a quarter revolution update

Almost nearly caught up with school and homework and the like. Wrote two big pieces this week for my writing class. One was a short story that was all about tracing in many figurative and literal ways.

Sore from a combination of the move on Monday and yoga. I love doing yoga. I will do yoga for a long time, I think. It suits me quite well. I am super flexible (thanks to good genes from my super tall daddy!) and I like the low impact exercise. I'm not much for running or working out at a gym on a treadmill.

My apartment is still a disaster, but I have good firm plans to work on it Saturday. Involved will be cleaning all surfaces (how indifferent construction men are to leaving behind piles of dust and grime!), putting things where I've decided they ought to go and getting rid of boxes (I currently have a stack in my psuedo hallway).

Work has been killing me this week because we fired someone and my favorite coworker is on vacation. So it's just been me and the boss for the last five days. I feel like I am going through the worst week of my life and my job is just the epicenter of it all.

However, all this working has created a curious question in my life. A proposal in fact: could I buy the coffeeshop? Could I become its next owner? Is this why I have made my somewhat less than eager return?

And, perhaps most surprisingly, I miss Marilyn more than I could have imagined. She really has become my best friend.

Also, I can't bear to admit that I spend more time thinking about a certain unpredictable man more than I should. And I wish that there was some way to erase it all and start anew. but it is done. at least for now. and it is likely for the best when viewed at some angle, I'm sure.

and I will soon email my new contact info to all curious parties.

cheers!

the best thing is....

All of my stuff makes so much sense in my new apartment.

Seriously. This painting that my boss (from the dry cleaners)' husband did that I cajoled them into giving me because I loved it so much, that never really made sense anywhere totally makes sense in my kitchen. In fact, it's presence is the unifying factor between Hello Kitty appliances and dark green vinyl bucket seats on wheels.

And now I have four Tour Eiffel replicas. And lots of artwork. And lots of knick-knacks, and room for a table and a small desk in my kitchen. And room for all my clothes and stuff in my closet. And the second smallest bathroom in the world (the first being the bathroom that seemed to be converted from a small closet in my sister's old apartment in Glenwood, where literally, I would sit on the toilet and feel my thighs on both sides graze the walls).

I unpacked last night with a sense of glee, remembering things I'd forgotten I had, finding things I'd hoped I'd remembered to pack, and trying to figure out where I want everything to go.

I laid in my bed last night for the first time in three and a half months and I listened to the conversation of a group of people standing outside saying goodnight to someone who lived in my building. Their words muted indiscriminately so I could not hear everything but it was more so that I was back in a neighborhood where outside noises happened, and that they were pleasant and not the terrifying sounds my friend (who seemed to be channelling Chicken Little's spirit for the last week) claimed I would hear.

I slept restlessly and awoke before my alarm. I worry that I may have gotten used to the feeling of sleeping on a couch, feeling that support that falsely resembles the body of your lover at night, sidled up against you as close as can be.

I had resolved not to go to class today, that it was too important to finish unpacking and get myself situated, but then I realized that right now, school is more important. The train ride in this morning was long, but I had a seat, and a book to read, so it was tolerable. And I was on time. There's some kind of phenomenon that the closer you are to some place, the later you'll be. I even had time to buy coffee and a donut at the nearby Dunkin Donuts.

thanks for all of your cheerleading. i don't think I could have gotten through the last few months without some support and knowing you were there mattered.

stine

there's only so much a girl can take.

and the grenade of his being was much too much.

blink.

just like that. it's over.

okay, I don't wanna jinx it, but...

I'll be moving into my new apartment (gasp!) on Monday. If all goes well, I should be an apartment dweller not too far from now. I am very excited, mostly to get my things out of storage and have access to them.

Living out of a suitcase and a couple bags has made me realize I have far far far too much stuff, so I am going to take some serious looks at my things and cut out as much as I can. There isn't much I actually need.

The thing that I am looking forward to the most is sleeping in my own bed. I miss my bed so much. The last time I slept on it was in the early predawn of July 5th. And it is nearly October. I had the most restful sleep, rising with a sigh and a stretch at no particular time and even though I had stayed up late the previous night drinking, I didn't even have a hangover.

