Having a hard time keeping up with this blog and won't really be updating it anymore.
if you want to keep track of me, find me at my tumblr site.
see you there.
http://love-leigh.tumblr.com/
5.07.2009
3.17.2009
THE CLICHES ARE HAVING A BALL
.
for those into any of the following: the OC, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, music/pop culture and/or Zach Braff.
CLICKHERETOREAD
Interesting (and long) analysis of the journey of the song "Halleluja." A Leonard Cohen song originally performed quite a bit differently than the covered version you probably heard first on the OC or Scrubs or one of the other 24 movies or tv shows it has since graced with its presence.
It talks about 'emotional shorthand' and how this song is used in modern films and tv shows in a way that a woman with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead was used in silent films...whenever someone is in a really heart wrenching situation that may only be fully realized through music that already has that connotation. scratch that...it already has that definition.
it speaks of cliches and how sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. and sometimes, maybe even in the case of the Fall Out Boy cover, that you need to get a bunch of cliches together and have a celebration...and it just might work.
it also discusses the indie rock boom that the author claims was sparked by the OC, basically stating that this show (and others like it) introduce mass audiences to things that would have probably never caught their attention otherwise. stating that 'music is not an activity but an accompaniment--not something you listened to but something you watched other people listening to. In other words, it's lifestyle music.'
after my move out of St. Louis and into a bigger city, with more people, more 'lifestyle choices' to make, this last portion of the article was particularly interesting. when you expand your horizons and experiences by such a wide margin, suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious how much you truly have to just do your own thing...for fear of getting swallowed up with the crowd, or more devastatingly, begin to watch other people listening to music. or reading books, or seeing movies, or visiting museums, or anything else that you could be doing yourself.
at any rate, it made for some interesting reading and helped me realize yet another thing i love about this city: the celebration of cliches i walk amongst every day on the street.
don't think i don't know i am one them.
The Cohen Version (The Original)
VS
The OC Version (Jeff Buckley)
And, of course, the Marissa Cooper death scene.
.
for those into any of the following: the OC, Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley, music/pop culture and/or Zach Braff.
CLICKHERETOREAD
Interesting (and long) analysis of the journey of the song "Halleluja." A Leonard Cohen song originally performed quite a bit differently than the covered version you probably heard first on the OC or Scrubs or one of the other 24 movies or tv shows it has since graced with its presence.
It talks about 'emotional shorthand' and how this song is used in modern films and tv shows in a way that a woman with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead was used in silent films...whenever someone is in a really heart wrenching situation that may only be fully realized through music that already has that connotation. scratch that...it already has that definition.
it speaks of cliches and how sometimes they work and sometimes they don't. and sometimes, maybe even in the case of the Fall Out Boy cover, that you need to get a bunch of cliches together and have a celebration...and it just might work.
it also discusses the indie rock boom that the author claims was sparked by the OC, basically stating that this show (and others like it) introduce mass audiences to things that would have probably never caught their attention otherwise. stating that 'music is not an activity but an accompaniment--not something you listened to but something you watched other people listening to. In other words, it's lifestyle music.'
after my move out of St. Louis and into a bigger city, with more people, more 'lifestyle choices' to make, this last portion of the article was particularly interesting. when you expand your horizons and experiences by such a wide margin, suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious how much you truly have to just do your own thing...for fear of getting swallowed up with the crowd, or more devastatingly, begin to watch other people listening to music. or reading books, or seeing movies, or visiting museums, or anything else that you could be doing yourself.
at any rate, it made for some interesting reading and helped me realize yet another thing i love about this city: the celebration of cliches i walk amongst every day on the street.
don't think i don't know i am one them.
The Cohen Version (The Original)
VS
The OC Version (Jeff Buckley)
And, of course, the Marissa Cooper death scene.
.
3.09.2009
THE WALL
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
it was a rainy, desolate weekend.
there was a break from the frigid temps and sporadic snow flurries. friday saw record high temps for early March (almost 70) but the wind was outrageous. i embarked on a 3+ mile walk around the city and was blown (literally) across the sidewalks. the wind felt nice for a change; it didn't sting against my face.
at one point, i stopped and watched as trash swirled up into the streets, then settled to the ground again. a storm was coming.
on saturday, the rain came...more often a downpour than a drizzle. i woke in a somber mood and never snapped out of it. i left early morning for my personal assistant position, only to realize halfway there, after checking e-mail on my phone, that she canceled for the day.
at 2pm, when i climbed into bed for a nap before my night shift, i heard thunder in the distance. it was then i realized that it would have been my dad's 59th birthday that day. i set my phone to silent, pulled the covers over my head and slept.
my shift at the restaurant that night was slow. my somber mood still lingered. a little before closing time, a father and daughter came in for dessert. he was in his late 40's, tall and thin, his dark hair framed with gray. she was around 11 years old, with long, unruly, wavy dark blond hair. they looked eerily familiar.
they ordered - one cheesecake for his birthday; two forks. as they ate the dessert, he brought his daughters attention to the radio.
"ok...rock-n-roll history for the last bite of cheesecake. name the artist," he said, poking her in the arm with his fork.
"Daaad," she said, rolling her eyes.
"just give it a shot. this album, The Wall, spent time on the charts in my day."
she struggled with it for a few minutes, sighed and rolled her eyes again. "i don't know, Dad. just tell me."
"two words...first word starts with a P..."
"pink floyd!" she yelled. he smiled and pushed the cheesecake in her direction.
as he left to use the restroom, i watched the little girl. she could have been me. i pictured myself 11 years old again, tapping her on the shoulder and giving her all my life lessons. i would tell her that the last time i saw my father, i rolled my eyes at him. i would tell her that i still wondered if it hurt his feelings. i would tell her that i don't know if i will ever stop wondering.
my plans after work that night were canceled, and i was happy to go straight home. i didn't feel like looking at people, or the rain.
most of all, i didn't feel like seeing the trash in the street, now soaking wet and helplessly plastered to all of the concrete walls of the city.
.
2.27.2009
NOT-SO-SAD SONGS FOR DIRTY LOVERS
.
something for you internet/technology & music-lovers:
check out blip.fm - ASAP.
it's a lot like twitter, but instead of creepily updating everyone of your every move, you just clue people in to what you are up to musically. it is a streaming music site, so you can listen to anything in the database simply by searching (by title or artist.)
it's also a great way to find new music by following those who share musical tastes. and you can link it in to your last.fm & twitter accounts if you so choose.
if you wanna follow me, http://blip.fm/leigh_roy.
I LOVE IT! YOU WILL TOO!
something for you internet/technology & music-lovers:
check out blip.fm - ASAP.
it's a lot like twitter, but instead of creepily updating everyone of your every move, you just clue people in to what you are up to musically. it is a streaming music site, so you can listen to anything in the database simply by searching (by title or artist.)
it's also a great way to find new music by following those who share musical tastes. and you can link it in to your last.fm & twitter accounts if you so choose.
if you wanna follow me, http://blip.fm/leigh_roy.
I LOVE IT! YOU WILL TOO!
