Charlotte Sometimes

My favorite bands in high school were the Smiths, the Cure, Depeche Mode, New Order, and, haha, yes, the Dead Kennedys. I was never in the middle artistically, politically, socially, or emotionally, but I faked it for a long time.

Until the morning of what was to be my first day of my second year at Berkeley, when I found myself unable to drag my skinny body out of bed. "No, thank you," it seemed to say to my brain, which promptly went crazy.

Questions fired. What would happen during roll call? How would I explain missing the introductory lectures of courses that were already impacted? What if I got dropped?

I'd seen it happen. I'd felt so sorry for those faceless names whose owners hadn't bothered showing up, knowing quite well that there were dozens of waitlisted students ready to assume position. I'd felt superior before. But no more. I had mutated into that shameful Other. I was staying in bed. I wasn't "feeling" school. In a few short minutes, I had decided to take the year off to play in the broadest context possible: music, photography, beach, books, whatever. On a whim, I had silenced those desires which had been nagging at me, only, of course, in exchange for the parental torment appropriate to such a decision.

That is how I became intimate with intuitive leads.

It was a lucrative move indeed; that year, I would write and record three songs that gave me early glimpses of wealth, and they still bring quarterly treats! But, at the time, I was just following my heart. I brushed off the concerns of the many wet blankets. I told them I would go back to college, and I did. In fact, upon returning, I finished up in only 2 years plus a short summer session, maintaining my scholarship-required GPA and even making the Dean's List en route. If I had listened to the well-meaning creeps, I'd be sadder and poorer for it today, no doubt. I was growing into my natural fearlessness. I would eventually lose track of it a couple of years in before uncovering it once again.

More and more, life seems to be this game, just like Flossie says. A game of consciousness: holding it, dropping it, and then giving it another go. In this light, there is no room for sadness. Only fun. And validation. The biggest lessons do seem but mere reminders of the giant truths you've always harbored.

Questions arise. How absolutely fearless can you be? How fully can you show up to the present moment? How deeply can you love? What are you prepared to give?

Sometimes I forget. Today I knew I needed a reminder. I just didn't know how I would get it. So I called Charlotte.

She is my best souvenir from those blurry Berkeley days. We became buds when she wound up in my introductory drawing class, excited to make the most of her discounted senior citizen enrollment. We went to the park. We went to the market. We laughed and played. We talked about the universe. We were the oddest pair, a smiling Japanese grandma and a mighty brooding waif, but we knew each other, and, at the end of the term, from this place of knowing, I was able to sketch a portrait of her that earned me the highest praise from our critic of a teacher. He dubbed me the Chosen One.

This morning, restless in the sun, my fingers poking at my inconstant iPhone, I was prepared to say:

"Sometimes, Charlotte, I want to quit. I don't see any progress whatsoever, and I consider it a very cruel joke to have tried so hard for so long to accomplish this and to still have nothing to show for it."

But speaking with her reminded me of the more marvelous variations of myself. I could see more. Nothing wasn't nothing after all, and suddenly those words and attitudes had no place in our conversation. They were quickly replaced by acknowledgment and gratitude.

When I was having a shet time a year and a half ago, after Vespa boy made sure my Roman holiday ended in a ditch near Melrose and Vine, this magical sense of connection and protection slowly blanketed me. Once I was calm enough to sleep through the night, I could again receive songs as I returned to my waking state. This particular batch, though, was infused with even greater meaning than usual. Through my matins music, I was able to heal. The last dawn download of this mending era was the Cure's "Charlotte Sometimes." As is often the case, a certain more important lyrical segment will loop in my head, thus demanding extra attention, and this is the section that beckoned me that hour:

sometimes i'm dreaming
she hopes to open shadowed eyes
on a different world
come to me
scared princess
charlotte sometimes

Flossie says, in a magnetizing state, you envision yourself as the daughter of the King: a princess, then, given her kingdom. Sometimes I am that scared princess. Sometimes I am afraid I've lost my birthright--that there will be no prince, no castle, no kingdom...and that I don't even have the King's phone number anymore! That message of the morn was the King dialing my number, a reminder that the world that has been dreamed for me, the one vastly different from the gloom that's left me weary, is yet awaiting my arrival. Whenever I'm off, whenever I'm discouraged, whenever I'm so lonely that the only thing that could possibly fill the surrounding emptiness is the steady reach of my heartbeats, the command from this invisible King remains: "Wipe away those tears, dear. Brush off the dust, and don your prettiest dress. Nothing is ever lost, and there is no reason to be afraid."