing to worry fer. We respect all t’e world religions here at St. Clares. Though of course, we are pretty partial to Our Lord Jesus Christ.” Pleased with herself, she nods her head decisively, and continues with her breakfast. The others exchange a look, smiling furtively.   Recovering the fastest, Sian asks me, “Could you eat eggs, though?” I eye the sunny plate with suspicion, “Where do you get your eggs from?” She nods her head toward the window, “We’ve got a little coup right there. They’re well treated, you could come and take a look at them later if you like.” I notice her hands. Her nails are not painted, but they are long and buffed to shine. “Do y’all by any chance have any hair cutting scissors?” I ask her. She shakes her head and Agnes interrupts. She is standing in front of one of the crochets now, “Do ye like this one?” she asks me. It is a man with a goat. I recognize the figure. “If it’s not bad form to say I’ve got a favorite Saint, I’d say Francis D’Assisi is my favorite Saint,” I tell her. “Because he loved animals?” “Didn’t he preach to the birds?” I ask, and she nods with approval. Sian pushes the plate of eggs towards me and I begrudgingly accept. I haven’t had much more than bread or potatoes for the last few days. I spoon the warm, whisked yolks to my mouth, tasting their soft freshness. Sian looks around the table, “Our guest Celestina wants to know who has got the pair of hair scissors.” Ann, the portliest of the group, touches her fingers to her chin pensively, “Well, I think one of us must’ve misplaced them sometime recently, remember? We haven’t found them. But we’ve still got the clippers.” There’s a moment of silence in the room. Agnes says, finally, “It might do you some good.” Sian touches my destroyed hair lightly, “Yes, that might be best.” Margaret, Fiona and Jean take the following lull in our conversation to excuse themselves, their smiles strained. Those remaining at the table seem relieved with the absence of their quiet sisters. Sian takes a sip of her tea. Isobel, the one with the brassy voice and bad teeth interjects, “Is this your first time in Scotland?” I nod. Their faces meet me expectantly, the sound of the clinking silverware against the plates coming to a halt. “I’m backpacking all over for the rest of the summer.” “Just Scotland?” asks Isobel. “All over.” Deorididh, who has somehow heard this, pipes in, with shock, “By yourself?” I take a spoonful of eggs, as if to appease them, “Well, yeah.” The women shift with discomfort in their chairs. Sian, who seems genuinely stumped, asks, “Why?” “To be somewhere else.” Isobel corrects me, “She’s off to find herself!” “Aren’t you afraid?” Sian asks. “Not right now,” I say, joking. Sian pats me on the back, taking my words to heart. We finish breakfast. I take Sian up on her offer to see the chickens while Ann goes to retrieve the clippers. Deoiridh waddles back to her room to lie down, and the rest of the nuns disperse, some of them cleaning up, others heading to the primary school they manage during the week.   “I’ll cut your hair for you, if that’s better. It might be easier,” she says as we tread past a row of beets, my toes curling from the sensation of the cool damp moss upon the walking stones. “Thank you. Yeah, I think I’ve done enough myself.” She opens the latch to the coup, and I peer in. There are three hens sitting beside each other, cooing amiably. “Surprise,” she says. She reaches in, politely shoving one hen to the side. This reveals a small army of chicks bouncing around amidst the hay. The darling fluff balls squeak in panic. Their mother clucks angrily at Sian and I, waddling back over her babies. Ann calls out from the kitchen door, “I’ve got the clippers.” Sian waves her over, “I’ll be doing it. Better outside, do you think?” “Oh yes,” Ann agrees. Ann hands Sian the clippers shakily, and Sian says, “You better go relax now, Ann.” Ann, who must be about ninety years old, nods happily, heads back to the kitchen. I see her sit down at the dining table. She pours herself another glass of Earl Grey. She looks content. Sian pulls out a lawn chair from the shed behind the coup and places it amidst the grass. I sit down and she grabs a handful of my hair and begins chopping away at it with the manual clippers, tufts fall to the ground around us. “It’s kind of funny, you know?” Sian begins, and I groan, “Oh, god—uh, sorry! Do you mean my hair?” She continues snipping away, “Oh well, yes, that too.” “Oh no. What was the first thing?” “It’s not bad. I was just thinking that this really reminds me of an old tradition.” “What is it?” “Well it used to be that the postulates here had to shear their heads before entering in. It was a symbol of the shedding of the self-image before Christ, and it also reflected the moment when St. Francis cut St. Clare’s hair.” “Oh, right,” I say, unfamiliar with the story. Sian moves in front of me, clipping away at the top of my head, “It’s just funny.” “Yeah well, don’t go trying to make me a nun too now!” I say, joking. Sian’s gentle fingertips rest at the base of my neck for balance. I see her reaction and immediately regret the remark. I hadn’t meant to insult her. “It’s not bad here at all,” she says. “Sorry, I’m just an American who makes bad jokes,” I say. This placates her some-what, most people seem to expect brusqueness from Americans. But she nevertheless adds, “I know it could look a bit strange. These days, most women join much later in life.”   “When did you know?”   “God spoke to me. I just knew.” I gulp, trying to remain earnest, “Well that’s great.” “I’ve been living here for six years with the best sisters anybody could ask for. I’m blessed.” “That’s great,” I say again, uncomfortable with religious talk. I focus my attention on a bed of green herbs. Ann watches us from the kitchen, munching on a digestive. “What brought you here?” Sian probes. The clucking birds chatter behind us in their cage, aroused by the rays of sunlight that are peeking through the rolling gray clouds. I wonder if the sky is ever blue here. The day before, the rain wouldn’t let up—I’d struggled uphill, damp flimsy paper map in one hand, suitcase wobbling on the cobblestones. “I’m just traveling.” “By yourself,” She adds, then, “I don’t think I could ever do that.” I can’t count how many times I’ve heard this phrase by now. I grin politely, “Well that’s why I picked the convent. I figured it’d be safe here.” Sian agrees, “Oh, you couldn’t have picked a safer place! That’s part of why I love this place. All of us love it for that.” When she is finished, we pick up my frazzled strands and toss them into the compost. I want to see my hair now. It feels soft again, like feather tips. But there is a scaly patch around the back of my neck under my right ear. “I think you really burned yourself there. But it’s not too bad. It will heal,” Sian tells me, then, “By the way, would you like to join us in our evening prayers today?” “Will you baptize the chicks?” I ask, teasing again. Sian misses the joke, “Well, no.”   I cough, then answer her question, “I’d be glad to join y’all.” I can’t imagine turning her down now. She looks relieved, her green eyes curve with her smile. I promise to meet Sian and the others in the church at five o clock. I rush back to my room. I go inside and notice it’s already been tidied up by one of them. I wince with guilt, heading towards the mirror. Nervous jolts of electricity run through me as I brace myself for my reflection. I stand before the mirror. The sun has long since come up over the convent, and I can see myself clearly. My eyes are caught first by the rosy blotches that extend from the crown of my head, down to my brows. My gaze travels down the slope of my nose, which is interrupted by the silver ring on the right nostril, and further down, to the defined bow of my upper lip. My lower lip, slack and moist, dipping in fullness to the soft definition of my chin. And back to my eyes, which are golden and green, like tea leaves, framed in cups of purpling gray. My eyes have always betrayed me, always begged questions about how often I sleep. When my hair was long, melting in waves of molasses over my shoulders, the fatigue seemed a sort of fashion statement. Now, it looks like a cause for worry. It is strange to see completely the heart shape of my head; the blonde and the buzz dramatize the width of my forehead. I look like an injured alien. For the first time in twenty-one years, I am not beautiful. Nor am I ugly. Just plain. Like Sian. I exhale, looking away from myself. I go to my suitcase, unzip the front compartment. I get out my two makeup bags. I put everything on the bed. Concealer, foundation, contour cream, eyeliner, …the list goes on. I start putting the toner on, when my laptop alarm dings. This is when I had planned to awake, when I’d assumed I’d finish my bath in one hour, not three. I get up to turn it off, when I see the pop up Facebook notification on my homepage. I open my browser, see it’s a message from Alex. We haven’t talked much the last few weeks. “Do you really want the break to last your whole trip?” I don’t want another argument right now, but I hate leaving people unanswered. I just write, “Yes,” and I close my laptop, knowing that that might have been worse than saying nothing. I return to the bed. I finish toning my face, rub the moisturizer into my cheeks, and put everything else back into the bags. I change into jeans and pick out my beanie, worried of the cold. Thinking twice, I open my makeup bag again and grab my mascara, putting it in my backpack. I head out the door. Outside, I readjust my shoulder straps, marching in no particular direction. I figure I’ll explore the area, and forego any strategic planning. I look for a landmark to situate myself with later, but all the buildings in Glasgow are relatively the same height. The convent itself serves as my best guide, the bell tower high enough to spot from at least a few streets around. As I am walking, I pass internet cafés, bars, and kilt shops. I can see myself passing the spaces in the windows. I straighten my posture somewhat. I take a right at an intersection, lights changing and cars passing. And then it hits me. 