It's funny, I've moved so often you'd think I'd already have systems in place to keep myself from accumulating. I'd have a ten box minimum or just the essentials. But as I got older, my nostalgia got stronger and it got harder to throw things away. Though, trust me, it could have been far worse. I am no pack rat. I look at my storage unit, a ten foot by five foot space (with room to spare) and I feel glad that I don't have the excess that most people do.

I say all of this and realize I am now the proud owner of a baby pink blender. (thanks, mom)

stine

the mechanics of this set of doldrums

I wake up to the sound of my cell phone alarm. It has a resounding peal. It has a clang. I only recognize it in the dark, in my sleep. I have never heard it while I was awake. One time I set my alarm in a bar, while drinking, and before the night ended my phone (whose battery is prone to a shorter span of time than most) died. It died silently in my purse and laid there, forgotten. Even though it was completely dead, the alarm still rang the next morning, dutiful, frightful, loud. I was never more proud and secure, that even when my phone had no life it would still manage to wake me up.

I snooze. Five, ten minutes at the most. I place the phone under my pillow to muffle the noise of its alarm and to feel its vibration when it rings again. Finally, I rise, stretching, straightening, uncoiling myself from the brown sheet she gave me way back in July. I find its corners and match them together, folding it up neatly enough to tuck it away, but not neat enough to impress. Then I pull the fitted sheet off her long sofa, long enough for me, as wide as a twin size bed. The sheet is that color between khaki and beige whose name I don't know. I find it's seams and tuck them inside each other and then push both of the folded pieces to the back of the couch and rest the five large pillows, two on the left, two on the right, one in the middle with karate chops into the top middle of each. Then the medium sized green pillow for accent.

My clothes are laid out from the night before and I dress, pulling off my makeshift version of pajamas. Normally, I don't wear clothes to bed. I prefer to sleep naked. But being naked in someone else's home is a hard thing to do. It feels wrong somehow. I tuck them behind the couch's arm and slap my buckwheat pillow on top of the pile. I place each item on my body as if it is a return to the previous day, as if I had never left them, they instantly cling to my curves and skin.

I grab my purse and head towards the heavy green velvet curtains. They supposedly block the noise of my benefactor and her lover, but I can still hear their murmers at night while lying on her couch. I push the curtains back along the rod into their daytime place, tucked behind scrolling hooks. I like the way the curtains feel in my hands, the way everything in her place feels, heavy, solid, meaningful, as if it would outlast anything and everything.

Some days I avoid the bathroom altogether (ever since the morning when I scared her while she was seated on the toilet, naked, in the dark, and I was just a shadow that loomed larger than her lover's ever had). The door hinges squeak. The knob is testy. She is a light sleeper and can hear me turn the handle unless I do it just right. If I do use the bathroom I make sure to ease myself past the door, close it while turning the knob so that the latch doesn't make a sound and ease the knob back it to its resting place. But no matter how hard I try not to make a sound, the door always squeals and whines.

I walk through the hallway trepidatiously. Anything could be in my way, and often there is something to be snagged on, like the handle of her bicycle, or an ornate piece of furniture. Or I fear tripping and breaking my face on her tiled floor, the tiles she imported from Italy, or was it Spain?

When I get to the door to leave, I open it as carefully as the bathroom door, and it cooperates. Once in the outside hall, I search my purse for her small set of keys and close the door by sticking the key in the lock and turning the latch so that it doesn't clang when I close the door shut.

The hallway is quiet. The elevator is a soft hum. The doorman is asleep or dozing until I turn the handle of the door from the lobby. He tells me good morning and I simply nod. Sometimes I say something in response, but most days I nod. I exit the building in a rush of relief, feeling ten pounds lighter and five years younger.

I go to work, find myself running through the things I have to do and the things I must do with remarkable ease and clarity. Lately I haven't even been drinking coffee. I just show up and my body does the work it knows to do and my head wanders, filled with thoughts of him and his words, glancing at my cell phone which acts as intermediary between he and I. Sometimes a customer comes in that I like to talk to and I will sit in the front with them and pretend I'm not really at work, I'd just been wasting time til they got there. Inevitably, someone always comes in the door and I must return back, behind the counter, lest they spontaneously combust from the shock of no one to serve them immediately.

