denouement

My eyes followed him all night. He was everywhere, he was the hero; and yet, he hardly acknowledges me. Is that why I find it so hard to resist him? It can't be anything else, for he is fairly average and seemingly lacking the verbal skills to satisfy me, which is hard to know for sure since we haven't had a conversation and only exchanged gestures.

He is nothing special.

And yet, he manages to capture my attention completely each time, and I cringe as I remember how obvious I must have been, my scrutinizing eyes trying to find his staring at me, but each time he was not there, and everyone around me knew it was him I wanted to talk to. She figured me out because she feels the same, we all do, panting and languishing in his presence, fiery, older, wanton, brazen, and it is just how all women are around him.

I don't understand the why; maybe it is biological, innate, something we cannot know. It must be, because he is so lackluster in the usual ways.

He seems too cool for school, so above it all, so disinterested, and that veneer is a shiny prettier version of what I hear about him, that he's actually very excited by things, he's baffled by things, that I know everyone but him is why he is so aloof. He skulks about like a panther, but he's really just a chimpanzee with poor posture.

When he is out of sight, he is out of my mind.

He greeted my friend, who he has explored, and I half expected him to go on ignoring me, fanning the flames of my frustration, but he said hello after all. It was lackluster, of course. He was already turned around and going back, but right then I wasn't paying attention and walked into the beaded curtain, which caught my face and hugged me. I yelped and spun around and bumped into the wall. Giggling, I ran into the bathroom with my friend and wondered how a chimpanzee could turn me into a goof with nothing more than a hello.

soon-to-be scarf

the quarters

I receive them with glee. I put them in my purse. I collect as many as I can. Imagine doing laundry, playing galaga at the dirty bird with walter, but most of all, I want to pump his meters full of quarters so he doesn't have to worry about getting a ticket or needing quarters or his beautiful gray eyed betsy doesn't get besmirched.

this random auto-assignment was something that occured to me one day as a nice thing to do, but it doesn't really make sense. but I like to do it. it gives me great pleasure to take care of people. but most of all, I like to imagine his face when he realizes I've been there. I wonder what he thinks of it; is this arrangement odd? does he wonder why I do it? does he find it charming or stalker-y?

his vehicle is a thing of beauty. it is the first time I have been enchanted by a car. I see it immediately from any vantage point, its curves slightly pushing out past the line of the typical slim hipped cars, betsy takes up space but she carries her weight well and she is amazing. he keeps her in pristine conditions, never once has she been muddied or not shining with dazzle in the sun. I imagine him at the wheel, his big hands and tattooed arm in complete control of this large beautiful thing, his sunglasses down, his teeth clutching at his lower lip, his music turned up real loud and I wish I could be there, screaming into the wind with him and betsy.

in short, it is the first time I have had a crush on someone via their car, and I don't know what to do other than take care of her, and him and hope that someday my reward will be a ride in that soft well maintained plushness with him happy to have some one at his side.

too long

It's been so long since I've knitted that I can't remember how to start the stiches. As I get going, it comes back to me, but it strikes me as odd that I haven't knitted for almost a year, even though it's one of the biggest stress relievers I've ever known and I love making beautiful things.

but then again, I have no time. busy busy busy.

right now my eyelids are weighted with sleep, my back hurts, my feet hurt, it has been a long exhausting day, but I'm still writing because I want to. But sometimes I just can't muster up the wanting to more than wanting to sleep. same goes for most of my solitary extracurricular activites. As much as I enjoy reading a book, crafting a shadow box, collaging with my endless supply of paper and photos, I just can't seem to make time for those things that bring a deep sense of satisfaction and joy to my somewhat lackluster life.

there's something else though; I constantly push aside stuff for me to do stuff for other people. it's dumb and I don't want to do it anymore. I have never been a conciously selfish person, deciding to do what's best for me first, but it's about time I start.

first step has been letting go of those few friendships that only make me wonder, why am I even bothering to hang out with this person?

my second step has been having my day off be my day and not scheduling anything else...though sometimes this doesn't always happen.

next, I've been doing small things that make me happy and fulfilled in an effort to accommadate being so busy: I'll put a card and envelope in my purse to write a note during a lull, carry a bigger purse so I have a book to read at all possible times (usually during travel on the impossible CTA) and I've been trying not to deny myself every single thing that feels like a treat, because the truth is, one bagel and cream cheese isn't going to make the difference.

Excuse me, I've got to get back to my knitting...

helium head

maybe I just needed a day off. maybe it was last night's drinking combined with no dinner and four hours of sleep; no coffee consumed til four in the afternoon. useless, I was.

the only sense of accomplishment I feel is that I started reading a book today and it's nearly done. happened to me the other day too. usually that kind of consumption is something I regard with some suspicion, wondering if it means that I am holing up again, fighting off the urges to do the shit I've absolutely got to do.