No man has tried to catch my eye. No smiles, exaggerated grimaces, annoyed glance-overs. None have made kissing noises at me, or asked me to smile. No man’s eyes have rested on me for more than a moment, each time has been the casual taking in of all the scenery. The men in the street have looked at me like one would a lamp post. I stop in front of an antique booksellers to take my bag off my back and re-check for my card and passport. They’re there. I re-fasten my shoelaces. I glance over my back for the bell-tower, it looms beneath the electric sky. The man in the bookstore raises his eyebrows in passive acknowledgement at me, then returns to scribbling upon his desk. I exhale, and my breath is sweet with the taste of Earl Grey. The sun gives glow to the street (rephrase). The roses that dot the windowpanes of each storefront bloom, they give their salutations to the morning. I stand, run a hand over my head, then march forward, unconcerned of the bell tower. Flocks of black-birds flutter about the power lines. 

Yes, I think, today’s a day for preaching thanks to birds. 

Especially to birds.

[celestinatakenbydreams-blog]

The Flood

I remember how that first day of the flood I had walked knee-deep into the water. I soaked the hem of my favorite dress. A flimsy little blue cotton slip. It was dotted by a pattern of daisies. I wore the dress all the time, everywhere, with no shoes and no panties. Beer cans and fish hooks bobbed along the bayou. Neighbors stepped out onto their front porches, to see if the floodwaters were submerging their lawns. For some it was already inside their homes, ruining the hardwood floors. For them, the only thing to do was to move their valuables into the attic, and then hike up to the top of the hill, where me and my parents lived. I watched them knock. My mother opening the door, ushering them in, laughing hysterically, a pitcher of margarita in her hands. She was wearing her turquoise studded bracelet, prepared for a party. That morning she had looked out the window at the rain once and had immediately started cleaning the house. Vacuuming up tufts of dog fur. Scrubbing our pile of dishes. Even in a storm, impressions mattered to her. Soon there were six or so people crammed inside. I ventured away from the crowd, and slipped outside in the confusion. My feet padded on the asphalt, the water rising up above my ankles, higher and higher, until I was midway down the street. I wanted to swim, to run my fingers over the tips of the tallgrass that jutted out of the depths toward the end of the block. I began to wade through the murk. An orange from Joanne’s tree floated past me. The water smelled like pickle juice, and was greener than brine. When I got deep enough, I flipped over onto my back, gliding amongst the wet rubble. I wondered if our little enclave in urban Houston would be a water park forever. Slimy, incandescent flying fish bounced around me, the sun just beginning to set at nine o clock. The sky was a technicolor masterpiece; pink with pollution, dissipating blue rain clouds were dotted amidst a growing fog, glowed with emerald hues. Reflections from the lighted towers of Downtown. Those building were backed up by armies of generators. Not our street. I splashed my arms in the growing dark and laughed. My father came out on to the deck, the one he’d built with his bare hands. When he spotted me, he started shouting for me to come inside. His screams scared me, they came from deep in his big belly and echoed through the old, brick laid houses around him. He took his cap off, the temples of his bald head pulsing, and marched to the edge of the water. His white nurse shoes muddied, he kept calling after me, cursing. “Goddammit! Celestina! Get out of there! What in God’s name are you doing?” My mother and our new guests came out. They waited on our lawn, laughing as she came down, margarita still in hand, racing to join my dad. She paused, then yelled that there were fresh enchiladas in the oven. I turned to her and she beckoned to me. Right after playing with my toy ponies, eating cheesy foods was my most favorite thing. Easily persuaded, I swam back to them. Once my bare feet were firmly on the damp asphalt, they each took an arm, ensuring I wouldn’t escape back into the trash ridden expanse. I glowered, realizing I would have to wait for dinner and face a lecture first. “I hope you don’t get sick,” my mother scolded, her sandals slapping against the ground, then added “are you wearing any underwear?” My father huffed, “Oh my god,” and waltzed away from us, heading towards the back of the house, shaking his head. I lied and she knew, rushing me past the guffawing couple from across the street who were now experimenting with our blender. My mother opened the door to the bathroom, herding me inside. Candles had been placed haphazardly throughout the house, their orange wicks burning small halos of light. She grabbed two, taking them with us. She gesticulated towards the shower. I got in, my feet cold on the tub. “You better wash your chi chi. I don’t know when we’ll be able to take you to the doctor. We obviously couldn’t take you right now.” I started to get nervous, imagined myself hospitalized, prostrate on a white bed. I scrubbed my whole body with our pink Great Value liquid soap. “I can’t believe you! Honey, you have got to start wearing underwear. You’re way too old, way too old.” “I don’t like it,” I reminded her, whining. I could see myself in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, my pouting face. “Carmen,” my mother said, her voice deep and resonate—the one she always used when she was declaring an ultimatum, “I am serious. Do you know that our neighbors probably saw your little chi chi while you were out swimming in that mess!” She got up and grabbed the shower head and put it in my hand, “Open your legs so you can rinse yourself out. It’s disgusting.” She looked away, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder and scoffing as I hosed myself down.   “You are just going to be so sick.” Thunder clapped outside, the rain had returned. I turned off the faucet and picked up my detangling spray. It was in a purple bottle that was shaped like a fish, with big, gawking eyes. I ran my fingers through my dark, matted hair. The scent of vinegar still lingered. It intermingled with the vaporous floral aromas. I struggled with the knots at the base of my head, clawing. I almost emptied the bottle as I fought with the clasping strands. In the mirror, I saw my round, brown belly rising and falling as I breathed. Below, the sparse pubic curls. I spritzed them too, then patted the area brusquely, with finality. My mother laughed chokingly, now sitting on the toilet. She put her hand over her face, “Oh, my crazy chiflada.” I got out of the tub, toweled down. My wet dress was in the sink. I couldn’t put it back on. I stood at the door, unsure if I could leave for my room or not. Sometimes she scolded for ages. My mother uncovered her eyes, began squinting at the black grout between the tiles on the floor, avoiding the crowd. She sighed and opened the drawer between her and the sink, and grabbed her makeup bag. She began applying mascara. Clumps of black fiber clung to her eyelashes as she blinked repeatedly onto the tiny, black wand. “You better wash any underwear you have lying around on the floor in your room and start putting them on.” I returned downstairs in the pair of shorts I hated. But the neighbors had relegated themselves to our living room, most of them were asleep, and for that I was relieved. My mother was waiting for me at the table, collapsed upon the chair. Tired from entertaining. I sat down and she gave me a plate of enchiladas; she’d kept it warm for me in the oven. My dad came into the kitchen, comfortable in his pajamas. He patted me on the head and mumbled, “You’re silly.” They watched me eat, stayed until I had finished. After I had rinsed my plate, my dad handed me a flashlight, “So you can see in the dark.”