These days, now that school is back in the spectrum of my life, I tend to have a class in the afternoon, some three days a week. Otherwise, some other form of income. Never nothing. Always something. Often, my evening is also full, whether with more work or an eager friend who has planned my time nearly a week before, or with more mundane things like the pursuit of homework, laundry, etc.

I arrive back at her home between the hours of ten-thirty and eleven p.m., some seventeen hours after my morning departure. It is no wonder she doesn't mind my presence...I have hardly been there. I will think about whether or not I will do something before bed, but it is no surprise when I find the pajamas and turn the couch into my bed. I have become very tired these last few weeks. tired and bored.

Today as I stood on the platform waiting for the red line train, I realized that my body is trapped in the things it must do and my head is constantly running a barrage of contemplations, largely ignoring what the body is up to, okay sure, it manages it and keeps a peripheral eye alert, but my mind is just juiced up all the time.

and very often, it feels like there's no one I can tell these things to, no one who will understand them, no one who will understand the things within the context of the me I am forced to be right now.

It's just that I have been in a state of limbo for so long, hovering between the things I want and the things I must do, and the more I think about it, the more I realize it is probably just a condition of the special makeup of my emotional life, to always be waiting for my real life to kick in and my unenjoyed life to go away. The odd thing is I have never been so close to an actual chasm before me, where I could literally do anything, but before I begin something, I have to get through the next three months. It didn't seem like long until my routine kicked in. It didn't seem like long until his words and presence began to wither and fade. It didn't seem like long until I realized that school wasn't going to be easier just because I walked across that stage in May. It didn't seem like long until the weather suddenly changed, turning brisk and cold, which means my suitcase full of summer clothes is no longer useful, full of clothes that will not keep me warm enough, or covered enough, or suited to face the next season. It's not that I ever expected to be here this long.

At night, I will lie on her couch, my bed, and try to regulate my breathing to lull my brain into sleep. And the five hours that pass in that time between night and day will be fast and hard, and I will remember nothing of them, but feel like I should, feel the deja vu of some lingering dream, or the scraped peanut butter jar of my mind raw and exposed as if it had been doing math calculations all night when I was too busy sleeping to notice.

rinse, repeat.

yoga in half an hour!

so I don't know if it's the whole getting back into the golf swing of school or that I'm a suitcase and couch away from being homeless or that my life seems to be all kinds of unpredictable at the moment, but gosh, I haven't had any time or inclination to do any kind of homework writing.

Last class I turned in two and a half pages that I barely eeked out of the in class writing, which means, in other words, that all I did was type it up straight out of my notebook. Yesterday I sat on the computer for two or three hours and couldn't wrench myself away from all my internet extracurricular activities and staring repeatedly at my cell phone for answers. Finally I forced myself to get on my laptop (which suddenly stopped recognizing Marilyn's internet connection, though it happily notates twelve others that are all password protected, grr). I sat on that laptop for an hour and just typed up what I had done in class last week and then felt very sleepy. Eyes rolling in the back of my lolling head, I figured I best go to sleep and try to get up in the morning and finish.

Let the record show: it is a joke to pretend one will ever "wake up in the morning to finish homework" and I don't know how I could let myself be fooled by such logic. I barely made it to class on time. I laid in bed and it took forever for me to get to sleep even though I was practically comatose minutes before.

So I was granted a reprieve and a spare afternoon today and still I sit here unable to focus and just fucking write already.

so I thought I would sneak over here and do some kind of satisfying writing. it's sort of helping. kind of.

anyway: today in class my goth girl story was "recalled" (remembered moments told out loud in class) by three separate people who were also at Fiction Writers at Lunch last week. Anytime something is recalled, it is like a beauteous nod of affinity that what I am doing is good good good work.

cheers.

stine

today was not an "8" thank you very much tribune horoscope...

the good news is: a visit to the new apartment revealed a full-on in-the-state-of-rehabbing mess, which means it can't be too much longer, but oh my, the cabinets still aren't in, the counters aren't in, the bathroom door is not in...there are chunks of wall missing in random places, but it is still as wonderful and full of promise as I remember it, those many weeks ago.

and I found a hole-in-the-wall chinese resturant that uses water chestnuts in a proper way, so that they don't taste like communion wafers, but actual sustenance that doesn't feel like you're chewing on packing peanuts. the kung pao chicken was delicious.