2.23.2009
I FELL IN LOVE AGAIN; ALL THINGS GO
.
sometimes you don't write in your blog for over two months, and you can't figure out how to start it back up. so you never do.
other times, you get invited to watch a taping of the Springer show, have a nightcap at the Reagle Beagle and then, while not entirely sure why, you jump right back into it.
so here i am. oddly inspired and unclear on how to bring anyone up to speed on my life. at least not in any sort of organized manner. so much has happened...i hardly know where to start. so i just will.
i've decided to get rid of my car. in the next week or so, i will buy a good road bike, and this will become my primary means of transportation. i could not be more excited. chicago is relatively flat, and biking (and conserving energy and waste in general) is one of my favorite parts of the city's culture.
i live in the neighborhood that is considered River West. my apartment is on Milwaukee ave, one of the few diagonal streets, and when i walk out my front door and turn left, i have a never-gets-old view of the downtown skyline. there is plenty to do within walking distance; Iguana and Swim Cafe among my first loves. my location is quite perfect, as is the fact that i can be anywhere in the city in less than 20 minutes by bicycle or train.
i recently began a second job doing personal assistant work for a screenplay writer. it's interesting and everchanging; my favorite part so far is editing/proofreading her stuff. i really do, as i always have, get some sort of weird pleasure out of correcting other people's work. something to think about perhaps. on the downside, i am sometimes tasked to rearrange her closets and pantries.
it is expensive to live here, but only if you spend foolishly. i watch every penny that enters my pocket now. i am learning to be financially responsible, thrifty, even cheap. i will never again step foot into a mall or department store and shop only at second-hand stores and locally owned boutiques. there are so many hats...hats everywhere. and books...books, books, books. i love digging through the $.50 book piles at the Salvation Army, and Myopic Books might be my favorite spot in the city to spend money. i am going to get a library card soon and actually use it. i acquire more books than i can keep up with right now. i learn something new every day...scratch that, every hour.
the city is noisy; new sounds everywhere. when its quiet late at night, i feel a train go under my apartment twice every hour. this does not annoy me...quite the opposite in fact. the garbage truck comes at the same time each morning...right outside my window. it used to wake me; now it intertwines with my sleep pattern.
i am surviving the worst winter chicago has seen in ten years. and it's ok. in fact, i recently witnessed the most beautiful, crystallized snowfall of my life. i now understand what it feels like to be lost in a snow globe.
the ratio of guys:girls in this city still amazes me. my advice to any female who has ever said (in that ridiculous, whiny voice) "all of the good ones are taaaken"....move to chicago. or any big city, for that matter. they are everywhere. and one so different from the next. they are interesting and funny and educated and traveled. they are from all over the globe and when you date them, they have not dated anyone you know. they are not distantly related to your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. they have never met your family. they don't ask what high school you attended. they are everywhere, and they are ready to take you, shake you and make you. and if that seems like too much, they are ready and willing to break you.
there are SO many shows and things to do; i love that my musical and social horizons have broadened significantly. no clubs, no waiting in lines for no reason, no dj's mashing together remixes of shitty top 40. i have seen real chicago jazz by a 79 year-old local legend and my favorite jukebox in the city (thus far) has nothing on it after 1970. i have played tambourine to some incredible raggae music by a man with dreads past his ass. i have danced to electronic dj's until my clothes are soaked in sweat and would do it every night if i could. i recently witnessed a 30 piece punk rock marching band, which was every bit as incredible as it sounds. i am doing all the things i pictured myself doing in some other life.
my drinking habits have adapted as well. thinking about it, i probably haven't had a cocktail since i moved from st. louis, aside from the occasional martini at the Matchbox (bar on the corner near my house). i still love my grand marnier, but other than that its an occasional shot of jameson and beer. lots and lots of beer. beer i've never heard of, beer i cannot get enough of and beer i'll never try again (i'm talking to you 9% abv Dragon's Milk).
i work a second job right now at a restaurant. i like everyone there and frequently stay after hours and have drinks with them...i consider them friends now and have learned so much from them already. occasionally, i sit in the parking garage next door and drink jack & cokes with the neighborhood valet drivers. this is not as strange as it seems.
i've also made friends with an old mexican man who wears sunglasses and overalls everyday. sometimes he keeps me out until sunrise when i have to be at work three hours later. i often give him rides home to the south side, and he repays me with tortillas from a taqueria next to his house. this actually is as strange as it seems.
i have also made my first real girlfriend that has never lived in or even visited st. louis. both of our fathers passed away when we were teenagers, and that is just the beginning of all we have in common. female friends don't come easy for me, so to relate to her on so many levels is a huge deal for me.
i am making time for things important to me. i am learning to recycle and think about the planet. i cannot wait for warmer weather to do rooftop yoga again and ride my bike up Lake Michigan. i am enrolling in dance in the spring and am re-familiarizing myself with spanish (gracias a los hombres que trabajan conmigo). i hope to save enough money to take another writing class or go back to school. i have no tangible future plans other than to learn as much as i possibly can.
i feel like my eyes are wide all the time; my head is on a swivel. i stood on the outskirts of history in november; amid a sea of hundreds of thousands of people who attended the obama rally. i fought very, very hard to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. not because of my personal belief in his ability to pull our country back together, but because i've never physically SEEN hope like that anywhere before. literally, HOPE, written on faces, banners, sidewalks, buildings. written across an entire city.
it took a little time, but i can now say that i love my life. things are far from perfect. i am not making much money and still don't know what i will do for the years to come. sometimes the city shits on me, but the trials do not discourage me, they makes me feel at home.
i am different now; i don't know if my past would recognize me. i feel alive here in a way that i did not in St. Louis. sometimes i wish i could gather up all the people i care about and bring them here...all the people who seem to sprawl farther away from my grasp. i want them to feel the way that i do...to have this experience. i want them to walk out their front door and feel such overwhelming emotion that sometimes they stop on the sidewalk and look around in disbelief, unsure of whether to laugh or scream or cry.
then, just as quickly, it comes to me...like a punch in the stomach and a breath of fresh air. maybe they do feel that way, wherever they are, and that is why we are no longer standing on the same sidewalk. maybe they are living their lives, walking their sidewalks, losing their breath and feeling it rush back in again. for reasons that i can't begin to comprehend.
now that i have taken a step back, i can finally see. i see everything; i see myself; i see you. i no longer beg for acceptance. i merely require it. if it is not received, i move on. no hard feelings or non-reciprocated investment.
there is no time for that anymore; there is so much else.
for those of you right-brainers, see below:
sometimes you don't write in your blog for over two months, and you can't figure out how to start it back up. so you never do.
other times, you get invited to watch a taping of the Springer show, have a nightcap at the Reagle Beagle and then, while not entirely sure why, you jump right back into it.
so here i am. oddly inspired and unclear on how to bring anyone up to speed on my life. at least not in any sort of organized manner. so much has happened...i hardly know where to start. so i just will.
i've decided to get rid of my car. in the next week or so, i will buy a good road bike, and this will become my primary means of transportation. i could not be more excited. chicago is relatively flat, and biking (and conserving energy and waste in general) is one of my favorite parts of the city's culture.
i live in the neighborhood that is considered River West. my apartment is on Milwaukee ave, one of the few diagonal streets, and when i walk out my front door and turn left, i have a never-gets-old view of the downtown skyline. there is plenty to do within walking distance; Iguana and Swim Cafe among my first loves. my location is quite perfect, as is the fact that i can be anywhere in the city in less than 20 minutes by bicycle or train.
i recently began a second job doing personal assistant work for a screenplay writer. it's interesting and everchanging; my favorite part so far is editing/proofreading her stuff. i really do, as i always have, get some sort of weird pleasure out of correcting other people's work. something to think about perhaps. on the downside, i am sometimes tasked to rearrange her closets and pantries.
it is expensive to live here, but only if you spend foolishly. i watch every penny that enters my pocket now. i am learning to be financially responsible, thrifty, even cheap. i will never again step foot into a mall or department store and shop only at second-hand stores and locally owned boutiques. there are so many hats...hats everywhere. and books...books, books, books. i love digging through the $.50 book piles at the Salvation Army, and Myopic Books might be my favorite spot in the city to spend money. i am going to get a library card soon and actually use it. i acquire more books than i can keep up with right now. i learn something new every day...scratch that, every hour.
the city is noisy; new sounds everywhere. when its quiet late at night, i feel a train go under my apartment twice every hour. this does not annoy me...quite the opposite in fact. the garbage truck comes at the same time each morning...right outside my window. it used to wake me; now it intertwines with my sleep pattern.
i am surviving the worst winter chicago has seen in ten years. and it's ok. in fact, i recently witnessed the most beautiful, crystallized snowfall of my life. i now understand what it feels like to be lost in a snow globe.
the ratio of guys:girls in this city still amazes me. my advice to any female who has ever said (in that ridiculous, whiny voice) "all of the good ones are taaaken"....move to chicago. or any big city, for that matter. they are everywhere. and one so different from the next. they are interesting and funny and educated and traveled. they are from all over the globe and when you date them, they have not dated anyone you know. they are not distantly related to your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. they have never met your family. they don't ask what high school you attended. they are everywhere, and they are ready to take you, shake you and make you. and if that seems like too much, they are ready and willing to break you.