It was this memory that came to me, ten years later, when my parents announced their decision to divorce. Their reasons were embarrassingly typical. My father had had an affair with a coworker. My mother found out from the texts on his cell-phone. They tried to salvage it, the idea of what they had thought their lives were going to be. An idea that had come before me, that had grown up with me, like some phantom sibling, disappeared. But there are no funerals for ideas. We could not etch an image of ourselves into stone, could not cut the sunflowers that grow beside the bayou and place them at each other’s feet. My father left in the summer, taking all the lamps in the house with him, piling them in the trunk of his pickup. My mother and I didn’t think too much of it; the sun wouldn’t set in July until around nine o’ clock. When winter came, we hung Christmas lights all over the house, around the door-frames, the cabinets—even over the microwave. We left them up all the way through the next summer, by which time they had started to flicker and eventually puttered out altogether. This was the summer of May, 2014. Time become defined by an endless swelter. Memes of burning bodies were exchanged online like trading cards. People preceded introductions with the shared agreement, It’s so hot! The downtown area had become like a Dalí painting; tired eyes, melting watches and burning skies. Walking between skyscrapers was a waltz beneath buffet lamps, you could feel your skin cooking. I was nineteen years old and I’d just transferred majors. I went from drama to creative writing—in other words, I went from group escapism to solitary escapism. I’d switched because the environment of the theatre program had been exhausting. It had been hyper competitive. Directors demanded long hours in claustrophobic rehearsal studios with shuttered windows. And no one seemed interested in having fun. I wanted to have fun. I wanted to dance on the rooftop of the honors college, smoke cigarettes outside the mess-hall, and break hearts. I wore red lipstick and shoes that went click-clop-click. I went in and out of relationships with boys. The longest had been with a drop-out named Edward. With my father gone, and me in university, our empty dinner table must have been a silent duress for my mother. She had begun to escape to yoga every night, texting me morning reminders about dishes left in the sink or unfolded laundry. When we did speak, sadness poured out of us—we would relate the latest media atrocities to each-other: One afternoon that summer, my mother, off early from work, asked me, “So, you heard about the latest shooting? The boy who shot up a bunch of sorority girls in Santa Barbara?” She was standing in the doorframe of the kitchen, carrying her multiple bags—the gym tote, the briefcase, her lunch, her purse. They anchored her there, framing her shoulders like wings sculpted from wet sand; heavy but impermanent. My plate of tacos was situated in the small island of space between her piles of forgotten paperwork and my father’s mail. He had yet to change his forwarding address, though his new home was mere blocks away. “This way I can stay close to you,” he had said, and I resented him for making me responsible for his happiness, for the stolen hours of the past year at the nearby hole-in-the-wall Moontower Inn, where there was only deviled eggs for me to eat. But I maintained it, because the perpetual shrug of his shoulders worried me. I wondered if they could just love me less, so that I might get some independence. I had been commuting to school, though I wanted to live in the dorms and make friends like everyone else. I was already a sophomore, and yet I still didn’t have a clique. Through the year between those two summers, my life had become limited to my locale, limited to whether or not other people liked me. I dressed fashionably, memorized jokes, followed pop culture trends and politics. I would go to parties by myself and spark up a conversation with a group. Regardless of what I had to say, eyes rolled when I opened my mouth. Girls would grasp their boyfriends by their wrists, their voices transforming to saccharine falsetto. It was June when I met Jaime. She was about twenty-five, and worked at a popular mescal joint. Her left arm was covered in ironic tattoos, and she scrunched her nose whenever she laughed. She said she thought I was funny, that she would teach me how to make a good mezcal cocktail. I was beside myself when she asked me to hang out, and almost collapsing with relief when she asked a second time. I was sure I had finally found a friend. “You’re so young!” she would say. Those first few weeks, I clung to her with fragile veracity, saran wrapping myself around the margins of her life. Perhaps she fancied herself a matchmaker, or I was exhausting her—whatever the reason, she invited me out to a concert at Mangoes, and then left me, alone, with her friend Chris. I had met him before, but briefly. I recognized his face but couldn’t recall from where. He seemed overexcited as we were reintroduced by Jaime. He remembered me, enough details to make me wince. A redhead with a beard who wore Warby Parkers, his forehead had prematurely wrinkled from the way he was always raising his eyebrows. It was at this point more than just a gesture of sarcastic surprise; it was a permanent suggestion that he thought he knew everything. The music venue was ugly urban ritual: peeling walls disguised by talentless graffiti, dollar-wells behind a grimy bar. This place was different from Jamie’s quiet hangout establishment, which played old Latin records and served nuts with your drink. Here, there was a cramped and damp dance area for the drunk and drugged, bodies grinding, blurred below the cardinal gaslights. A smoking patio housed the usual orchestra of blasé murmurs. I scanned the young, vacuous faces. I didn’t recognize anyone. “I should go.” Chris patted my back reassuringly. He told me not to worry. He begged me not to think, saying “Oh, Celestina, it’s fine." 

