I had a moment tonight when I fell in love, all over again, with my city, and my dog, and my life.
Really, perhaps, I was falling in love for the first time.
Life is so different now. Everything is different. It's funny; you change one component, albeit a rather significant one, and all the others seems to look different, feel different, smell different, sound different. Walking on the east side of Winthrop Avenue, my street, heading north, I passed the small playlot where David and I would take Jake to run off-leash the first winter after we had adopted him. It was cold and clear and snow was on the ground, on our boots, in Jakes paws. We laughed. David and I hadn't laughed or smiled like that for some time. Winter in Chicago wears on people, you know.
It was the winter, I always told myself. Or the summer, or the spring, or the autumn. It was always something.
He moved out three months ago. And this place looks so different. Thanks to two best friends who, in conjunction with their ability to listen to me cry on the phone at odd times of the night about the same thing I cried about the last time I called, are incredible artists. The condo feels like mine, and not ours. It helped me move on. They helped me move on.
I haven't written about this yet, really, because I don't believe in blogs being tools for unearthing thoughts, be they negative or positive, about others. My divorce, the end of my marriage, the end to six years with someone, is not anyone else's business. But I write. It's how I express myself best, it's how I deal with things. I am attempting, now, to deal.
Bear with me.
He did nothing wrong. I don't hate him. I love him. And for all the laughter and good memories and photos of us smiling... in Jamaica, Charleston, South Carolina, duckpin bowling, and, yes, of course, at our wedding... for all of those millions of moments that only we shared, or those that were captured on film... for all of those millions of moments there are millions of tears and millions of regrets and millions of moments when my breath catches and I know I'll never breathe again.
But then I do. And I'm not sure how or why.
But tonight after work I fell in love. It was late and my street was deserted. The street lights lit up the snow and the cars and Christmas trees, which usually make me sad, peered out at me in a friendly way from my neighbors windows. Jake skipped happily ahead of me at the end of the leash. My street wears winter well. It looks good covered in snow and ice. And as I passed the playlot I remembered laughing in the snow and taking photos of Jake doing just about everything those first few days, and I remembered sharing that with David. I remembered. And somehow I was still able to be happy, to smile, snow blowing in off the lake into my eyes and fogging up my glasses. I smiled at Jake and the thought of myself, alone.
I came home and cried all night. One should never rummage through forgotten drawers alone, especially when emotionally precarious. But I did, and I cried, and called in the aid of a good friend, yet again. And by the end of the night, too too late to be awake, I am alright again, and perhaps I can even fall in love again with this new life of mine. I don't think the occasional crying jag means that I can't. I think it means I am, for once, not the strong one, not the one others come to, but the one that needs her friends desperately. It's uncomfortable being that person suddenly. Perhaps this is part of my new life, and a facet of myself with which I must fall in love.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sunbeam Mixmaster
My mother inherited
an old stand mixer.
The kind
that swirls
and grinds
and blends
seemingly unrelated matter into
warm scones and soda bread.
It was not her mother's
but my father's mother's---
it was white and black and chrome
and, aged at least 40 years it would still groan
churning
turning
on yet another kitchen countertop.
It is some nonspecific day
in the specific 1940s
and there is a war
and there are ration cards
and there is not enough to eat
when there was already not enough to eat since the 1920s
(before they stopped roaring).
My father has a number pinned inside his clothes.
If the Germans
or the Japanese
or the Italians
invade, this number will help account for my father.
All children have a number.
It is eerily similar to children
in concentration camps.
But instead of wooden, flea-infested bunks
no food
no clothes,
my father sleeps on a cleaner bed---
not clean, but cleaner, as clean as can be managed---
behind blackout curtains
his stomach is mostly quiet
and he has clothes. But they are embarrassing.
His mother spends hours
throwing things into pots and pans
and the mixer
and hoping that whatever comes of the blend
will be enough to feed her family.
She is glad for potatoes and their heartiness.
The mixer also cradles seaweeds,
sent to her illegally from Ireland
so she might make some sort of living.