i went back to get my mail from my old apartment and my ex-roommate had nothing but compliments for my appearance, which normally wouldn't matter, but today was timely and appreciated. i get a secret smile thinking about this person I loathed for so long complimenting me so graciously and delightedly.

i retrieved my mail and opened my refund check from school, which will nearly cover all the piling bills of this summer (one thousand text messages at ten cents each (!), wants, needs, desires, promised repayments).

and I got to visit the starbucks that I went to nearly every day forever, and there were still people working there who knew my name and wondered where I had gone off too.

somehow, i have the ability to create just the right creative energy with my coworker Val for her to come up with gems like these: "magic circle" as in a place where only certain select people are delegated in the mind, and "timcidents" the foolish, ridiculous, incredulous activities that remind us of a guy who no longer is employed at the coffeeshop due to two no show offenses.

there is homework to complete.

stine

a whole new realm

I have become an official member of a catering team. today I spent fourteen hours on a gig. I showed my prowess in so many areas, from food safety and sanitation, to sheer hard worker-ness, to being well-directed, to displaying my affability, to exhibiting my talent as a good laugher, and on and on and on.

Basically, I am a woman made to be into catering. As a reformed mother hen, I can pour all my tendency to care for people into my work. I can think ahead and plan and it's not only necessary, it's practically required. Seriously, nothing has ever suited me quite so well.

and I got paid to do it. and there's more to come! and I'm glad.

stine

when someone reads your work

and they are not a writer, it can be quite entertaining.

thankfully my friend Walter wasn't as bad as some people are and he pointed out a crucial pivot that I had not considered highlighting more than I had. He pointed out some other things, awkward phrasing and some grammatical issues (of which I have plenty), but as a whole, he suggested I up the tragic comedy tone. And I think I will.

miska's goth girl finale (with some minor corrections based on Walter's suggestions):

He never came back to Miska’s, Andrew, the decently cute goth boy, the guy who fucked with me about the cigarettes. I didn’t see him again until long after I worked at Miska’s. Rachel, Leon and I were at Neo on a Saturday night. They were sitting on one of the benches that lined the dance floor, stoned out on the mixture of pot, alcohol, and nitrous. We were feeling the music. The music thronged so much, it shook everything in the place. I could feel the music in my chest, pulsating, making my heart beat to it, as I leaned against the railing that guided people off the dance floor and up to the bar. I could feel the music tickling my fingertips.

Suddenly, I saw Andrew’s head far off in the crowd, bobbing slightly to the droning music. I didn’t even see him come in. I stopped looking for him at Neo a long time ago, even stopped paying any attention to guys that looked like him. He looked happy, well, as happy as a goth can look. He caught my eye and for a second, he stopped, noticing me watching him, maybe remembering me.

Leon and Rachel were just staring into the air without focus, watching the hypnotic movements of the dancing, their hands clutched together in a knot in Leon’s lap. The dance floor was full of Goths and last call was rising. People danced in a slow subtle orgy to the music, some in pairs, some in groups, with arms crawling up into the air, bodies twisting around each other, all in time to the beating drum of the music. If you were sober, I bet it would be kind of gross.

Anyway, Leon and Rachel didn’t really know what Andrew looked like, no matter how much I talked about him and tried to describe him. Leon was so tired of me talking about Andrew that he didn’t even sass me anymore about my unrequited love, every time I said the word ‘cute’ he would shoot me a look of warning. I didn't even bother telling them that he was actually there. I just stared.

Andrew was looking right at me. I felt a sway underneath me, and it took me a while to realize it was me, actually swooning, which later, Leon thought that was the funniest part, “Now she’s swooning like a Southern Belle at the Ball!”

Everything went silent except for the space between my ears. All I could hear was the thudding of my heart and the flash of thoughts in my head. Do I look good? What am I wearing again? I don't remember?! What about my makeup? It’s probably all worn off! Is he really looking at me? Who else could he be staring at?

When I turned around to look, it was as if the sound turned back on, but from inside me, like it emanated from my chest and worked its way outward. No one was behind me. I turned back to look for him and his pale face was gone from the limbs draped in black and the writhing bodies.

I stared out at the dance floor and felt Rachel’s clenched hand bump into my forearm. She nudged the balloon of nitrous my way. Her eyes were bleary and half open, but she still asked, “You okay?”