We sat, mosquitos swarming the humid air around us. Little bites swelled my skin, I swatted the bugs away. We started talking about my women’s studies minor. Chris leaned in, confessing that he too, was a feminist. He puckered for a kiss. The irony of the moment didn’t escape me. I turned away, rolled my eyes at him, “No.” He understood. He bought us both drinks, said, “Sorry for being an asshole.” When I accepted that cocktail, some part of me must have known. Maybe I wanted a better reason for feeling sorry for myself. Chris cleared his throat, “So, I’m part of a book club now. We just finished this one piece about a man who travels through walls—I hope it gets a nomination for something. It’s just really smart and unexpected.” “If I could have a super power, I’d control time,” I said, and he laughed. “That’s a pretty good one. Would you have absolute control over it, or just going from the past to the future and all that?” “Well, obviously I could do that. But I could stop time too. Slow it down,” I added, joking, “So, I’d never get into a car accident.” “You’re so smart,” he flattered, scooting closer to me on the bench. I left to go to the bathroom. The line was too long, so I decided to leave. As I was exiting the bar, Chris came up behind me, smiling, friendly, “Oh, I have to go too! Is everything OK?” It felt irrational to scream, to run away. He was Jaime’s friend. “Everything’s fine. I’m just tired,” I said. He approached and the car engines at the intersection gasped, overcast faces stared past me behind the dashboards. I moved away, reaching for a couple in the street, sparked a conversation. Their words collapsed in the air before they could meet my ears. I nodded along helplessly. I was drunk. I looked at the woman with confused desperation, our eyes met, I was thrashing for a buoy. She giggled, “Your friend likes you.” They left. Chris, hovering behind me, asked me if I could give him a ride to where his bike was. He said it was at the café where he worked. That he would get me water. That it was only a few blocks away, “Besides, it’s better of I walk you.” I was swaying with each step. Chris and I had arrived at the café. It was closed. The door had an automatic lock after midnight. He knew the code. But you needed the code to leave, too. My thoughts moved as molasses, sluggish and saccharine. He put an arm around me, and I almost fell to the ground as he opened the door. He caught me, his grip around me was tight. My skin tingled where he touched me. Uncomfortable jolts of heat rushed through me. I glanced at him, his face was a simpering sponge—I could see every pore on his face, they gaped like craters I might fall into. Moisture leaked down his nose. “I feel like I might be sick in a minute,” I said. He had kept one hand on the steering wheel as I took us the few blocks to the café and parked my car on a side street. He would poke me as my eyes started to close, “I feel like I can’t think anymore.” He laughed, “Well then, did you change your mind about us hooking up?” “Obviously not.” He sighed, “Ok, ok. I respect your decision. Can’t blame a guy for trying one more time.” As I parked in front of the restaurant, telling him goodnight, he had said in a scolding tone, “You know you can’t drive like this. Let’s get you that water.” He’d grabbed my keys and shut off the engine, “People die driving like that.” I remembered Jamie said he was always looking out for her. I didn’t vomit, but after we got inside I told him I thought I might. He said I could use the bathroom. I went in, in a moment of clarity looked for an emergency exit or window. I found it, but I couldn’t open the door. I returned to the row of toilets, sat on a stall. I blinked slowly. I could barely stay awake. I had only two drinks, and yet I felt drunker than I had ever been in my life. I reached for my phone, then realized with despair that I had left my purse in the dining area. Chris came in, opened the door of the stall, began touching my breasts, “You look so beautiful, even like this.” The walls of the stall closed in on me. “Not in here,” I begged. He dragged me back into the dining area. I found my footing and escaped him, went for the front door, it wouldn’t open either. I thought he might let me leave then, kept my hand on the knob. I crouched my knees for some balance, he said, “I’ll let you out when I go, it’s a hassle re-entering the code a bunch of times. It’ll just be a minute.” I sat down on a chair, hoping he would sit across from me at the table and look at me and understand and change his mind. Instead, he crawled under the table, began licking my legs, “Please, just let me do this.” We were on the floor of the café. My black mini-skirt was pushed up to my chest. I occupied my thoughts with the wallpaper, with the window. Coffee grounds permeated the open space that was riddled with small tables. One hand was firm on my neck. Another grabbed at me, groping my breasts, fumbling above me. He muttered something about protection, plastic tore between his browning teeth. I could hear the ensuing nightlife outside, the noise passing through the walls. His beard prickled against my neck. I tried to project my consciousness outside of the building, to make my thoughts travel like sound. Obscure figures passed the wide windows. I imagined them turning, seeing us in the shadows, shattering the glass. The flaming neon sign of a Greek restaurant burned into my eyes. It ended. Chris let me out surreptitiously, handed me a water bottle. The door closed behind us quietly. He kissed my face all over, his smoker’s breath polluting my lungs. He thanked me and told me good night. I didn’t wait to leave. I walked to my car, locked the door. He didn’t follow me this time. I put my hand on the wheel, my head swayed forward. I couldn’t drive. I could barely think. I finally decided who to call. My ex, Edward. His insomnia guaranteed he’d be up. The phone rang and