She makes toothpaste and other apothecary items.
She is the midwife in their small New Jersey Irish community.
Balms and candles
soothing women as they bring another being
to soothe and number
into this unreal world.
I often wonder if my Irish Catholic grandmother
made abortifacients
not because she was "pro-choice"
but because she knew her world
and because she knew the hardships of relying on a
stand mixer
to pay the rent
to feed the children
to be.
It is a specific day in
a specific time
in a specific suburban kitchen of my youth.
1995. My first Communion.
My father is already dead
my mother is thinking about that today,
she wishes he could have seen this milestone
which makes me regretful now,
the adult atheist daughter,
that day meant so much to her.
We spent the morning baking.
The tradition in her family,
a cake shaped like a lamb,
is failing like my Catholicism eventually would.
The head falls off
we prop it up with tooth picks and
use icing as glue
and we try desperately to hide our
desperate efforts
which
of course
makes it look all the more desperate.
Yet this mixer has seen desperation before
and if it were to personify
would likely explain to my mother
myself, and my godmother
that desperation does not come on days
that also see expensive white dresses
clean, flowing curls on
little girls
and a buffet spread out on an oak dining table.
These are not desperate times.
I,
my grandmother's stand mixer would say,
have seen desperate times.
But this is me.
I am this queer amalgamation
of a desperate woman
grinding seaweed so she might buy clothes for her son
in which she will pin his identification number
in case evil men on another continent---
her home continent---
get it in their minds to blow his limbs across the Hudson;
I am also
of a desperate woman
grinding flour and eggs
grinding an axe,
as it were,
with her god.
"I am desperate. This is desperation,"
she might reply to the personified mixer.
"I have a little girl
who has no father.
I have love
and no lover.
Don't let the oak dining table
or the crisp white dress this May morning
fool you.
This is desperate."
The amalgamation,
Myself,
I sit in yet another specific time
and specifically recall the way
I came
to be,
through the women in my life.
And I think about the man
my father
who bridged the gap between those
differing desperations,
three women, all desperate
all tightly wound and all
regrets.
A stand mixer;
the common thread.
Maggie, desperate to make a living
Carol Ann, desperate to find a way to keep living
Mary-Margaret, desperate for that stand mixer that no longer works.
Finally.
After about a 50 year run.
And I am desperate to display it on a shelf
to tell it's story and be near it
to remember it in the well-appointed suburban homes of my youth
and to imagine it in the ascetic tenements of my father's youth
and to cling to it,
desperately,
as those who have touched it age
leave
and live only through
my poetic personifications.
an old stand mixer.
The kind
that swirls
and grinds
and blends
seemingly unrelated matter into
warm scones and soda bread.
It was not her mother's
but my father's mother's---
it was white and black and chrome
and, aged at least 40 years it would still groan
churning
turning
on yet another kitchen countertop.
It is some nonspecific day
in the specific 1940s
and there is a war
and there are ration cards
and there is not enough to eat
when there was already not enough to eat since the 1920s
(before they stopped roaring).
My father has a number pinned inside his clothes.
If the Germans
or the Japanese
or the Italians
invade, this number will help account for my father.
All children have a number.
It is eerily similar to children
in concentration camps.
But instead of wooden, flea-infested bunks
no food
no clothes,
my father sleeps on a cleaner bed---
not clean, but cleaner, as clean as can be managed---
behind blackout curtains
his stomach is mostly quiet
and he has clothes. But they are embarrassing.
His mother spends hours
throwing things into pots and pans
and the mixer
and hoping that whatever comes of the blend
will be enough to feed her family.
She is glad for potatoes and their heartiness.
The mixer also cradles seaweeds,
sent to her illegally from Ireland
so she might make some sort of living.
She makes toothpaste and other apothecary items.
She is the midwife in their small New Jersey Irish community.
Balms and candles
soothing women as they bring another being
to soothe and number
into this unreal world.
I often wonder if my Irish Catholic grandmother
made abortifacients
not because she was "pro-choice"
but because she knew her world
and because she knew the hardships of relying on a
stand mixer
to pay the rent
to feed the children
to be.