there are SO many shows and things to do; i love that my musical and social horizons have broadened significantly. no clubs, no waiting in lines for no reason, no dj's mashing together remixes of shitty top 40. i have seen real chicago jazz by a 79 year-old local legend and my favorite jukebox in the city (thus far) has nothing on it after 1970. i have played tambourine to some incredible raggae music by a man with dreads past his ass. i have danced to electronic dj's until my clothes are soaked in sweat and would do it every night if i could. i recently witnessed a 30 piece punk rock marching band, which was every bit as incredible as it sounds. i am doing all the things i pictured myself doing in some other life.
my drinking habits have adapted as well. thinking about it, i probably haven't had a cocktail since i moved from st. louis, aside from the occasional martini at the Matchbox (bar on the corner near my house). i still love my grand marnier, but other than that its an occasional shot of jameson and beer. lots and lots of beer. beer i've never heard of, beer i cannot get enough of and beer i'll never try again (i'm talking to you 9% abv Dragon's Milk).
i work a second job right now at a restaurant. i like everyone there and frequently stay after hours and have drinks with them...i consider them friends now and have learned so much from them already. occasionally, i sit in the parking garage next door and drink jack & cokes with the neighborhood valet drivers. this is not as strange as it seems.
i've also made friends with an old mexican man who wears sunglasses and overalls everyday. sometimes he keeps me out until sunrise when i have to be at work three hours later. i often give him rides home to the south side, and he repays me with tortillas from a taqueria next to his house. this actually is as strange as it seems.
i have also made my first real girlfriend that has never lived in or even visited st. louis. both of our fathers passed away when we were teenagers, and that is just the beginning of all we have in common. female friends don't come easy for me, so to relate to her on so many levels is a huge deal for me.
i am making time for things important to me. i am learning to recycle and think about the planet. i cannot wait for warmer weather to do rooftop yoga again and ride my bike up Lake Michigan. i am enrolling in dance in the spring and am re-familiarizing myself with spanish (gracias a los hombres que trabajan conmigo). i hope to save enough money to take another writing class or go back to school. i have no tangible future plans other than to learn as much as i possibly can.
i feel like my eyes are wide all the time; my head is on a swivel. i stood on the outskirts of history in november; amid a sea of hundreds of thousands of people who attended the obama rally. i fought very, very hard to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. not because of my personal belief in his ability to pull our country back together, but because i've never physically SEEN hope like that anywhere before. literally, HOPE, written on faces, banners, sidewalks, buildings. written across an entire city.
it took a little time, but i can now say that i love my life. things are far from perfect. i am not making much money and still don't know what i will do for the years to come. sometimes the city shits on me, but the trials do not discourage me, they makes me feel at home.
i am different now; i don't know if my past would recognize me. i feel alive here in a way that i did not in St. Louis. sometimes i wish i could gather up all the people i care about and bring them here...all the people who seem to sprawl farther away from my grasp. i want them to feel the way that i do...to have this experience. i want them to walk out their front door and feel such overwhelming emotion that sometimes they stop on the sidewalk and look around in disbelief, unsure of whether to laugh or scream or cry.
then, just as quickly, it comes to me...like a punch in the stomach and a breath of fresh air. maybe they do feel that way, wherever they are, and that is why we are no longer standing on the same sidewalk. maybe they are living their lives, walking their sidewalks, losing their breath and feeling it rush back in again. for reasons that i can't begin to comprehend.
now that i have taken a step back, i can finally see. i see everything; i see myself; i see you. i no longer beg for acceptance. i merely require it. if it is not received, i move on. no hard feelings or non-reciprocated investment.
there is no time for that anymore; there is so much else.
for those of you right-brainers, see below:
12.01.2008
RANDOM CHILDHOOD MEMORY II
.
I had another childhood flashback today: the Manha Manha video from the Muppets.
Oddly enough, the song debuted in 'Italian' in 1968 on the soundtrack for a movie called Svezia, Inferno e Paradiso (Sweden: Heaven and Hell), a documentary about wild sexual activity and other behavior in Sweden. Shortly after it was debuted in 'English' on the Ed Sullivan Show and on the Muppet Show. Seems like a natural progression...
The first video posted below is the version I remember, the second is the original version and the third is a promo for The Office. There have been a ton of other spin-offs spawned over the years, including a cover by Cake and commercial for Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.
My thoughts: 1 point Hipsters; 0 points Squares
Good luck getting the song out of your head.
MANHA MANHA
manha manha - the early years
Manha Manha meets The Office
.
.
I had another childhood flashback today: the Manha Manha video from the Muppets.
Oddly enough, the song debuted in 'Italian' in 1968 on the soundtrack for a movie called Svezia, Inferno e Paradiso (Sweden: Heaven and Hell), a documentary about wild sexual activity and other behavior in Sweden. Shortly after it was debuted in 'English' on the Ed Sullivan Show and on the Muppet Show. Seems like a natural progression...
The first video posted below is the version I remember, the second is the original version and the third is a promo for The Office. There have been a ton of other spin-offs spawned over the years, including a cover by Cake and commercial for Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.
My thoughts: 1 point Hipsters; 0 points Squares
Good luck getting the song out of your head.
MANHA MANHA
manha manha - the early years
Manha Manha meets The Office
.
.
11.19.2008
RANDOM CHILDHOOD MEMORY
.
I ran across this today, and it made me smile. Love the animation; one of my fondest Sesame Street memories...
.
I ran across this today, and it made me smile. Love the animation; one of my fondest Sesame Street memories...
.
11.16.2008
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY - PART II
.
This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
This is the last week for my first writing class in Chicago. I feel happiness/sadness at the same time. Happy to have a little more time to myself and to update my blog; sad because I genuinely enjoyed it. School apparently isn't all that bad when you love what you are studying. My next class will hopefully be in the summer of 2009, if/when I am admitted into the program. For now, look for more frequent blog updates...starting with my last assignment for the class.
ASSIGNMENT: to expand my character sketch assignment into a partial/full work of memoir or essay. If you read my character sketch a while back, keep reading, it goes on much further.
I AIN'T SINGIN' CAUSE I'M HAPPY
I wrote this on my way to work. It is my one and only love story.
It’s late Saturday evening and he sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years-old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem."
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
It’s Saturday again; my fondness for this day grows with each passing week. I walk up the sidewalk to the bar and feel a twinge of happiness to see Serge get out of the passenger side of an old, slightly rusted car. He wasn’t at work last week, and things felt bland without his presence.
It is a particularly slow-starting evening, and he is talkative. He leans on the bar, his attire almost identical to every other Saturday for the last few months. It could be considered his uniform, I suppose, although it seems more like an extension of him. Tonight, his dark denim overalls cover a deep orange, plaid collared shirt, rolled again to the elbows. One arm boasts a generous hole, the fabric frayed at the edges, through which I can see some dark material underneath. I stare curiously at the hole and wonder how long it took to spread so widely across his arm.
“You are gonna play me in pool” he says, suddenly.
“But I don’t really know how” I respond.
“Perfect, I’ll teach you, and then I’ll beat you,” he says with a chuckle and makes his way toward the table, whistling as he goes.
He is patient in his teaching, in a fatherly sort of way. He doesn’t belittle my inexperience and instead refers to me as ‘the future of pool.’ He provides commentary, playfully, as I sink the final shot for the win and almost convinces me that I deserve it. We play one more game, he wins easily, then we sit at the bar, waiting for the people. He flips a Cary Grant special on the television, and we are both engrossed. I almost fail to notice that a few customers trickle through the door. They know Serg, of course. I serve them drinks, two Pabst Blue Ribbons on tap and a Jameson on the rocks and ask if they would like me to put on some music. No, they tell me. They watch, too.
Sometimes Saturday is open mic night. When the first and only band takes stage, there are about twenty-five people in the bar. The band is dreadful, but their sheer enthusiasm outweighs the mistakes, and we applaud them, like proud parents, for being so fearless. During a break, Serg grabs a guitar and takes the mic. I am delighted at the impromptu performance; it is my first chance to hear him play.