the rest of the night played out again in my head, continuing even as I tried to maintain a brief conversation with Ed, asking him to come. “What’s wrong?” “I think I was just sexually assaulted. I didn’t know who else to call.” He soon came in his new girlfriend’s car, startling me with a rapping on the passenger’s side. He looked different from the last time I saw him, four months before. His hair longer, it reached past his chin. He looked pale and disheveled, his fingernails bitten down to nubs. His addiction to acid, my reason for leaving him, was draining his good looks. I unlocked the door and he opened it, reached inside. He hugged me lightly before walking me towards the leather interior of Amanda’s Audi. Edward chatted, straining an air of casualness as he changed the radio stations intermittently. We rode the six or so miles to my house, the catchy beats of pop music and oldies hits filling the lulls of our conversation. He sniffed audibly, shifting in his worn, checkered pajamas. His dark rimmed, green eyes scanned the road. The signs above the overpass blurred. We got to my neighborhood, the winding bayou beyond our enclave resembling a crag in the pitch of the early morning. We arrived at my house. All the lights were off. The dogs didn’t bark. We got in through the back. I could still smell the popcorn my mother had made for herself. It was difficult to make anything out, but I didn’t stumble. I grew up in that house; an only child, pictures of me lined the walls and shelves. I tried to exhale my intoxication as he tip-toed me up the winding stairs to my room, a converted attic.  He giggled nervously. He mentioned how angry his girlfriend was going to be as he dropped the car keys on the nightstand. I stood beside him in the black, told him I’d make it up to him. I kicked my heels off. They clattered on the wood floors. He followed me into the bathroom, bending to fit through the low door. I washed my face, mascara smearing. My back was hunched with exhaustion. It was almost five AM. He went behind me, wrapping his arms around me, his sandpaper hands running over my arms, asked, again, “What happened?” “I don’t know.” I went to towel off, but he stopped me, guided me to my bed. I lied down on my old sheets, eyes streaked, water dripping down my chin. He sat next to me on the bed, leaning on an elbow. Edward picked up an old stuffed animal rabbit, handling it nervously. He watched me. I told him “I’m sorry.” He asked if he could help himself to the pot beneath my bed. He knew where I kept the tin can. An old container for Christmas fruitcake from Collins bakery, one might mistake it for a box of memorabilia. Instead I kept all my paraphernalia in it—Adderall, Xanax, a gram of weed, and a pack of Djarum Blacks. I told him to go ahead. Edward’s spine stretched with relief as he placed the little bin gratefully in his lap. He unpacked the weed and grinded it up before pinching it into my pipe. I was out of filters, so we ripped it raw. We choked back coughs and I asked him to open the window behind us. He crawled over me, his cheek grazing against my shoulder. The air from the bayou passed through us, the odor of decades of decomposing donuts— batter was often dumped in the water by a breakfast joint. He leaned back, his face over mine, his gaze at my mouth. He blew smoke into my face, I closed my eyes. He kissed me. I lied there. Saliva dripped down onto my chest. He turned away and took the pipe from between my fingers, wiped his mouth and took a long drag for himself before setting it back down into the tin can, on the floor. He returned to me. I didn’t move. He lifted my ankle up and over his shoulder, my legs spread open. My vagina gave off an acidic redolence, it wept alkaline tendrils. I asked him, whispering, hoarse, “Do you remember that time when I was on my period and you licked up my blood?” “Yes.” He began caressing my stomach. There was no condom. It didn’t matter. I turned to the window, the one he had opened. Through the mesh of the screen, I could see many roofs, and part of the street. Our black cat was prowling through the hedges of Joanne’s house. Her lights were on. Crickets chirped. At once, multiple oranges fell from the tree in her yard, they often fell in groups. They rolled around, as if excited. Joanne’s door opened, light spilled over her yard. She was in her slacks. She got into her sedan and left for her part time job, turning right at the corner. The oranges were fresh. I thought I might go and taste one.   As Edward penetrated me, I slipped fluidly from him, jumping through the window. Landing softly in the humid air, just above the grass, I walked, padding over the ground, I was floating on my feet. I did not turn around, did not glimpse the lymphatic, opaque figures behind the aperture in the attic, the man and the woman on the bed. I left my body there, in my home, and went to the orange tree. The round, soft orbs were vivid amidst the dry grass. I gathered the fruits in my hands, one by one, collecting them in the nook of my elbow, cradling them in my arms. The citrus felt sweet, I knew even without peeling them. I continued down the street, passing my cat, who rolled onto his back, always playful, his black tail undulating. All around me were my neighbor’s houses. The doors were all open like on Halloween, but the lights were off, and no one was inside; twenty black mouths gaped at me from behind the old wooden porches, inhaling me from all directions. Downtown was in darkness. There was only the moon, which lit the crown of my head. The waters of the bayou were high, and as I approached, they rose to meet me, higher, higher, submerging the stop signs at the end of the block. There was no rain. I was standing in the bayou, the water to my knees. The hem of my dress was wet. My parents called out to me, as they had years before, saying, “Come inside.” As if love could save someone from drowning.