It is a specific day in
a specific time
in a specific suburban kitchen of my youth.
1995. My first Communion.
My father is already dead
my mother is thinking about that today,
she wishes he could have seen this milestone
which makes me regretful now,
the adult atheist daughter,
that day meant so much to her.
We spent the morning baking.
The tradition in her family,
a cake shaped like a lamb,
is failing like my Catholicism eventually would.
The head falls off
we prop it up with tooth picks and
use icing as glue
and we try desperately to hide our
desperate efforts
which
of course
makes it look all the more desperate.
Yet this mixer has seen desperation before
and if it were to personify
would likely explain to my mother
myself, and my godmother
that desperation does not come on days
that also see expensive white dresses
clean, flowing curls on
little girls
and a buffet spread out on an oak dining table.
These are not desperate times.
I,
my grandmother's stand mixer would say,
have seen desperate times.
But this is me.
I am this queer amalgamation
of a desperate woman
grinding seaweed so she might buy clothes for her son
in which she will pin his identification number
in case evil men on another continent---
her home continent---
get it in their minds to blow his limbs across the Hudson;
I am also
of a desperate woman
grinding flour and eggs
grinding an axe,
as it were,
with her god.
"I am desperate. This is desperation,"
she might reply to the personified mixer.
"I have a little girl
who has no father.
I have love
and no lover.
Don't let the oak dining table
or the crisp white dress this May morning
fool you.
This is desperate."
The amalgamation,
Myself,
I sit in yet another specific time
and specifically recall the way
I came
to be,
through the women in my life.
And I think about the man
my father
who bridged the gap between those
differing desperations,
three women, all desperate
all tightly wound and all
regrets.
A stand mixer;
the common thread.
Maggie, desperate to make a living
Carol Ann, desperate to find a way to keep living
Mary-Margaret, desperate for that stand mixer that no longer works.
Finally.
After about a 50 year run.
And I am desperate to display it on a shelf
to tell it's story and be near it
to remember it in the well-appointed suburban homes of my youth
and to imagine it in the ascetic tenements of my father's youth
and to cling to it,
desperately,
as those who have touched it age
leave
and live only through
my poetic personifications.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A little slow on the uptake...
I love music. Admittedly, I don't know much about it, and don't know any new artists. At all. Since I don't own a car, I don't putter around town listening to the radio as I run errands. I know "modern" folks have these little boxes o' sound called MP3 players, and I have one that doesn't work too well from several years ago that I no longer use. If I wasn't going through a divorce and suddenly having to pay the mortgage all by myself, along with every other expense you don't realize you have until you examine them all, I'd probably by an iPod. But, alas.
I am proud to report though that I joined the modern people in some small sense yesterday. I bought something from iTunes for the first time! But don't get too excited... I bought an album from 2003 that I just discovered this week. Damien Rices "O." I LOVE it! Here is my favorite song. These lyrics kill me. KILL. ME.
"Cannonball"
There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
It’s still a little hard to say what's going on
There’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
That I can´t say what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can´t see what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So its not hard to fall
When you float like a cannon.
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to cry
So come on courage, teach me to be shy
'Cause its not hard to fall,
And I don't want to scare her
Its not hard to fall
And i don't want to lose
Its not hard to grow
When you know that you just don't know
I am proud to report though that I joined the modern people in some small sense yesterday. I bought something from iTunes for the first time! But don't get too excited... I bought an album from 2003 that I just discovered this week. Damien Rices "O." I LOVE it! Here is my favorite song. These lyrics kill me. KILL. ME.
"Cannonball"
There’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
There’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
It’s still a little hard to say what's going on
There’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
There’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
You step a little closer each day
That I can´t say what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to lie
Life, it taught me to die
So it's not hard to fall
When you float like a cannonball
There’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
There’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
You step a little closer to me
So close that I can´t see what´s going on
Stones taught me to fly
Love taught me to lie
Life taught me to die
So its not hard to fall
When you float like a cannon.