I shook my head and continued scanning the dance floor. There he was, taller than some of the rest, his pale face made pale with makeup, his lips reddened complete with a few trailing dots along his chin. He was Dracula tonight. (His favorite character.)

I was so startled by his sudden reappearance that I leaned onto the railing and held Rachel’s fist for support. Rachel’s fist opened and the balloon of nitrous sputtered away so she could hold my hand. I gathered myself up and took a deep breath.

I stepped out onto the dance floor. I was wearing this long house robe that I had found at a thrift store that went all the way down to the floor. It was like a forest green velour and I belted it with a black leather belt to make it less housewifey. I opened the belt and shook it off my naked shoulders to reveal what Leon and Rachel had wondered about all night. What are you wearing under that godforsaken thing? they’d asked repeatedly.

A strapless dark green vinyl minidress, that was so damn tight and so damn short I knew I wouldn’t make it longer than ten minutes dancing in it, and I’d flash the entire Neo crowd my ass if I dared sit down. I had green highlights put into my black hair about a week before, green eye shadow that matched perfectly (of course), and even though I know I looked good, I was so self conscious that I couldn’t prance around in it. Andrew was staring at me.

He was gliding my way. Gliding was an effect I heard he practiced all the time. His face blinked off and on under the roving spotlight. I still couldn’t see his body through the thick crowd of dancers. As I waited for him to approach me, I wondered all sorts of things, Where had he been? What did he want? Was he actually going to talk to me this time?

When he reached me, he pulled my waist and hurtled me toward his body, covered in an all black tuxedo, which was partially hidden by a long soft velvet cloak. I thought he looked absolutely dreamy.

We twirled into the dance floor, me like Silly Putty in his arms. He wasn’t staring at me anymore, his head was bent towards me, hiding in the crook of my neck and shoulder and when I felt his breath on my back, as he whispered in my ear, I thought I was going to die and go to heaven.

“Hey baby bat,” he breathed.

I pulled away.

“How dare you call me that?!” I shrieked, way too loudly. All the Goths near us turned their chins along their shoulders to discreetly stare.

A smile was on his lips. Ugh. Like most goth boys, he happened to look better when he brooded.

What the fuck was so funny? I crossed my arms and stood there, feeling the warmth of the other dancers creeping along my thighs. I glared at him. The rest of the Goths had gone back to their slithery dancing and finally, Andrew held his arms out to me.

“I was merely testing you, dear one.” He encircled my body, holding me closer.

“Seeing what you are made of, so to speak.”

What the fuck? See, that right there is the thing I hate about the goth culture. As accepting as they can be, some of them just downright refuse to believe that anyone would choose to be Goth. They are so suspicious of any newcomers or anyone who doesn’t totally embrace every black sadist aspect of the culture. I bet they feel like Goths aren’t made, they’re born. Whatever. Some people didn’t grow up with The Addams Family alright? Some people take a while to figure out what they’re into. How is that not okay?

I danced with him for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. I felt the music throbbing at my back, his hands lingering on my shoulderblades and the line of my dress, and his breath on my skin. Neo was still pulsating. Leon and Rachel were still spaced out on the bench. I tried to make eye contact, but neither of them could see me. The walls of Neo, the bar, the crowd, everything looked so small from Andrew’s arms. It all seemed so useless, so dumb. The black, the glamour, the bullshit.

And, to call someone a baby bat was not a very nice thing. It meant that I was a wannabe Goth and going through a phase. It meant that the way I dressed was not Gothic enough. It meant that the last three years of my life that I had devoted solely to learning the lingo, people, places and ways of Goth life in Chicago was a waste. It meant that Andrew, decently cute goth boy, the guy who fucked with me about the cigarettes, hadn’t changed at all since that first time I met him and he asked me for a cigarette near Belmont and Clark. He still had the most obscene attitude that reeked of more gothic than thou.

“You know,” I started, at the same time, rubbing my body against his. “You are one decently cute goth boy. There just aren’t so many good looking guys in the Goth world, but you, oh, you are definitely the most good-looking Goth guy I’ve ever seen.”

His teeth lightly nibbled at my skin.

