One Of The Few

Faces, illuminated as in shrines, framed, rows of empty (?) frames below - static like television, wanting for resolution suggesting family or at least other faces, groupings connected by black wiring, by death, the finality all walk toward, connected and given life by light. Three bulbs, the trinity, their faces smiling somewhat, sometimes beaming, the room darkened, their smiles warming the air, but a persistent dread remains, their black and white visages in photo frame size, like wall hangings in a home, suggesting family, or the familiar, and the past, or: death, but the static, though faceless, is alive with energy: green, golden, grey - alternating, the energy of their spirits perhaps, the color of their souls, Kirlian recording of a hidden aura - elegant cords like draper, the home again, like curtains, again: death. Finally all must come to death. Every plot ends in death, every narrative a murder. The creation of a memory is the killing of the real, each document (as in photographs) a bloodstain without a body, senseless violence out of context. We, the viewers, are implicated as well. The children cast their light upon us, illuminated our darkened forms, lurking in the shadows to view distantly only to be revealed the closer we attempt to get at the relics of memory. So the final truth is that we belong in those spare frames made of static - there is a place for us to die.

- Minneapolis Art Institute [Christian Boltanski - 'Monuments']

There's Lightning Bolts

Soaring through the cottonseed wind, sun pouring over shoulders, a warm balm of fresh vitamin E, made soothing massage by the cool breeze, the zipper of my jacket beating rhythmically against my back as the rusty frame I ride glides gracefully along the greenway, propelled by eager limbs, eager for more, more of this greenery, more of that blueness against that whiteness, more of the faces smiling, acknowledgement, yeses all around and we sail, sail into evening when the screen flickers for hours, weaving a story in shafts of light that fall squarely into images becoming music, the fiddler keeping time, keeping this story going as we drift along the invisible paths I trust cut stone into grass, grass cut into concentric circles, circling the sky little birds swoop low while the aeroplane flies high, higher still the hills climb as gears shift downward, now upward, the brakes applied generously as the traffic light approaches, approaching the final turns, the terminal twists bringing us back to examine bruises on shins and shiny new shoes, the old pedal companions busted and sad, exhausted and ready for sleep, dreaming of a world without feet.

- Minneapolis

Even Underground

I'd like to watch the trees pass by in the darkness, but the TV reflects in the window, inevitable as Jesse James getting his bullet in the end. And Frank is brought to justice. And I wonder where I am besides north of where I was. Intermittently a weight falls over my arms, resting across my chest, and the ends of my eyelashes nervously hold hands. I mistake the cord of my headphones for a finger running down my cheek, am startled as it lightly touches the end of my chin, and sigh as it weaves a slow path down the muscles of my neck. Yellow light dances still between darkened forms, like racing horses from the sidelines, except that I move and they remain, mingling with the passing white orbs transposed over the landscape by reflection. 75 miles from Minneapolis and I'm aching still, with joy, with sadness, always bursting for every shifting change in emotion's direction, each feeling a straight-line gust that topples houses and leaves some with nothing or blows a longing sail toward warmer climes, toward open arms. I cherish each tear, whether beautiful or damned.

Tonight, the streetlights fall asleep, and I lay awake, ready.

- 75 Miles from Minneapolis

Soon, Said I, We'll Know

Bruised constellations

Great sparkling expanses

That miss teeth

and wince

There are listless stars

which wander like lost fireflies

blinking butterfly kisses

on heaven's pale cheek

Surrender to black roar

Starfish sleeping silently

in saline solitude

dreaming of light, maybe

Out on the roof

and the clouds left hours ago

slowly

Ash drifts lazily through

careless air

Embers yawning under

abandoned char

Endless blasphemy

We, infinite as space beyond space

The night, weightless and crushing

I heard myself exhaling

I saw you laughing

-Wisconsin?

The Need Seeps In

A Pretty Straightforward Recollection of Chicago This Past Week:

Tuesday

- Arrive in Chicago, tearful hugs with Colby (also: excitement)

- Walked around Julia's neighborhood for a few minutes before she called me tell me she was home

- Made yummy yums vegan pizza (it had a super thin crust - I don't know how we did it!)

- Hung out with Julia, and her sister, and her sister's friends

- Watched Purple Rain (slap! slap! muuuuusic!)

Wednesday

- Unsuccessfully scour Chicago for vegan and/or sweatshop free shoes to replace mine, which are falling apart due to some vigorous gettin' down in the D

- Julia purchases some funkay shorts

- We eat Sultan's - falafel sammiches. The falafel are SO big! 

Thursday

- Made hashabrowns and tofu scrambie

- Went to museum of contemporary art (jeff wall!!) and the art institute

- Ate at Giardoaladonoanosdoadlonsodsdoadanos [chicago style deepdeep dish] again

- Watched Repo Man

Friday

- It's my birthday! (My birthday! Get cake everyday like it's my birthday)

- Went to Dove's place and saw some musics (Gold!)