Stones taught me to fly
Love, it taught me to cry
So come on courage, teach me to be shy
'Cause its not hard to fall,
And I don't want to scare her
Its not hard to fall
And i don't want to lose
Its not hard to grow
When you know that you just don't know
Friday, September 11, 2009
"afraid"
In the spirit of my last post, I am going to do, or notice, something each day that I am afraid to do...and do it anyway. This could be fear, like being scared to be hurt, or fear of just failing.
Yesterday I went to the hardware store, picked out paint, carried it home, carried the ladder up from the basement, stood on a ladder and painted. I would usually rely on my S.O. for this. I couldn't. So I didn't. And I did just fine. I didn't fall off the ladder, die, only to be discovered 5 days later when a neighbor calls about a smell coming from upstairs. So that's good.
Today, I walked the dogs by myself at night.
Yesterday I went to the hardware store, picked out paint, carried it home, carried the ladder up from the basement, stood on a ladder and painted. I would usually rely on my S.O. for this. I couldn't. So I didn't. And I did just fine. I didn't fall off the ladder, die, only to be discovered 5 days later when a neighbor calls about a smell coming from upstairs. So that's good.
Today, I walked the dogs by myself at night.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Fear.
"As a girl, she dreamed about having a silent home, just to herself, the way other women dreamed of their weddings. Instead of collecting lace and linen for her trousseau, the young woman buys old things from the thrift stores on grimy Milwaukee Avenue for her future house-of-her-own---faded quilts, cracked vases, chipped saucers, lamps in need of love.
"...The daughter claimed that she had been taught that a writer needs quiet, privacy, and long stretches of solitude to think. The father decided too much college and too much gringo friends had ruined her. In a way he was right. In a way she was right. When she thinks to herself in her father's language, she knows sons and daughters don't leave their parents' house until they marry. When she thinks in English, she knows she should've been on her own since eighteen.
"...At the end of the evening she finds herself searching for a ride home. She came on the bus and [he] offers to give her a lift home. But she's not going home, she's got her heart set on a movie that's showing only tonight. She's afraid of going to the movies alone, and that's why she's decided to go. Because she's afraid.
"...What is the woman in the photograph afraid of? She's afraid of walking from her parked car to her apartment in the dark. She's afraid of the scuffling sounds in the walls. She's afraid she'll fall in love and get stuck living in Chicago. She's afraid of ghosts, deep water, rodents, night, things that move too fast---cars, airplanes, her life. She's afraid she'll have to move back home again if she isn't brave enough to live alone.
"...I meet Norma Alarcon. She is to become one of my earliest publishers and my lifetime friend. The first time she walks through the rooms of [my] apartment on North Paulina, she notices the quiet rooms, the collection of typewriters, the books and Japanese figurines, the windows with the view of freeway and sky. She walks as if on tiptoe, peering into every room, even the pantry and closet as if looking for something. 'You live here...' she asks, 'alone?'
'Yes.'
'So...' she pauses, 'How did yo do it?'
Norma, I did it by doing the things I was afraid of doing so that I would no longer be afraid. Moving away to go to graduate school. Traveling abroad alone. Earning my own money and living by myself. Posing as an author when I was afraid, just as I posed in that photo you used on the first cover of Third Woman. "
---Sandra Cisneros, from the introduction to the 25th Anniversary edition of her book, The House on Mango Street.
"...The daughter claimed that she had been taught that a writer needs quiet, privacy, and long stretches of solitude to think. The father decided too much college and too much gringo friends had ruined her. In a way he was right. In a way she was right. When she thinks to herself in her father's language, she knows sons and daughters don't leave their parents' house until they marry. When she thinks in English, she knows she should've been on her own since eighteen.
"...At the end of the evening she finds herself searching for a ride home. She came on the bus and [he] offers to give her a lift home. But she's not going home, she's got her heart set on a movie that's showing only tonight. She's afraid of going to the movies alone, and that's why she's decided to go. Because she's afraid.