“The thing is,” I said, pulling myself away and then leaning my back into his chest, “I like a guy I can talk to. I like a guy who’s nice to other people. I like a guy who’s nice to me.”

I slinked around him, twisting and writhing into him, enjoying the feel of his body next to mine, his hands on me, the music bleating inside me.

“The thing is,” I said, placing my hand on his chest and pushing myself away from him, “You can be a real dick.”

I turned and took a step and then looked back at him over my shoulder, him, frozen in this look of utter surprise, not moving, and I said, “You don’t even make a good Dracula.”

Then I walked back towards my green velour robe, bending over from the hips, making sure my ass was facing Andrew. I lingered there for a beat so he could take a good look. I reached down to pick up my robe and looked at Leon and Rachel.

“Let’s go,” I said, to their gaping mouths.

It didn’t take me long after that night to realize I was done with Goth. I miss Leon and Rachel the most, especially Leon, but they won’t talk to me anymore since I’m no longer Goth. Whatever. Being a perkygoth was never really my thing anyway.

stine

blogged like i've never blogged before...

new post over at chicagoarts.blogspot.com about the fall gallery walk.

why I want to see you

you think it's just the idea of you. but wouldn't our exchange of words, boundless, scrunched, uncertain, blissful, all of the above be enough if it was just the idea of you?

no. it's the feeling of vertigo in your physical space that I crave. it's the knowing you'll be there to catch me that excites me. it's the sense that I have that worlds are colliding and earths are shaking and if I close my eyes too hard, I won't be the same girl looking out from them in the mirror.

no. it's that you fit me and you don't. you know me and you don't. you feel me and you don't. and that I have that same uncertain grip on you. it's that excruciating sense of contradictions and the ennui that comes from sensing them that thrills me.

no. it's that sighing never came more naturally to me, or seemed more absurd. it's that i'm a ball of contrary when with you, up down, over, all the limits I'd spent so much time setting, all the rules I had, all the constructs and ideas all seem like a house of cards when you're around. and I don't know why that is exactly, because they were solid for everyone else, impenetrable even.

no. your very soul seeps out from you face to face, limbs to limbs, fingers to fingers. you cannot hide yourself in my gaze and I adore what I see.

no. there is no voice, or hands or body enough to replace you. there are no eyes kind enough to substitute for yours. there are no smiles that even come close to illciting the same frenzy in me that yours can.

you see, you as a whole are enchanting, but you as a body are warm and kind and cherishable. and I miss that kindness. I miss your face. I miss that warmth.

if it was only a matter of closing the door and walking away, I would have done that a long time ago, longer even than this year, longer even than that night, I would have left you standing there with your laundry and your life in your hands, knowing that you were another man I couldn't spare enough to love.

but you have always captivated me, and I stand here, ready to reciprocate, signed up for all that comes with it, intensity, unbearableness, brink driving to and fro, all that you offer with the intrigue that first sunk into me,

and i never want to use the word floss and mean it.

the difference between then and now

Yesterday I attended a program called Fiction Writers At Lunch. This is a get together sponsored by the fiction writing department at Columbia College. FW@L is a clever or simple minded way of letting you know what occurs at the event; fiction writers come, they are served lunch (And this was way before "Snakes on a Plane"). This leads to a bevy of decisions about how to spend my precious dollars that need to be made month after month, from what theme the FW@L ought to have to what kind of food should be served (yesterday it was from my favorite restaurant, Thai Spoon, which I could tell just by looking at it and deducing that Thai Spoon's close proximity meant it could only be their pineapple fried rice with tofu).

Some months the department has featured readers and you just come and eat and sit and listen. The best is when they have open mics like they did yesterday. The theme yesterday was Meet-and-Greet. How terribly droll. Many times I have gone to FW@L and eaten (something to show for my precious dollars!) and ignored the open mic list. I'm not particularly fond of reading my work in front of three dozen or so of my peers, men and women, or pretty much anyone. I'll do it, I have done it, but I don't exactly jump at the chance to get up in front of people and have them all staring at me while I share with them the thing that is most special to me in the whole wide world, you know?

So the reason I say open mics are best is not because I love to read my work, but because students get to read and you get to hear work from people you might never have a class with or you hear new work from someone you had a class with a year ago and what you hear is something really fresh and new.