It feels okay because one of the things I've absolutely got to do is write my manuscript, and I can't write when I'm not reading something. It's an odd phenomenon, but my writing feels forced or trite when there's nothing I've been reading.

I can tell it's about time to begin my manuscript; I've been wanting to write here more often, I've been writing super duper eloquent text messages that I save with some sense of pride and I've been having dreams.

I'm sure I dream all the time, but I hardly remember them. Every so often I have transcribed the details of some dreams I remember online. I find it interesting that when I go into this kind of period, it is usually fall, which used to mean school, reading lots, I also tend to dream in a vividness that gives it some concreteness so that when I wake, I have strong recollections of what I was dreaming about.

Also, I have become agitated. I find the dullness I encounter from living day to day almost painful. I am bitter and bitter is bad.

this is what I know from watching others: do what you want and you will get what you deserve. wasting time not doing what you want is mind-numbing. doing what you want actually changes people from morose Eeyores to vibrant people who make a difference.

fuck. what am I doing here? my friend dan the man is thrilled that I want to go into the peace corps. maybe it's the right time to give myself away to a cause that's worth my time, my exhaustion, my sore feet, my cracked hands, my smiles, my tears, my heart.

we are all dorks trying to be cool pt. 334

raven's. "the dirty bird." life is in the way. drink until it doesn't hurt.

if life manages to remind you that it sucks, take a shot.

when you remember someone who's done you wrong, delete their number.

when you've had too many, have some more.

when you get home, eat things you would never eat when sober. chew til your jaw hurts. eat more.

live in excess until it somehow feels better.

extend the life boat to others who feel like they are drowning. no use being alone at a time like this.

when your friend's "troubles" seem silly, watch the crap on tv. even if it is the bachelor. be glad that the guy is hot, even if he is a stupid fuck that makes you wish you had a shotgun.

remember how tv is something that you miss until you see a commercial that makes no sense and the guy who is cooler than you because he's sober and a know it all bartender who doesn't think you're hot enough to give cheap beer to (or maybe he doesn't want to demean you, but you can't tell) and then he tries to tell you that it's the commercial's way of "arting it up."

said bartender pretends to be a nerd by searching for star trek on the tv, but when you ask him if he prefers TOS to TNG and he doesn't understand,

you suddenly understand that he's just a fuckwad who thinks liking star trek somehow makes him cooler than you.

feel like an ass when your favorite band is on his ipod and you can't tell just by the first thirty seconds because you didn't have that album, but at least you don't have a fucking ipod.

hate hate hate life. drink some more.

sixteen years later; victory

being fourteen was hard for me. fuck. being any age other than the age I am right fucking now was hard for me.

sixteen might have been worse than fourteen, but I remember fourteen is when things began to change for me, when being a tomboy wasn't okay anymore, when hormone driven crushes ordained my days and I still had an innocence about me that sparkled; it was so shiny.

and then he came and dulled me.

if you wonder why I am afraid of the slightest invasion of my three feet of space, surely he was the beginning of the anxiety. if you want to know why I jump when limbs come my way, he is why. if you want to know why I don't trust men, he is one of them.

The Harold Washington Library. Research. A table. My books everywhere. My gangly limbs in a tangle underneath.

He sat nearby. I noticed him. I noticed everything even then. Him though, he has a certain discomfort, a tidal wave of noxious energy that is alarming to behold...his tabletop covered with sheafs of sketch papers, endless arrays of stolen profiles, caricatures, souls.

he spoke softly, like a secret.

: can I sketch you?

I felt scared, unsure.

: it won't take long. I promise.

he pulled up a chair next to me and began to make long strokes with charcoal across gray paper.

occasionally, he reached out to touch my face and I flinched.

: stay still.

he rearranged my arms. it felt like forever but twenty minutes later he had stolen my soul and transcribed it to paper.

I looked sad.

when I arrived at the coffeeshop this morning his hunched shoulders gave me pause, his profile looked that familar still and it was him.

I couldn't sit there with him there. I know he didn't do anything wrong. he just took some slight advantage of me. he didn't hurt me. he didn't molest me. but there was something in his touch and intentions with me that felt creepy, felt like he'd taken up my skin and crawled around inside, seeped into my pores, and took immense pleasure in stealing my soul.

so when he was in the cafe, my cafe, my place, my second home, the one constant I've had in the last ten years, the place that has been the fork in that road, led me to the life I have now,

well I couldn't let that bogeyman stay.

when I asked him to leave, I figured he'd just take off and go. I figured he'd been asked to leave lots of places. he still had that creepy unease spilling out of him, but when he turned and saw my face, the anger there, the bitterness,

he asked: did I do something wrong?

and how could I remind him? I just shook my head no and told him it was time to go.

he used them all in a range of calm to furious;

: I spent money here, how dare you be rude to me, you racist, red neck fuck.