- Slept?

Saturday

- Played croquet!! Our team (with Julia: Croquet Master) won the first game but  lost the second.

- Walked around Lincoln Park - some movie set in the 20's was being filmed

- Ate at Oodles of Noodles, got tired 'a the eggiweggs

- Hung out Morgan's "apartment" (dorm) and watched "Heavenly Creatures" (so good!)

- Ran after the bus, took a taxi

Sunday

- Julia made some yummy granola

- Went to lunch with Julia, her sister, and their mom at Karyn's, a vegan place, and ate tons of food.

- Took a nap.

- Went to Ryan's collective, F*ck Mountain, and got on the roof for the most amazing view of Chicago I've seen

- Ate at an awesome Italian place

Monday

- Attempted to walk around and take some photos while Julia was in class - failed due to ouchy calves.

- Met Julia at her school and ate lunch.

- Apparently some people like Chipotle?

- Smoothies!

- Tried to walk to the lake but, again, the calves. 

- Went to Logan Square, ate at a super delicious restaurant called Lula's Cafe (I had a tagine with cinnamon cous cous, sweet potatoes, and chickpeas - and then had a life changing experience with a mint chocolate torte)

Other Things:

We kept losing the Sears tower. I kept wanting time to slow down. I wished the trains took longer. They were wearing white on Saturday. It was beautiful for the most part, and I didn't mind when it was overcast. Yesterday the shorts were a mistake, but today you'll try again. I missed my bus; I was so angry. I thought the bus was parking, but it was leaving. I felt comfortable, easy, at home and then I felt lost, alone, confused. Everything was manageable, known and plotted and then it was vast and endless, a shaking ladder that I gripped hard on the way down. The wind blew the garden away, the landlord saw the couch. The spanish movie was filmed on three cameras and involved numerous extras - the bar scene contained canola oil and cranberry juice, an empty bottle of wine. I was sick from french bread and brie. Everything was comfortable, even the futon, which was too firm for my tastes. The sidewalks felt like college. I never wanted to stop eating pizza - asian never fills me up, makes me feel whole. I felt whole. The tree was painted to the side of the building, the wine store was closed. We got our wine at CVS, and I chose carefully from the cheap stuff. Everything was electric, from the roof it was washed out and bright. The sidewalks moved beneath my feet and I wished they'd go on forever. As you wished for trees, I found salvation in the pavement, where we walked and kept walking into ever darker nights, into rooms made of candles and conversation. I could stay up all night. All the intimacy contained in a crossword puzzle. Making breakfast, not making plans, washing faces, not being embarrassed. Truthfully, honestly. We were always running for buses, stopping and running, sitting and waiting, running and hurrying, catching and missing. You knew where to go, I knew where I wanted  to be.

- Chicago, Chicago, Chicago

there's so much more

there's always - so much more

Don't Get Any Big Ideas

The morning I left was cool, and the air was summer.

The air was not clear and bright, as in winter, everything illuminated and known, but dense and obscured, the air a semi-solid volume of dew, malleable as the day. These mornings are for waiting. While my others snooze lazily, emancipated from the morning routine of the school year, I wet my bare feet in misty clover, watching for briar, waiting. While my others sleep, I do not plan, I do not hope. I wade through the possibility hanging in the enveloping wetness, breathing in what could be and exhaling what was. I sit on the step of their doors, one by one, knowing my presence will draw them out; they must feel me waiting. I wait by the fence of the pool, hands clutching peeling paint on the criss-crossed metal, a wall we've scaled so many times. I let my fingers trace a meaningless path over the the rusted brick, walls we've sat against so many times, drinking soda and crushing ants. Up the hill, I wait looking down the slope we roll over, roll over, roll over, roll over, over, over.

Over.

Over.

Every morning I wake with the birds and wait. Their songs part the air and make paths for us to follow.

- Chicago

Nobody Feels Any Pain

We're not athletic

We weren't meant to be this out of breath, but every afternoon there's broken sweat from when we broke pace and ran out of time. Everything moves faster here, but every street has a stoplight, so every red light is a moment of pause, closed eyed mouth hung open exhalation before eyes are fixed hard on each other, moving again with the green light's permission, pushing forward in the rhythm of footfalls or wheels bouncing hard against the rough pavement - then the flash of red, brake lights and shouts, everything noise, everything silence as eyes move upward and fine nothing harmed, everything beautiful, everything placid, relief flooding veins with a sweet exhaustion and nostrils rejoicing as an acrid sweat is discovered, body shivering too late with panic, that delirious lubricant making a mess of it all. But no blood, no shattered glass. In the waning evening light, there are slow, even breaths, and we rest.

-Chicago