Yesterday I happened to be sitting next to my teacher (don't you dare call me a brown-noser!) who gave me the you-ought-to-get-up-and-read nudge...which I automatically declined. I don't read, I told her. She pished at me. She resumed looking for something to read from her journal. I comtemplated this.

This is the teacher I am glad to return to after three years of schooling. Someone I admire tremendously. The woman who gave me this artistic creed: "All art is meant to disturb."

I looked at her profile. She didn't have to read. She was faculty. She was set in stone. She had nothing to prove. And I realized that standing up there to read was more about my feeling like I had to prove to everyone I deserve to be a writer. So I got up, quickly, went to the computer lab and printed out something to read.

I chose my best work, of course. Something I hadn't read aloud before, outside of class. A piece of fiction, oddly enough. The ending of the goth girl from the liquor store series. I picked out a couple pages to read and fingered them nervously until it was my time to read. My heart was pounding. My face felt flushed. I was shaky. The host of the day introduced me badly, but I didn't let it bother me.

I walked to the microphone and introduced the story and began, a fully capable reader, standing in front of my peers (hiss, hiss) and met their eyes and let the words fall on them, and heard their laughter (there was laughter!) and it was just about the best experience I have had in many, many days.

Despite any fun I may poke at the department, that they provide moments like these for the taking, for the willing participant, it makes me glad that I chose to go there and even makes me consider that grad school there might not be so terrible.

stine

today is a day like any other

last night as we were heading home on lake shore drive, a message in lights was waiting to be seen. one of the many buildings that make up Chicago's skyline displayed the date 9-11 using lit offices in a certain pattern. we were silent as each pair of eyes searched the sky.

more startling still was as we passed said building, on it's adjacent side the American flag had been rendered in the same fashion. I wasn't sure how I felt about that at the time. It seemed a little silly, and like a lot of work, to show that this was a day we will never forget?

I guess also I think of it as a waste, the electricity, the time it took to execute that, the time it took to plan, to leave a cute image on a building that has no effect on anyone except for the moment of impact. if it was graffiti or a piece of art, at least I could relate to that one person and their possible intention.

every day is a day we should never forget. every day is a day worth noting. every day is a day where something happens that makes the balance of the world being a good place or a bad one waver. we like our ceremonies, our celebrations, but in the end they honor nothing and no one. living an honest life does.

off to the fall gallery walk

I have been looking forward to the Fall Gallery Walk this year for many reasons...

first, it's already been a year since the last one and I am glad and grateful that my friendship with Natalia (she was the one who even introduced me to the idea of the river north gallery walk affair) has deepened and grown so much over the last year. I have a lot of friends, but not a lot of girlfriends, and I love that Natalia is so many things to me, a friend to talk to on the phone, a friend to giggle with, a girl friend to shop with, someone to talk to about art and life with. I have always said the best thing about working at Starbucks was meeting Natalia and I am always certain that statement is true every time I think of her.

second, I love the idea of fresh art, the buzz of energy around the galleries, the free wine and nibbles of food laid out. It is like one big revolving door of a party that every one is into and having a good time. And it's not contained to one gallery, it's not in Lincoln Park, it's full of lots of people I wish I could get to know as well as I've gotten to know Natalia...

so. I'll let you know when my post goes up at chicagoarts.blogspot.com

freelance update

I was late to class only to find no Sam Weller!?!?!

He isn't teaching the class. argh.

But it still looks like it'll be a worthy addition to the stine courseload.

I was so late that it took me a while (a long while, like not until I heard his voice) to realize I was sitting right next to a guy I had a class with last semester. We caught up and generally talked more in one class period than we ever had all last semester.

Also, when I sat down I felt a thudding in my chest...a boy that I had a dire crush on when I first started classes at Columbia was sitting in the semi-circle. I couldn't believe it! I thought he'd graduated? Maybe he was doing his grad school thing?

The funny thing is, I always thought he hated me because he could hardly meet my eyes and would barely speak to me. Well, being in a class with him made me realize his dilemma...he has a terrible time with stuttering. I felt so bad for him.

stine

this time to/day/morrow

will be another day, full of the things i must do, and wanting for the things I can't have. but that they are new, that they are things I haven't done before, tempers the responsibility of it, and makes it all palatable. kind of.