He is a comedian, in his own right, and begins every song with “I wrote this song on my way to work. It is my one and only love song,” even though most are not. His voice fills the room, sweeter and more sentimental than one would ever predict by looking at him. A large group in the corner, they know Sergio. I watch as they sway and sing along with his words:
I ain’t singin cause I’m happy. But then again, I’m not too sad.
It’s a funny sort of feeling, not feeling good and not feeling bad.
Don’t you know I heard it said, that’s the way it should be.
Never tied down, always loose, to do as you please.
That’s the way, I heard it said, it should be.
No ties or bonds, to hold us down, we’re so free.
At the end of the night, Serg asks me, as he does every week, “Whatcha doing, girl? You coming out for a drink?” I begin to deny his invitation, as I do every week, “Just gonna go home, it’s been a long week…,” my voice trails off. He insists, “C’mon, first drink is on me. Come see some city.”
Curiosity trumps sleep; I go with him for a drink.
We walk into the Ale House, and I am reminded instantly of his most redeeming quality. Everyone knows Serg, and if they don’t, they want to and certainly have the chance by the end of an evening. As he introduces me to a myriad of people, I notice the whole room is festooned with portraits, painted by the owner of the tavern, of celebrities, local legends, politicians and other persons of note that have paid visit to the establishment. The air is filled with the snaking sounds of a saxophone. Coltrane, I think. As my senses struggle with overload, my eyes rest on a picture of him singing in a band, which covers a respectable chunk of a back wall. I comment, and he points out another right behind me. This does not surprise me.
Serg and I sit at the bar, shots in front of us, tequila and Jameson respectively. He asks, “What are you really doing here, girl? What’s so bad about St. Louis?”
I try to sum up, in a short time, the reasons behind my move. I tell him of feelings of stagnancy and wanderlust; a constant, insatiable, nagging urge to sprint away, far away, from the place I have always called home. I tell him of questions of belonging, often followed by answers of alienation. I tell him stories of opening a bar with friends and about the beginnings of relationships. I tell him about the slow death of our creation, and subsequently, relationships. I tell him that there was nothing keeping me there anymore, and that I felt abandoned, in many ways, by the only things that held me in one place for so long. I tell him about the ultimate realization that nothing is ever as sacred as I hope, despite grandiose efforts, many that surprised even me. I tell him, behind blurred vision, that I could not spend one more year in that place, for fear of watching myself dry up, crumble to pieces and blow away forever.
Maybe it is the Jameson or the imploring eyes of a hundred paintings or the impending arrival of early Sunday morning sun, but I tell him everything, and he listens.
“Ahh…such is life,” he tells me. “Just when you think you have it figured out, something, or someone, comes along and throws you right off track. You just have to try to remember one thing: always look out for yourself. Welcome people into your life, but realize that they are just here, running around this Earth, doing the same exact thing. This may sound like a negative, selfish thing, but it’s not. People come in and out of your life for a reason – a purpose – and all of these experiences we have, they teach us lessons that we must be open to learning. They change us, ya know, but they don’t stay forever. Nothing does. Just ask one of my ex-wives."
He laughs.
"But in all seriousness, that doesn’t mean they don’t make an impact that you will carry with you forever. You just have to accept it and move forward.”
He shoots his tequila, and looks at me. “You’re never gonna leave Chicago, ya know. Welcome home, girl,” he tells me.
Another Saturday, and I am in St. Louis, the place I used to call home. No windy city, no work, no Serg. I think about his words as I spend time with friends. All of these relationships, which once powered my days and shaped my character, are revisited. Things are different now; I am different now. Old feelings of antipathy and resentment, which I battled after my move, slowly melt away. I gratefully usher in realizations, awakenings and disbandments of old demons. I listen to what my friends say with new understanding. I can feel that they care, often more than can be expressed aloud. I silently thank them for giving what they can and wish them well - honestly and without reservation - and I hope my benevolence transcends all that has happened. I feel at peace, a sentiment that seemed completely insurmountable just a few months before. I move forward.
A week passes, and I am driving the streets of Chicago. I scribble some notes on the pad of paper I keep in my console; as I often do during the short waits at six-way intersections. I am singing loudly, gregariously even. Not because I am particularly happy, but not because I am sad either. I am singing because it’s Saturday, and I am on my way to work.
11.03.2008
BEWARE OF DARK ALLEYWAYS
.
Alleyways + Big City + Darkness usually equals trouble, right?
I've learned one very, very important lesson when walking through alleys in Chicago: Always keep your eyes open and constantly survey the surroundings. If not, you could be making a grave mistake.
Yes, you could be missing out on prime opportunity to score some brand new stuff. Well, not exactly brand new, but certainly new to you and most importantly, FREE.
It's extremely common practice in this city to set all your unwanted 'junk' out next to the dumpster so that others can have a go at it. A practice I am certainly growing fond of thus far, and trust me, I'm not just talking cat-pee stained recliners here.
As my roommate and I were walking her dog a couple evenings ago, I spotted some fantastic vintage luggage sitting beside a neighboring dumpster. The designer dates back to the 1920's-1970's, and it's in surprisingly good shape. We also scored a beautiful ($%#*ing heavy) mirror that should take care of some of our empty wall space.
You know the saying, "One person's trash is another's reason to plan a vacation."
Au Revoir!
.
Alleyways + Big City + Darkness usually equals trouble, right?
I've learned one very, very important lesson when walking through alleys in Chicago: Always keep your eyes open and constantly survey the surroundings. If not, you could be making a grave mistake.
Yes, you could be missing out on prime opportunity to score some brand new stuff. Well, not exactly brand new, but certainly new to you and most importantly, FREE.
It's extremely common practice in this city to set all your unwanted 'junk' out next to the dumpster so that others can have a go at it. A practice I am certainly growing fond of thus far, and trust me, I'm not just talking cat-pee stained recliners here.
As my roommate and I were walking her dog a couple evenings ago, I spotted some fantastic vintage luggage sitting beside a neighboring dumpster. The designer dates back to the 1920's-1970's, and it's in surprisingly good shape. We also scored a beautiful ($%#*ing heavy) mirror that should take care of some of our empty wall space.
You know the saying, "One person's trash is another's reason to plan a vacation."
Au Revoir!
.
10.31.2008
ON THE MORROW HE WILL LEAVE ME, AS MY HOPES HAVE FLOWN BEFORE
.
Just a little rendition of Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Raven' in the spirit of Halloween.
Read by Christopher Walken; Illustrated by Gustave Dore.
Enjoy...
AND a bit of a different take on it...:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.
.
Just a little rendition of Edgar Allen Poe's 'The Raven' in the spirit of Halloween.
Read by Christopher Walken; Illustrated by Gustave Dore.
Enjoy...
AND a bit of a different take on it...:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.
.
10.28.2008
IT'S ALWAYS SUNNIER IN SOMEONE ELSE'S PARKING LOT...
Ok, so I pretty much suck. It's been far too long since I have updated, and I honestly feel bad about it, as people who start blogs and never write in them is actually in my Top 100 most annoying things on the planet. But in my defense, I have been insanely busy with work, school and the revolving door of visitors I've been hosting since moving up here.
I've seen, done, and consumed some really amazing/interesting/unbelievable things in the last couple weeks, and I promise to include more on all that soon. In short, I love this city more with each passing day and hope that this feeling stays with me for years to come.
In the meantime, here is my latest writing assignment, for anyone interested in pickin up what I've been puttin down. If not, look for more in depth updates on life in the WINDY CITY (ya I can really say that after today) very soon.
A Sunnier Disposition
I suppose I used to like sunflowers. Perhaps in a way that you enjoy anything beautiful and unassuming that never captures too much of your attention at any one time. It’s remarkable, though, how a situation can completely alter your perception of an inanimate object, taking something perfectly ordinary and giving it a new meaning.