"...What is the woman in the photograph afraid of? She's afraid of walking from her parked car to her apartment in the dark. She's afraid of the scuffling sounds in the walls. She's afraid she'll fall in love and get stuck living in Chicago. She's afraid of ghosts, deep water, rodents, night, things that move too fast---cars, airplanes, her life. She's afraid she'll have to move back home again if she isn't brave enough to live alone.
"...I meet Norma Alarcon. She is to become one of my earliest publishers and my lifetime friend. The first time she walks through the rooms of [my] apartment on North Paulina, she notices the quiet rooms, the collection of typewriters, the books and Japanese figurines, the windows with the view of freeway and sky. She walks as if on tiptoe, peering into every room, even the pantry and closet as if looking for something. 'You live here...' she asks, 'alone?'
'Yes.'
'So...' she pauses, 'How did yo do it?'
Norma, I did it by doing the things I was afraid of doing so that I would no longer be afraid. Moving away to go to graduate school. Traveling abroad alone. Earning my own money and living by myself. Posing as an author when I was afraid, just as I posed in that photo you used on the first cover of Third Woman. "
---Sandra Cisneros, from the introduction to the 25th Anniversary edition of her book, The House on Mango Street.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
700 W. Bittersweet Place
Buxom sunflowers
and
nervous black-eyes susans:
the nursing mother
and
the sweet clumsy virgin.
Perhaps I am both on days like today
---all teacher,
and,
all protege.
But what woman is not possessive
of both
swelled breasts of dependence
and
tightly wound flesh untouched?
So,
we proceed.
I
am both
the abject,
the never-enough.
Yet here perfection is achieved
In submission to learned August rain.
and
nervous black-eyes susans:
the nursing mother
and
the sweet clumsy virgin.
Perhaps I am both on days like today
---all teacher,
and,
all protege.
But what woman is not possessive
of both
swelled breasts of dependence
and
tightly wound flesh untouched?
So,
we proceed.
I
am both
the abject,
the never-enough.
Yet here perfection is achieved
In submission to learned August rain.
Friday, August 14, 2009
23rd Street Runs into Heaven
By Kenneth Patchen
You stand near the window as lights wink
On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking
Shop-girls and clerks home, clatters through
This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries
To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys
Begin their murder-into-pennies round.
We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until
Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down
Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now,
With soft light on soft flesh, you pause
For a moment; turn and face me -
Smile in a way that only women know
Who have lain long with their lover
And are made more virginal.
Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.
You stand near the window as lights wink
On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking
Shop-girls and clerks home, clatters through
This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries
To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys
Begin their murder-into-pennies round.
We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until
Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down
Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now,
With soft light on soft flesh, you pause
For a moment; turn and face me -
Smile in a way that only women know
Who have lain long with their lover
And are made more virginal.
Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Today was the most amazing day. It started out with me sick in bed, coughing so hard that my sides hurt, my brain hurt, and the dogs weren't even willing to share a sleeping space with me. All in all, disgusting.
But then I started cleaning, and feeling a little better. I still made it to the show tonight, Spring Awakening. It's been a long time since I've seen live theatre, especially a musical. And, for a musical, it was good. It was just nice to be out and about, a night on the town. All by myself.
When I got home, I had a mountain of packages waiting for me. Most of them were books for the semester and, finally, my dream came true! One of the used books I bought was an old library book! The musty, ragged cover, the card pocket still inside.
I am a whore for old, creaky bindings and pages scented with the kiss of other books and fingers.
One package was from a catalogue. I ordered a hilarious tshirt, and two pairs of pants... THAT FIT REALLY WELL! This never happens.
Okay. The pants were vain. But seriously, 5'2" biatches around the world will allow me this. It is damn hard to find pants that fit when you're the height of a middle schooler with the hips and ass of a normal woman.
But then I started cleaning, and feeling a little better. I still made it to the show tonight, Spring Awakening. It's been a long time since I've seen live theatre, especially a musical. And, for a musical, it was good. It was just nice to be out and about, a night on the town. All by myself.