[celestinatakenbydreams-blog]

Becoming a “professional artist”

Over the past few years I traveled the world solo and right now I make art for a living. 

When I talk to strangers about my work and what I do, the most common misconceptions I get are that I went to an elite university and/or that I inherited some kind of money. Neither of which are true.

The reality is that I lived in my mom’s attic for most of my life (yeah, even in college), in the not-so-glamorous city of Houston, Texas. I’m the daughter of a social worker and a nurse, and when their divorce drained most of their personal finances when I was seventeen, I wound up going to my neighborhood university, to which I commuted everyday. I graduated with a degree in Creative Writing, and have worked on-again, off-again in just about every kind of menial job for my entire adult life.

Everything I’ve got, I earned. Just so we’re clear.

[celestinatakenbydreams-blog]

The One Night Friend: On My Experience Couchsurfing with Men

The author, pictured with a Couchsurfing host and his friend in Ghent, 2016

“My consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars--to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording--all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault. (...) I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.” --Journal of Sylvia Plath, 1960s

It’s been almost seventy years since Sylvia Plath's writing on travel as a woman. Since then much has changed on the perspective of women’s travel--with notable cultural shifts expressed in the popularity of books like Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love and Cheryl Strayed’s Wild. And statistics show that the majority of solo travelers are now middle aged women. But even with these advancements, there are still a lot of misconceptions about women’s safety when solo traveling, especially if they’re on a budget. Most people seem to believe that, if you’re a woman traveling alone, you have to stay in either in a hotel, or in religious housing (such as in ashrams or convents). So it’s not really surprising to me that the majority of women travel bloggers are heiresses and Yoginis. The final “acceptable” option is staying in a dorm, which, like hotels, are expensive. Certainly there are scholarships like the Fulbright, but those are limited and extremely competitive. 

So it’s not really surprising that when I decided to go Couchsurfing across Northern Europe, the response I got from most people was basically, “Please don’t die.” Over the course of my trip I stayed in the homes of seven different men I’d never met. Having been raised in ass-backwards Texas, this went against everything I’d ever been taught on women’s safety.

I was young, attractive, alone, and a newcomer in many of the countries I visited. I know, this actually does sound like the premise of a Dateline episode. Fortunately, my experience was anything but. In part, because of the precautions I took, but also because human beings are actually freaking awesome. For the majority of my stays, I used Couchsurfing.com. This website is a free service which connects globetrotters from around the world with one another. You create a profile, and are immediately able to contact other members for hosting. You may host in your home, and you can also seek potential hosts to welcome you into their home on your next trip--also for free. With continuous meet-ups across cities, and members all over the world, it is an amazing innovation.