After my Father’s unexpected passing during the summer of 2001, the sunflower became one of those things, eerily rearing its head at unexpected times, linking together a string of unrelated events in a matter of weeks that could have easily been deemed coincidental until they just couldn't anymore, with the help of an otherwise hopeless afternoon late in the summer, when I was served brunch on a patio with an undeniable side of hope.
The sun was bright, but more forgiving than weeks prior. I stood hunched over in a bank parking lot with my hands on my knees, hoping to soon regain my bearings, not to mention my dignity which was now mixed in somewhere on the cement with the rest of last night's dinner. I stood up and opened one eye very slowly in attempt to fool my insistent, pulsating headache. I wiped the sides of my mouth and caught a glimpse of myself in the window. I silently scolded my reflection; it almost tricked me into believing I was this composed, attractive young woman dressed in summer white, instead of some unrecognizable, roving pile of hungover, emotional wreckage.
I rounded the corner back toward the car, where my Mom and sisters waited for me to finish getting sick in a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. The car ride was hushed and resembled a bus sparsely littered with strangers rather than a family on route to Sunday brunch. We meandered through the quiet neighborhood before stopping in front of one of the perfectly manicured homes. From the moment the car door opened and my aunt and cousin climbed in, my aunt’s incessant chatter filled the air. For once, it wasn’t met with averted glances and exasperated sighs. In fact, the noise was a welcome alternative to the deafening silence that blanketed our world for the few weeks before.
Brunch was a blur, interspersed with gourmet omelets, salmon croquettes and frequent rushes of nausea that sent me scurrying to the restroom through the well-to-do crowd on the café patio. Toward the end of the meal, my cell phone jingled on the table and the ‘unavailable’ number sent my stomach lurching in a whole different direction. It was my boyfriend, and thanks to several weeks of isolation in basic training at the Air Force Academy, it was the first time we spoke after my Father passed away. He received the news, however, nearly two weeks before by a hand-written letter.
I barely made it to a nearby bench before tears, the first since the funeral, began streaming relentlessly down my cheeks. As I watched them disintegrate on the steaming pavement below, something stepped between the sun and my bench. I looked up to see the sunlit outline of a young, Mexican busboy standing over me. He held out his hand and extended a small vase, half-filled with water and boasting a solitary sunflower.
I stared at him for a moment, confused, before looking to my family for some clarity. I was convinced they had sent him over, but the collective look of shock on their faces proved otherwise. As the boy handed me the flower, he told me to stop crying and promised me, in broken English and with a crooked smile, that everything would be okay. For some reason, despite the doubt that encased the endless waves of assurance from those closest to me, I believed him.
I can never be sure what compelled him to come over that day or why he chose that flower as his offering. He couldn’t have possibly known the significance of his gesture or that it may have lifted a complete stranger out of something deep. Deeper than uncomfortable car rides, unwelcome chatter and untouched croquettes. Deeper than fathers and funerals and long-awaited phone calls. Deeper than most anything on any given day, except the unadorned offering of hope on a sunny July Sunday.
.
I've seen, done, and consumed some really amazing/interesting/unbelievable things in the last couple weeks, and I promise to include more on all that soon. In short, I love this city more with each passing day and hope that this feeling stays with me for years to come.
In the meantime, here is my latest writing assignment, for anyone interested in pickin up what I've been puttin down. If not, look for more in depth updates on life in the WINDY CITY (ya I can really say that after today) very soon.
A Sunnier Disposition
I suppose I used to like sunflowers. Perhaps in a way that you enjoy anything beautiful and unassuming that never captures too much of your attention at any one time. It’s remarkable, though, how a situation can completely alter your perception of an inanimate object, taking something perfectly ordinary and giving it a new meaning.
After my Father’s unexpected passing during the summer of 2001, the sunflower became one of those things, eerily rearing its head at unexpected times, linking together a string of unrelated events in a matter of weeks that could have easily been deemed coincidental until they just couldn't anymore, with the help of an otherwise hopeless afternoon late in the summer, when I was served brunch on a patio with an undeniable side of hope.
The sun was bright, but more forgiving than weeks prior. I stood hunched over in a bank parking lot with my hands on my knees, hoping to soon regain my bearings, not to mention my dignity which was now mixed in somewhere on the cement with the rest of last night's dinner. I stood up and opened one eye very slowly in attempt to fool my insistent, pulsating headache. I wiped the sides of my mouth and caught a glimpse of myself in the window. I silently scolded my reflection; it almost tricked me into believing I was this composed, attractive young woman dressed in summer white, instead of some unrecognizable, roving pile of hungover, emotional wreckage.
I rounded the corner back toward the car, where my Mom and sisters waited for me to finish getting sick in a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. The car ride was hushed and resembled a bus sparsely littered with strangers rather than a family on route to Sunday brunch. We meandered through the quiet neighborhood before stopping in front of one of the perfectly manicured homes. From the moment the car door opened and my aunt and cousin climbed in, my aunt’s incessant chatter filled the air. For once, it wasn’t met with averted glances and exasperated sighs. In fact, the noise was a welcome alternative to the deafening silence that blanketed our world for the few weeks before.
Brunch was a blur, interspersed with gourmet omelets, salmon croquettes and frequent rushes of nausea that sent me scurrying to the restroom through the well-to-do crowd on the café patio. Toward the end of the meal, my cell phone jingled on the table and the ‘unavailable’ number sent my stomach lurching in a whole different direction. It was my boyfriend, and thanks to several weeks of isolation in basic training at the Air Force Academy, it was the first time we spoke after my Father passed away. He received the news, however, nearly two weeks before by a hand-written letter.
I barely made it to a nearby bench before tears, the first since the funeral, began streaming relentlessly down my cheeks. As I watched them disintegrate on the steaming pavement below, something stepped between the sun and my bench. I looked up to see the sunlit outline of a young, Mexican busboy standing over me. He held out his hand and extended a small vase, half-filled with water and boasting a solitary sunflower.
I stared at him for a moment, confused, before looking to my family for some clarity. I was convinced they had sent him over, but the collective look of shock on their faces proved otherwise. As the boy handed me the flower, he told me to stop crying and promised me, in broken English and with a crooked smile, that everything would be okay. For some reason, despite the doubt that encased the endless waves of assurance from those closest to me, I believed him.
I can never be sure what compelled him to come over that day or why he chose that flower as his offering. He couldn’t have possibly known the significance of his gesture or that it may have lifted a complete stranger out of something deep. Deeper than uncomfortable car rides, unwelcome chatter and untouched croquettes. Deeper than fathers and funerals and long-awaited phone calls. Deeper than most anything on any given day, except the unadorned offering of hope on a sunny July Sunday.
.
10.09.2008
MY IDEA...UP IN FLAMES
.
So, I was complaining to a friend the other day about my strong distaste for the Affliction/Ed Hardy/etc craze that is occurring in our backwards society and that I basically want to punch every guy proudly sporting these $100 pieces of crap t-shirts in the face. I mentioned that I had this idea to throw a big bonfire in which somehow you figure out a way to get a large amount of EH/Affliction merch and just torch the hell out of it. Or maybe you trick people into wearing their prized apparel to the party, only to let them know that they have to throw it to the flames if they want to stay. Then, upon cooperation, you provide them with a free 'How not to be a flaming douchebag' lesson and hand them a PBR tallboy.
Unsure of how to logistically make this happen, I put the idea out of my head.
Meanwhile, as I was poking around on Myspace today, I found a flyer for a NOT-Ed-Hardy Party. It is to promote the opening of a store on Ashland selling Novem gear (local designers) and basically will be blackballing anyone wearing anything resembling the Ed Hardy brands.
Glad to know there are people out there on the same page. I will be checking out the Evil Olive for sure next Friday to show my love. Or is it hate?
.
So, I was complaining to a friend the other day about my strong distaste for the Affliction/Ed Hardy/etc craze that is occurring in our backwards society and that I basically want to punch every guy proudly sporting these $100 pieces of crap t-shirts in the face. I mentioned that I had this idea to throw a big bonfire in which somehow you figure out a way to get a large amount of EH/Affliction merch and just torch the hell out of it. Or maybe you trick people into wearing their prized apparel to the party, only to let them know that they have to throw it to the flames if they want to stay. Then, upon cooperation, you provide them with a free 'How not to be a flaming douchebag' lesson and hand them a PBR tallboy.