When I got home, I had a mountain of packages waiting for me. Most of them were books for the semester and, finally, my dream came true! One of the used books I bought was an old library book! The musty, ragged cover, the card pocket still inside.
I am a whore for old, creaky bindings and pages scented with the kiss of other books and fingers.
One package was from a catalogue. I ordered a hilarious tshirt, and two pairs of pants... THAT FIT REALLY WELL! This never happens.
Okay. The pants were vain. But seriously, 5'2" biatches around the world will allow me this. It is damn hard to find pants that fit when you're the height of a middle schooler with the hips and ass of a normal woman.
Monday, August 10, 2009
"Wild Things in Captivity" (D.H. Lawrence)
Wild things in captivity
while they keep their own wild purity
won't breed, they mope, they die.
All men are in captivity,
Active with captive activity,
and the best won't breed, though they don't know why.
The great cage of our domesticity
kills sex in a man, the simplicity
of desire is distorted and twisted awry.
And so, with bitter perversity,
gritting against the great adversity,
the young ones copulate, hate it, anf want to cry.
Sex is a state of grace.
In a cage it can't take place.
Break the cage then, start in and try.
while they keep their own wild purity
won't breed, they mope, they die.
All men are in captivity,
Active with captive activity,
and the best won't breed, though they don't know why.
The great cage of our domesticity
kills sex in a man, the simplicity
of desire is distorted and twisted awry.
And so, with bitter perversity,
gritting against the great adversity,
the young ones copulate, hate it, anf want to cry.
Sex is a state of grace.
In a cage it can't take place.
Break the cage then, start in and try.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
"Hey little freak with the lunch pail purse/Underneath the paint you're just a little girl" --Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers, "Zombie Zoo"
I cleaned my bookshelf today. It was a general reorganization, dusting, and reevaluation of the books I wanted to keep and those I could muster the strength to part with.
Name a point in my life. A momentous occasion of considerable import, or a random Tuesday in 1998. I can probably tell you what book I was reading. I associate times in my life with what I was reading during that time. I held A Tree Grows in Brooklyn a little longer than the rest of the books as I dusted, remembering the ten consecutive years I have read and re-read it. I passed off Fear of Falling as quickly as possible, because it was the book I was reading when attacked on a bus in 2008. When I had finally worked my way down to the most neglected and chaotic mess, the bottom shelf of old theatre books and scripts, I found a book so special that I felt compelled to share it.
This is a notebook I bought in Broad Ripple (an area on the north side of Indianapolis, that used to be cool and funky). It was from a store that smelled strongly of Patchouli, and they sold long, flowy skirts, candles, and things made out of recycled items. I bought this notebook there to hold my acting notes; things I learned in Saturday morning classes, things directors said that struck me, and quotes from acting teachers and actors I read.
Relatively few pages are filled. But, looking back, I think that was because most of what I learned doing theatre was not in the form of a bulleted point or quick note to jot down. It was more than that. However, coming across this notebook today, turning its crispy, delicate pages, I began remembering the passion, love, and joy that theatre gave me. The alacrity with which I approached it.
A list of "dream roles." I played one, Anne Frank, in 2002.
My loopy handwriting and address, in case I ever left it in some coffeeshop after finishing my Mocha, my drink of choice in my early teens before real coffee sounded appealing.
When I first moved to Chicago at 18, I remember mourning the loss of the theatre community, the creative outlet, and so many other things about it. It had been my life. I wondered if I'd ever feel that way about anything again.
Today was the first time that I've encountered one of these nostalgic moments and was able to think, Yes, I do love something as much as I loved this. And that made me feel content and excited.
Name a point in my life. A momentous occasion of considerable import, or a random Tuesday in 1998. I can probably tell you what book I was reading. I associate times in my life with what I was reading during that time. I held A Tree Grows in Brooklyn a little longer than the rest of the books as I dusted, remembering the ten consecutive years I have read and re-read it. I passed off Fear of Falling as quickly as possible, because it was the book I was reading when attacked on a bus in 2008. When I had finally worked my way down to the most neglected and chaotic mess, the bottom shelf of old theatre books and scripts, I found a book so special that I felt compelled to share it.