However, I also stayed with men I met in a bar. That last part probably sounds a little insane too. But, before embarking on my trip, I devised a plan to better guarantee my safety as a Couchsurfer. While I had planned to stay with mostly women, I knew it was possible that I might have to “settle” on a male host. After arriving in Europe, I realized that all of my hosts were going to be men. It honestly was a little scary at first, but I felt reassured by the fact that I was fastidiously following the Seven Safety Steps I devised, and which I continue to use. Here they are:

The Seven Safety Steps (for Couchsurfing)

Ask the host to friend me on social media first, preferably Facebook. A social media account is a great way to garner a persons interests and interpersonal traits. I can spot a lot of red flags in peoples posts; do they make rape jokes, post photos of nude women, seem hyper-masculine? Another red flag of course is someone who has little friends and few or no photographs–they could be a Catphish.   

Some hosts will have social media accounts that are rather barren, but which still seem realistic. In these situations, I stick with those who have multiple roommates, at least two of whom are women.

So, their account is looking good. Now it’s time to establish a rapport over messenger. To save time, I tell the guys I’m thinking of staying with up front that I am not Couchsurfing for hook ups. Obviously, I skip guys who then stop responding, angrily demand an explanation, or comment with some “joking” flirtatious remark. The good guys always respect my need to set boundaries, and are understanding of my desire for safety.

 I always meet my hosts in a public place before heading to their apartment. I’ve met most of them at their local Starbucks, since the cafés are always crowded, and offer free wifi.

I never fully unpack my bags, even on longer stays. I am always ready to get up and go if I need to. I would rather sleep on a park bench or church stoop than be close to someone who I feel threatened by. 

I listen to my gut. A guy could seem really great, but if I get a tightened feeling in the pit of my stomach, goosebumps, or other warning physical hints from my body’s intuition, then I do not stay with that person.

I dress conservatively when traveling alone. I’m sure many of my feminist friends will misguidedly shit on me for saying that, but the truth is that it is safer to dress conservatively abroad. I have always have a better time with male hosts when I’m in long, loose clothes. Otherwise they inevitably wax poetic about all the great Couchsurfing hook-ups they’ve had in the past; “Yeah, I know you don’t want to hook up. I’m just saying! I’m just telling you a story!” (So if you’re ever with a male host and you’re trying to decide between your jeans and a mini-skirt, please, save yourself from the modern Homer performance and go with the jeans.) 

Don’t stay with a guy who makes posts like this

And that’s everything! I know it might seem like a lot, but it was a worthy two hour investment of my time. Plus, it isn’t only about safety. Taking the time to get to know your potential hosts also reveals common interests. As the conversation progresses, they’ll give tips on the local area, and swap adventure stories and jokes. Some hosts feel like close friends before even meeting them face to face! 

It is thanks to these safety guidelines that I created for myself that I was able to have a great experience Couchsurfing while in Europe.

A brief summation of my stay with each of the hosts:

Glasgow: After missing the curfew at the convent I was staying in, I struck up a conversation at the nearby bar with a band that was celebrating a tour they’d just finished. One of the members left with a fan halfway through our conversation, and I explained my situation to them. They gave me the spare bed of the guy who’d gone off. I wound up eating all their snacks, and they still invited me for a “real Scottish breakfast” the next day. 

Glasgow 2: Having also made friends with the bartender the night before, he offered me a place to stay the following night, (the band members were heading home post-tour) and gave me my first tattoo. 

My host creating a sketch of the tattoo. His instagram: @dadam0audek  

Dublin: After leaving my WWOOF assignment a week early, I scrambled to look for a host in Dublin. A Kurdish artist who was getting his PhD in “Art and Trauma” hosted me for two nights. I got a huge room to myself, full use of the shower, and was able to wash my clothes. He even made pasta! 

Brussels: An engineer let me crash on his couch, eat his food, and even took me to the most popular bars in the area.   

Antwerp: A guy let me use his AirBnb after some guests cancelled on him. We ate out at a vegan restaurant and talked about life in Belgium.

Ghent: My host was a new immigrant, and said he was having a hard time making friends with the locals. He’d decided to host people on Couchsurfing, and we went out with one of his peers and hung out on the canals.

London: This was my longest stay, and one of the best. My host was a musician from Rome who had rented an apartment in London for the summer. He let me use the spare room and introduced me to his roommate. We went to a party under a bridge, shopped in Brick Lane, and jammed out on the pianos in several chapels.  

Host, me, and his roommate drinking champagne at the bridge party  

All of this which is to say: don’t let anything stop you from seeing the world. If you take the precautions I did, you will be ready for safe travels. Have the courage to create your experience of a lifetime. The truth is that life can be dangerous, no matter where you go or who you’re with. There are no guarantees. So take an informed risk. When you open yourself up to new possibilities, the world has so much more in store for you than you could have ever imagined.