Unsure of how to logistically make this happen, I put the idea out of my head.
Meanwhile, as I was poking around on Myspace today, I found a flyer for a NOT-Ed-Hardy Party. It is to promote the opening of a store on Ashland selling Novem gear (local designers) and basically will be blackballing anyone wearing anything resembling the Ed Hardy brands.
Glad to know there are people out there on the same page. I will be checking out the Evil Olive for sure next Friday to show my love. Or is it hate?
.
10.06.2008
SKETCHY CHARACTER?
.
...or just a character sketch?
One of my first assignments:
I AIN'T SINGIN CAUSE I'M HAPPY
He sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem," I say.
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
.
...or just a character sketch?
One of my first assignments:
I AIN'T SINGIN CAUSE I'M HAPPY
He sits perched on a stool out front of the old tavern, as he does most every night. His arms, half covered in a maroon button-up shirt rolled just below the elbows, are crossed, resting on his stomach inside his dark denim overalls, making his already broad, thick frame appear even bulkier. His kinked, frizzy, shoulder-length black hair is pulled back at the nape of his neck, held in place by an elastic rubber band. His eyes are masked by a pair of dark, round sunglasses that never leave his face.
He is a quiet man, approaching 60 years old. He chooses his words and conversations sparingly, but he has seen things and has stories to tell. It is apparent by the deep creases on his face and roughness of his hands, but also by the way he grins to himself, on occasion, when he thinks no one is watching. His laugh is robust and genuine, but to make him laugh is a rarity. Achieve such accomplishment, however, and it resonates with you for hours.
"SERG, telephone!" someone yells from inside.
He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, shifts his weight off the stool and stamps at the orange glow on the sidewalk with his heavy black boot. He shakes some imaginary embers off his overalls, which are worn and faded at the seat. He makes his way inside, letting out a deep, low sigh as he goes. His walk is heavy, almost forced, as if he is bothered by each step that no one has figured out a more suitable way to get from here to there.
Pulling the phone to his ear, he lets out a gruff "Yeah?" A series of affirmative grunts follow, and he slams the receiver down shortly after.
"You drove tonight, yes?" He says to me, with just a hint of a Mexican accent.
"Uh...yes, I did," I respond, not sure where this is leading.
"How about you throw me out at the Old Ale House? It's just a half mile down the road."
"Of course, no problem," I say.
After we close the bar down, we drive down the street, in silence at first. Much to my surprise, he hands me a cd and says "Put this on number 19." I hit play and immediately recognize the voice that fills the car, which now smells of stale cigarette smoke, to be his. As he pulls himself out of my car, he nods in recognition to the bouncer outside the Ale House. He leans his head back into the car and says, "You keep that cd, ok?" Then, even though I can’t see beyond his sunglasses, I’m sure he winks at me.
And it stays with me for hours.
.
10.05.2008
THE WORLD KEEPS GOING ROUND
.
Somewhere after midnight last night, I watched as one gentleman's whole night (and probably month, year, world, whatever) was ruined as the Cubbies fell to the Dodgers in just three games. He looked absolutely destroyed. His friends tried to cheer him, even bought him a shot, slapped him on the back and said "There's always next year." And if not next year, the year after that. And so on. It will be okay, the world keeps going round, my friend.
I woke around 11am today to see that it looked like rain. I was sure a good portion of the city was in a major sports-induced depression, but that wasn't going to ruin my day. Rain is a-ok, especially when I don't have to be running around in it. It's even better when I find a good enough reason to run around in it anyway.
Around 12:30pm, as my roommates and I were drinking our morning coffee, I got an e-mail about the free art on Sundays that I mentioned before. One of the pieces was placed right around the corner from our apartment, and since the paintings usually disappear within 15 minutes, we literally ran out of the house in our pajamas. You would have thought we were racing for a $5 million lottery ticket. The painting was already gone by the time we got there, and it was now sprinkling. So we headed home, wet and empty handed. No big deal, the world keeps going round.
It's now 7:45pm on Sunday evening. After a day filled with grocery shopping, cleaning, yoga and homework, I declined an offer to go grab a drink. I claimed to be tired, but really I just wanted to spend that $$$ on two books I want to read instead. So I ordered the books and realized what a different life I am leading up here. I sat and reflected on things, as I like to do.
This past weekend was the grand re-opening of my old bar. It has a new, more time-conscious name and new faces, interspersed with some old familiar ones. I have seen the new place and looked at the pictures, but it is an entirely foreign land to me. It is strange to watch your old world move forward without you and to watch people evolve with it, in ways you couldn't have predicted. I am still invested in the business, but I don't think much about that. Mostly I just hope it has all unfolded the way they envisioned and that it brings happiness to their world. A happiness I knew I would not have found.
It would be impossible for me to explain to most people why I no longer had a place within those walls or why I moved or how I ended up here. I learned so much there, not just about running a business, but about people...and life...and the different ways we all deal with it. Mostly I learned that nothing ever winds up as sacred as you imagined, and if you are no longer satisfied within the walls you have created, then walk through the door and see what else is out there. Because the world keeps going round...with or without you...and its up to you to keep up with it. Not the other way around.
I'll leave off with the painting I would have liked to find today and some lyrics to a tune (orignal by the Kinks, covered by Of Montreal).
You worry 'bout the sun
What's the use of worrying
'bout the big ol' sun
You worry 'bout the rain
The rain keeps falling just the same
You worry when the one you need
has found somebody new
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
The world keeps going round
You worry 'bout yourself
What's the use of worrying now
you're almost grown
You worry 'bout your home
What's the use of worrying
'cause you'll die alone
Times will be hard, rain will fall
And you'll feel mighty low
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
The world keeps going round
Times will be hard, rain will fall
And you'll feel mighty low
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
.
Somewhere after midnight last night, I watched as one gentleman's whole night (and probably month, year, world, whatever) was ruined as the Cubbies fell to the Dodgers in just three games. He looked absolutely destroyed. His friends tried to cheer him, even bought him a shot, slapped him on the back and said "There's always next year." And if not next year, the year after that. And so on. It will be okay, the world keeps going round, my friend.
I woke around 11am today to see that it looked like rain. I was sure a good portion of the city was in a major sports-induced depression, but that wasn't going to ruin my day. Rain is a-ok, especially when I don't have to be running around in it. It's even better when I find a good enough reason to run around in it anyway.
Around 12:30pm, as my roommates and I were drinking our morning coffee, I got an e-mail about the free art on Sundays that I mentioned before. One of the pieces was placed right around the corner from our apartment, and since the paintings usually disappear within 15 minutes, we literally ran out of the house in our pajamas. You would have thought we were racing for a $5 million lottery ticket. The painting was already gone by the time we got there, and it was now sprinkling. So we headed home, wet and empty handed. No big deal, the world keeps going round.
It's now 7:45pm on Sunday evening. After a day filled with grocery shopping, cleaning, yoga and homework, I declined an offer to go grab a drink. I claimed to be tired, but really I just wanted to spend that $$$ on two books I want to read instead. So I ordered the books and realized what a different life I am leading up here. I sat and reflected on things, as I like to do.
This past weekend was the grand re-opening of my old bar. It has a new, more time-conscious name and new faces, interspersed with some old familiar ones. I have seen the new place and looked at the pictures, but it is an entirely foreign land to me. It is strange to watch your old world move forward without you and to watch people evolve with it, in ways you couldn't have predicted. I am still invested in the business, but I don't think much about that. Mostly I just hope it has all unfolded the way they envisioned and that it brings happiness to their world. A happiness I knew I would not have found.
It would be impossible for me to explain to most people why I no longer had a place within those walls or why I moved or how I ended up here. I learned so much there, not just about running a business, but about people...and life...and the different ways we all deal with it. Mostly I learned that nothing ever winds up as sacred as you imagined, and if you are no longer satisfied within the walls you have created, then walk through the door and see what else is out there. Because the world keeps going round...with or without you...and its up to you to keep up with it. Not the other way around.