This is a notebook I bought in Broad Ripple (an area on the north side of Indianapolis, that used to be cool and funky). It was from a store that smelled strongly of Patchouli, and they sold long, flowy skirts, candles, and things made out of recycled items. I bought this notebook there to hold my acting notes; things I learned in Saturday morning classes, things directors said that struck me, and quotes from acting teachers and actors I read.
Relatively few pages are filled. But, looking back, I think that was because most of what I learned doing theatre was not in the form of a bulleted point or quick note to jot down. It was more than that. However, coming across this notebook today, turning its crispy, delicate pages, I began remembering the passion, love, and joy that theatre gave me. The alacrity with which I approached it.
A list of "dream roles." I played one, Anne Frank, in 2002.
My loopy handwriting and address, in case I ever left it in some coffeeshop after finishing my Mocha, my drink of choice in my early teens before real coffee sounded appealing.
When I first moved to Chicago at 18, I remember mourning the loss of the theatre community, the creative outlet, and so many other things about it. It had been my life. I wondered if I'd ever feel that way about anything again.
Today was the first time that I've encountered one of these nostalgic moments and was able to think, Yes, I do love something as much as I loved this. And that made me feel content and excited.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Stirring my oatmeal, the smells hit my nostrils and suddenly I am not here, but there, living on the south side, downtown, the South Loop. It is 2005. I am new. I am not at home, yet I feel more comfortable than I have in... years? Months? Ever?
I always get sentimental this time of year. Kids are graduating, others are closing another year, gearing up for the next. Some people are moving. Lots of people are getting married. Summer promises a lot, it seems. And I can't help but think about the promise of summer 2005, for me. Eighteen years old, headstrong, stubborn. I left Indianapolis, the only home I could remember, and the friends and streets and mochas and rebellions that made up my teenage years. In my head I had created a life for myself in Chicago. it was going to be fabulous.
Four years later... and it seems so much longer. And, finally, I feel fabulous. My life is completely different than I thought it would be. For the better, I will add. I would be miserable leading the life that eighteen year old had planned. But tonight, I am sentimental. For a late night snack, I chose a packet of instant oatmeal, Cinnamon Bun flavor. As I stirred the hot oats and water, I remembered eating the stuff every morning before walking uptown to my retail job off Michigan Avenue. In an instant I saw that first apartment, too expensive but too cute, a great first Chicago apartment, with its sideways view of the Sears Tower, its walking distance to both the Art Institute and the largest homeless shelter in the city. A far cry from the suburb I had been raised in. I heard the creaking utility closet door, the cat running past it to use the litter box. I heard the calm quiet of downtown weekend morning, all of the business suits slung over backs of chairs until Monday.
All that from some hot cereal.
I always get sentimental this time of year. Kids are graduating, others are closing another year, gearing up for the next. Some people are moving. Lots of people are getting married. Summer promises a lot, it seems. And I can't help but think about the promise of summer 2005, for me. Eighteen years old, headstrong, stubborn. I left Indianapolis, the only home I could remember, and the friends and streets and mochas and rebellions that made up my teenage years. In my head I had created a life for myself in Chicago. it was going to be fabulous.
Four years later... and it seems so much longer. And, finally, I feel fabulous. My life is completely different than I thought it would be. For the better, I will add. I would be miserable leading the life that eighteen year old had planned. But tonight, I am sentimental. For a late night snack, I chose a packet of instant oatmeal, Cinnamon Bun flavor. As I stirred the hot oats and water, I remembered eating the stuff every morning before walking uptown to my retail job off Michigan Avenue. In an instant I saw that first apartment, too expensive but too cute, a great first Chicago apartment, with its sideways view of the Sears Tower, its walking distance to both the Art Institute and the largest homeless shelter in the city. A far cry from the suburb I had been raised in. I heard the creaking utility closet door, the cat running past it to use the litter box. I heard the calm quiet of downtown weekend morning, all of the business suits slung over backs of chairs until Monday.
All that from some hot cereal.
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