I have seen him around the city in glimpses tinged with fear always wondering if it was really him.

and I hope I never see him again. ever.

Millennium Park

Strangely enough, this bedraggled city project has become something of a remarkable thing to me. I adore it. I am proud of it. I wish I could find more reasons to go there.

Every saturday for the duration of the summer, there has been a free session of yoga decent enough to leave my limbs aching. I have been there for the saturday yoga with my friend Val five or six times, seen a concert there once and visited the video fountains twice this summer with The Kid. It is stunning. It is an unrivalled mecca.

at 24 I was pretty funny:

Thursday, April 26, 2001

Regrets:

Dropping out of school.
My estrangement with my various family members who should know who they are.
Letting my relationships get all taken for granted.
The way Vince and I got engaged the first time.
Passing on opportunity.
Not volunteering for a good cause when I should have.

Goals:
Graduate college by 2006.
Be a millionaire via intellectual property.
Be a generous millionaire.
Write a novel or two before I turn 30.
Volunteer and learn more about marine biology through Shedd Aquarium.
Become a mentor.
Become more involved in YCA.
See my nephew at least once a year.
Have the wedding that I dream of having.

Interestingly enough, the only goal I managed to make good on was graduating college by 2006. And even that is a little off, because my last day of school was December 18th, 2006. Of course, my regrets are the same and even have new offshoots of them, and my goals actually don't sound so bad, except for the wedding part. I almost left that out, but that and the millionaire part made me laugh.

I've been reading through a lot of my old journal entries trying to identify the "great writer" that Scotty's brother Tom claimed to remember from my bugs in amber days. It's been a while since I looked at those entries and to a large degree what I see is a person who is me but not me, my life is completely different now and everything I used to hate I have learned to embrace. A lot of what I wrote were highly amusing stories that took place at the coffeeshop:
liar, liar, garbage can on fire!
the jesse jackson of clark st
seven strikes you're out!

So did I see a great writer? I don't know. I wish I could say that going to school and spending sixty grand on a fancy education made me a better writer, but I think it made me a better person, so it's not such a loss. I think my journal writing hit a brilliant summit during the dating and exhilaration that was Mr Burnham (which can be viewed at the diaryland site).

Take them or leave them, online journals, blogs, chewed up bubble gum on the sidewalk, there's something to be said for being able to transport back in time with a few clicks on a keyboard.

in that place

I am in that scary-ish place where life seems to be making sense and yet it feels awfully hollow, like I've got it all figured out but there's no satisfaction in having it be comfortable. I am fine. Things are good. I am paying my bills. My apartment is nice. I have a good family that loves me. I have great friends who care for me. My jobs are fulfilling (what's more amazing than contributing to the growth and development of another living being?). Nothing is wrong here.

and yet,

the love of my lifetime is a slippery being who eyes me with distrust and distances himself away from me in ways that hurt more than a month of his self-proposed exile. we are as good as we can be and I have even managed to find a way into his blackened heart, but he is holding himself tightly for someone that is not me. And as much as I know that, I cannot turn away from him and his defective version of love. I love him so much that even the toned down carefully scripted version of him is worth it.

there is the feeling that there is always something I could be doing that I should have done that I'm not doing because I'm a selfish jerk with attention deficit disorder thanks to that shithole job I can't stop working in.

there are those few people whose attentions I could do without, whose flavor digusts me, whose turns of phrases make me want for the friends whose eloquence far surpasses the slugs I sit across from, and when the opportunity comes to brush them away, I don't.

and get this, I am stubbornly reading a terrible first novel just because someone gave it to me to read which I promptly dirtied up in my typical way (it spent one week in my jungle of a purse) and now have to buy the person a new unfilthy copy of a book I didn't even really want to read anyway.

see the pattern? I do. And part of me is afraid that moving to a new state for a new school is a fancy grown up version of discarding the half lived life I've had here and try and make it somewhere newly, as a butterfly instead of an uncharming cocoon with some potential for something greater, full of promise and nothing more.

I have a great fear of failure and somewhere in this pattern is the set up for what feels like the inevitable rejection letter from Iowa, a place I have arbitrarily chosen as the place for me without any research into it whatsoever (which has not done me wrong in the past, and served Cher pretty well in Kiss the Girls).

Luckily, I have sabotaged my old self that persists in many lizard brain ways and the things that are a shock to me, the things that I now accomplish with ease, the fact that anything I put my mind to gets done means I will fail (if I do get rejected) in a different way than before: At least I did something else. And then, I kept doing something else.

Pete's bday

new job: iris

Look what I landed on