I'll leave off with the painting I would have liked to find today and some lyrics to a tune (orignal by the Kinks, covered by Of Montreal).
You worry 'bout the sunWhat's the use of worrying
'bout the big ol' sun
You worry 'bout the rain
The rain keeps falling just the same
You worry when the one you need
has found somebody new
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
The world keeps going round
You worry 'bout yourself
What's the use of worrying now
you're almost grown
You worry 'bout your home
What's the use of worrying
'cause you'll die alone
Times will be hard, rain will fall
And you'll feel mighty low
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
The world keeps going round
Times will be hard, rain will fall
And you'll feel mighty low
But the world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
The world keeps going round
You just can't stop it
.
10.04.2008
LONE WARRIOR, NO MAS?
.
My horoscope for today:
"You tend to think of yourself as kind of lone warrior, Elle. But today your efforts over the last twenty days have paid off. You have found your place in a group of people; you may even call it a family. You now have a place to come home to, whether it's to celebrate your victories or to lick your wounds. If you could just open up to other people, you'll soon find that have more than one safe-haven."
A small, dysfunctional, unlikely family it is, but it feels like family nonetheless. We may not be related, but we can certainly relate to the trials and tribulations of the unfamiliar that we are each going through. We have vowed to support each other, in whatever way needed, to make this adjustment as rewarding and smooth as possible. All the while keeping up with our assigned household responsibilities.
Vanna B:
Household duties: Close all cabinet doors, turn off all lights and blow out all candles. Also good for riding bike indoors and finding useful things next to the dumpster.
Know-It-Elle:
Household duties: Technology/Music Wizard and Human Thesaurus, Dictionary and Spell-checker. Occasionally sells herself for software.
HouseHead Hendo:
Household duties: Teach downward facing dog and other such practices. Keep steady supply of background house muzik going.
My horoscope for today:
"You tend to think of yourself as kind of lone warrior, Elle. But today your efforts over the last twenty days have paid off. You have found your place in a group of people; you may even call it a family. You now have a place to come home to, whether it's to celebrate your victories or to lick your wounds. If you could just open up to other people, you'll soon find that have more than one safe-haven."
A small, dysfunctional, unlikely family it is, but it feels like family nonetheless. We may not be related, but we can certainly relate to the trials and tribulations of the unfamiliar that we are each going through. We have vowed to support each other, in whatever way needed, to make this adjustment as rewarding and smooth as possible. All the while keeping up with our assigned household responsibilities.
Vanna B:
Household duties: Close all cabinet doors, turn off all lights and blow out all candles. Also good for riding bike indoors and finding useful things next to the dumpster.
Know-It-Elle:
Household duties: Technology/Music Wizard and Human Thesaurus, Dictionary and Spell-checker. Occasionally sells herself for software.
HouseHead Hendo:
Household duties: Teach downward facing dog and other such practices. Keep steady supply of background house muzik going.
HOME: It's not necessarily where the heart is, but it is where you drink water out of old wine bottles and can always hear solid house music playing.
.
.
T-PAIN VS. THE VOCODER
.
This video is in honor of the 40 T-Pain songs I had to listen to one guy play on the juke box last night.
This video is in honor of the 40 T-Pain songs I had to listen to one guy play on the juke box last night.
10.02.2008
SIGNS OF HOPE & CHANGE
.
I hope that everyone has registered and is ready to VOTE next month. It is exciting to see so many young people getting involved, I guess maybe that's what happens in the face of an economic emergency. And the economy doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the problems facing the country (energy/infrastructure/war/climate/etc.) It kind of hits you in the face and let's you know that inaction is quite possibly the biggest mistake you can make. Look where it has landed us thus far.
Next to the Palin/Couric super uncomfortable and ridiculous interview, this is still my most favorite thing I've seen in support of Obama. Especially since I can rock my 'Fake Empire' t-shirt around Chicago, and people actually know what it means.
Just for shits&giggles, here is the real video for The National's 'Fake Empire.' Mostly because iloveit, and it still has a super strong political message. Their show at Duck Room is still high on my list of favorite shows ever. Things have changed so much since then...and I am slowly learning to 'not try to figure out everything at once.'
Lastly, a video of Skoff (aforementioned artist that hides free art around the city of Chicago) painting Barack in front of Buckingham Fountain. The best part is the video right around 1:20....I hope he found the girl in the white hat.
I hope that everyone has registered and is ready to VOTE next month. It is exciting to see so many young people getting involved, I guess maybe that's what happens in the face of an economic emergency. And the economy doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the problems facing the country (energy/infrastructure/war/climate/etc.) It kind of hits you in the face and let's you know that inaction is quite possibly the biggest mistake you can make. Look where it has landed us thus far.
Next to the Palin/Couric super uncomfortable and ridiculous interview, this is still my most favorite thing I've seen in support of Obama. Especially since I can rock my 'Fake Empire' t-shirt around Chicago, and people actually know what it means.
Just for shits&giggles, here is the real video for The National's 'Fake Empire.' Mostly because iloveit, and it still has a super strong political message. Their show at Duck Room is still high on my list of favorite shows ever. Things have changed so much since then...and I am slowly learning to 'not try to figure out everything at once.'
Lastly, a video of Skoff (aforementioned artist that hides free art around the city of Chicago) painting Barack in front of Buckingham Fountain. The best part is the video right around 1:20....I hope he found the girl in the white hat.
9.28.2008
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, THERE'S SOMETHING SPECIAL
.
Among things I love at the moment:
THIS GUY
His name? Skoff
His Modus Operandi? FREE ART - to perfect the art of giving.
Basically, he is a Chicago artist who hides copious amounts of art around the city on random days, then gives hints on how to find them. If you are lucky enough to locate one, you keep it.
He also posts e-mails and pictures sent in from people who now own his artwork thanks to his local 'scavenger hunts.'
I am currently reading the book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron (highly rec'd for anyone with a more creative career path in mind), and she encourages you to take two hours every week for an 'artist date.' These dates can include ANYTHING you want, so long as your 'inner artist' approves.
I think I just found my new favorite 'date' with myself. I've got a sick amount of wall space to cover in my new place.
Here are a few of my faves:
Among things I love at the moment:
THIS GUY
His name? Skoff
His Modus Operandi? FREE ART - to perfect the art of giving.
Basically, he is a Chicago artist who hides copious amounts of art around the city on random days, then gives hints on how to find them. If you are lucky enough to locate one, you keep it.He also posts e-mails and pictures sent in from people who now own his artwork thanks to his local 'scavenger hunts.'
I am currently reading the book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron (highly rec'd for anyone with a more creative career path in mind), and she encourages you to take two hours every week for an 'artist date.' These dates can include ANYTHING you want, so long as your 'inner artist' approves.
I think I just found my new favorite 'date' with myself. I've got a sick amount of wall space to cover in my new place.
Here are a few of my faves:
9.27.2008
PICTURE IT...CHICAGO...SEPTEMBER 2008...
.
My my my, how much difference a week can make in a gal's life.
For those of you who have never moved away from home (aside from going to college), it is a process I cannot possibly explain. With the way everything worked out back in St. Louis, I had a very small window to get my stuff together, find a place and get on up here. Therefore, I pretty much took a blind leap of faith that I would be able to find work quickly and everything would work itself out.
Well, the days kept passing me by, and all I was doing was looking, looking, looking, without much promise. While I had secured one part-time bartending gig, I was going to need quite a bit more to make ends meet (and pay for my expensive-ass car that I don't even need).
When you can't even get hired for positions you are completely overqualified for, it can be a real test. I think my breaking point may have been last Thursday, when I walked into an interview to serve food at a shitty Mexican chain restaurant and had the Manager tell me to "act peppy and spit my gum out" as he went to grab the General Manager for my SECOND interview for a SERVING position. It took EVERY ounce of willpower not to look at him and say "Are you fucking kidding me with this?"
Oh yes, this move has been a test. A test of my decisions, my self-worth, my patience, my everything. I started thinking, "Oh my god, what have I done?" for several days straight as the bills began piling up. I looked around my apartment and wondered when on Earth I would again be able to afford the little pleasures in life, like a kitchen trash can, ice cube trays and clothes hangers. A realization suddenly overwhelmed me:
I had either just done something really fucking stupid or really fucking brave.
So which one was it?? It probably all depends on who you ask. Personally, I have settled on the latter, as many positive things are finally happening, and I feel more at peace and happier than I have in a while.
And now for a mini-update:
1) CLASS IS IN SESSION! I am enrolled in Intro to Creative Nonfiction, and we had our first class last Tuesday. Class is located in the Gleacher Center (adjacent to the Sheraton & NBC towers) and it overlooks the Chicago River. Lots of different folks in the class, from all walks of life. Very refreshing. There are a couple other newcomers to Chicago, so I don't feel awkward +/or out of place. My teacher is a published author who has written several memoirs, essays, etc. After doing some research on her, I discovered she is an HIV+ mother and most of her work is about living and dealing with her condition. We already had to write an in class exercise, and I was one of the peeps who shared with the class. It felt good, and I even got a little chuckle out of the room (where humor was intended, thank God). It's exciting to be in a learning environment again....strange, I know.
2) I SECURED J-O-B #2! I never thought I would be so excited to serve Italian food and fill catering orders in my entire life, but I will be working ~35 hours/week doing just that. My boss is great, as is the staff I work with, and I've already developed a dirty little secret crush on one of the delivery drivers. He walked in (late apparently) with his hippie sunglasses, giant coffee, long wavy brown hair, black skinny jeans and hightops...and I was super intrigued. I SO wonder what his story is....
Anyway, back on subject....the whole job search is humbling and eye-opening, and I have definitely left that little comfort zone where I used to reside. I think maybe this is called 'character building' or some shit like that. I will continue to look for something more permanent that may actually use my college degree/talents/abilities, but this will do just fine in the meantime. Plus, I get a free tasty meal everyday. Sayonara ramen noodles and tuna fish.
3)OLD FRIENDS, NEW FRIENDS, ROOMMATES & EVERYTHING ELSE! So last weekend was the time when everyone I know decided to come up to the city. My girlfriends from college, my guy friends from highschool and my good buddy Phil were all milling about, and it was so great to see some familiar faces. I got to dance to some shitty DJ with my ladies on Friday night after work, and then on Sunday, Phil and I played Paper Boy and Mario Bros. on a Nintendo big screen and listened to an indie hip-hop group sing about sandwiches and perform a remix of The Golden Girls theme song. Estelle Getty would have been so pleased. I also ran into my favorite DJ from Austin, TX - Chicken George - and he gave me his new Chicken Soup cd. HELL to the YES.
I've befriended a girl from Louisville, KY that I bartend with on the weekends. Somehow I managed to find another semi-cynical, no bullshit, single twenty-something girl who recently relocated to Chicago for school and can't find a job. She is way into music and let's me drag her to shows, while also introducing me to some stuff I've never heard. At the least, we always seem to have an adventure when we go out. She tends to attract random, stray guys who won't leave her alone, so I just follow behind and shoo them away. Hehe. Last night we ended up dancing until 4am....there may or may not have been glowsticks and Elvis sunglasses involved. ((ick!))
Lastly, my second (and final) roommate arrives on Monday. WELCOME TO CHICAGO MEGHANN! You are gonna love this place.
Since I usually sign off with a visual, I won't break tradition. Back home I used to have recurring dreams I was falling from really tall buildings (and the occasional tree). The other night I had a dream I was flying from them. It was a lovely change.
My my my, how much difference a week can make in a gal's life.
For those of you who have never moved away from home (aside from going to college), it is a process I cannot possibly explain. With the way everything worked out back in St. Louis, I had a very small window to get my stuff together, find a place and get on up here. Therefore, I pretty much took a blind leap of faith that I would be able to find work quickly and everything would work itself out.
Well, the days kept passing me by, and all I was doing was looking, looking, looking, without much promise. While I had secured one part-time bartending gig, I was going to need quite a bit more to make ends meet (and pay for my expensive-ass car that I don't even need).
When you can't even get hired for positions you are completely overqualified for, it can be a real test. I think my breaking point may have been last Thursday, when I walked into an interview to serve food at a shitty Mexican chain restaurant and had the Manager tell me to "act peppy and spit my gum out" as he went to grab the General Manager for my SECOND interview for a SERVING position. It took EVERY ounce of willpower not to look at him and say "Are you fucking kidding me with this?"
Oh yes, this move has been a test. A test of my decisions, my self-worth, my patience, my everything. I started thinking, "Oh my god, what have I done?" for several days straight as the bills began piling up. I looked around my apartment and wondered when on Earth I would again be able to afford the little pleasures in life, like a kitchen trash can, ice cube trays and clothes hangers. A realization suddenly overwhelmed me:
I had either just done something really fucking stupid or really fucking brave.
So which one was it?? It probably all depends on who you ask. Personally, I have settled on the latter, as many positive things are finally happening, and I feel more at peace and happier than I have in a while.
And now for a mini-update:
1) CLASS IS IN SESSION! I am enrolled in Intro to Creative Nonfiction, and we had our first class last Tuesday. Class is located in the Gleacher Center (adjacent to the Sheraton & NBC towers) and it overlooks the Chicago River. Lots of different folks in the class, from all walks of life. Very refreshing. There are a couple other newcomers to Chicago, so I don't feel awkward +/or out of place. My teacher is a published author who has written several memoirs, essays, etc. After doing some research on her, I discovered she is an HIV+ mother and most of her work is about living and dealing with her condition. We already had to write an in class exercise, and I was one of the peeps who shared with the class. It felt good, and I even got a little chuckle out of the room (where humor was intended, thank God). It's exciting to be in a learning environment again....strange, I know.
2) I SECURED J-O-B #2! I never thought I would be so excited to serve Italian food and fill catering orders in my entire life, but I will be working ~35 hours/week doing just that. My boss is great, as is the staff I work with, and I've already developed a dirty little secret crush on one of the delivery drivers. He walked in (late apparently) with his hippie sunglasses, giant coffee, long wavy brown hair, black skinny jeans and hightops...and I was super intrigued. I SO wonder what his story is....
Anyway, back on subject....the whole job search is humbling and eye-opening, and I have definitely left that little comfort zone where I used to reside. I think maybe this is called 'character building' or some shit like that. I will continue to look for something more permanent that may actually use my college degree/talents/abilities, but this will do just fine in the meantime. Plus, I get a free tasty meal everyday. Sayonara ramen noodles and tuna fish.
3)OLD FRIENDS, NEW FRIENDS, ROOMMATES & EVERYTHING ELSE! So last weekend was the time when everyone I know decided to come up to the city. My girlfriends from college, my guy friends from highschool and my good buddy Phil were all milling about, and it was so great to see some familiar faces. I got to dance to some shitty DJ with my ladies on Friday night after work, and then on Sunday, Phil and I played Paper Boy and Mario Bros. on a Nintendo big screen and listened to an indie hip-hop group sing about sandwiches and perform a remix of The Golden Girls theme song. Estelle Getty would have been so pleased. I also ran into my favorite DJ from Austin, TX - Chicken George - and he gave me his new Chicken Soup cd. HELL to the YES.
I've befriended a girl from Louisville, KY that I bartend with on the weekends. Somehow I managed to find another semi-cynical, no bullshit, single twenty-something girl who recently relocated to Chicago for school and can't find a job. She is way into music and let's me drag her to shows, while also introducing me to some stuff I've never heard. At the least, we always seem to have an adventure when we go out. She tends to attract random, stray guys who won't leave her alone, so I just follow behind and shoo them away. Hehe. Last night we ended up dancing until 4am....there may or may not have been glowsticks and Elvis sunglasses involved. ((ick!))
Lastly, my second (and final) roommate arrives on Monday. WELCOME TO CHICAGO MEGHANN! You are gonna love this place.
Since I usually sign off with a visual, I won't break tradition. Back home I used to have recurring dreams I was falling from really tall buildings (and the occasional tree). The other night I had a dream I was flying from them. It was a lovely change.
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