I am looking forward to my class with Sam Weller, he, the recent biographer of Ray Bradbury and another teacher I've taken the gall of repeating (they tend to frown on taking classes with the same teacher...the logic is, you learn all their bad habits and miss out on the range of teachers in the department). I took a turn for the worst in his previous class, I decided I was better at creative nonfiction than fiction and my career in the department went from zealot to zero.

It was Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. I couldn't put it down. I loved it. I wanted to write just as many meaningful books/novels/accounts of things in my life that I found interesting and horrifying.

And then, we read David Sedaris' Santaland Diaries. Now, mind you, this was a summer semester class and we laughed hysterically together as a group essay after essay. I decided if I could manage to be funny in my writing (I know, I haven't gotten any closer to that goal), it might be the way to go.

All of it was good solid scholarly inspiration, the sort that you just need the right mix to obtain, the teacher being the most important ingredient. While our class was in session, Sam was flying to L.A. every other weekend to interview Bradbury for the book...and telling us stories here and there of limo rides, airport nightmares, what it was like to sit across from one of his heroes.

and I'd be a fool not to buy into that again, especially since Sam is offering a course called Freelance Applications of Fiction Writing. so I'm most looking forward to being in class tomorrow and getting a taste of what else Sam is going to open my mind to.

what makes me think of you:

dogs. any and all. today it was a lovely, fluffy gray that looked like a pomeranian, but bigger. the other day a french bull terrier looking one.

when people do that thing in which they wear their sunglasses propped up on their forehead.

whenever I find myself doing or saying something that sounds slightly pretentious.

an offer to have a deluxe spa experience at a salon near halsted & randolph.

driving past millenium park on the bus.

walking along the river.

any possible adventure.

the noise and alert of a text message received.

pressed foreheads.

surveys.

everything.

dork fest

i know this is terribly dorky, but I am so excited about my first class tomorrow.

I am looking forward to the reading list for the semester. I am looking forward to seeing my teacher, who taught me about three years ago. I am looking forward to seeing all the people in my department and feeling the energy there.

I am also looking forward to the writing I will do while in this class. this teacher in particular loves my journal writing and hoped I could fuse my voice into my fiction and I want to know if I've gotten any closer or if she can steer me any closer.

my head is just a swirl of hopes and intentions and thoughts about tomorrow.

i'm sure beth will understand.

how bizarre

with all this talk of exes and crushes lingering like an undying moth to his flame, it's interesting that one of my more fervent admirers happened to stop by the coffeeshop today.

he's married now, he's got a different life now. when I knew him, he was still a warm pool of tar, now he is formed and claimed and set. this has given him a sense of weight and calm. amazing, considering his mind makes people suffering with attention deficit disorder look normal. you can still see that in his eyes, everything else is tamed, but his eyes still shrink and wrap around each word like a squirrel testing each possible morsel of food. his brain attaches all the connotations and then pilfers through them for the right one and frequently is interrupted by impatient conversationalists wanting to move on. this sounds bad, but if you have the right levers and pulls of patience, it can be quite a lovely thing to converse with him. which is what I liked about him.

imagine: he arrives in a convoy of people just released from the church services or bible study group of a nearby religious group. his eyes find mine instantly. his warmth cremates the air. there was never anyone that knew me more or better than he. and yet. the group forms a line and he sits off to the side, watching my movements, giving me that feeling of absolute unsettledness and yet the delight of someone taking an interest in me. I take orders, make drinks, attempt to largely ignore his presence, until his wife comes to his side and excitedly (she actually likes me and isn't threatened by me at all, which I find a little unrealistic and a little endearing) clamors to her husband about my return to the coffeeshop. they had no idea I was there. i had no idea he still went to that stupid church.

finally, he is last in line and he comes to the register to greet me, his wife at his side, and I like that I notice they look good together, they look happy. I am glad for him, this guy, who once felt it impertinent to ask me to marry him, to sleep with me on the floor of my apartment those months when I didn't have a bed, and a million other things I probably was too callous to notice, because I knew long before he did that there was no way he and I could be together. but he was convinced, and I let him keep those convictions.

we talk, his wife and he and I. we play catch up since the last time we saw each other, and his wife goes to talk to someone else and it isn't until then that I look into his eyes, and I see the same mirth and joy he held for me those many years ago. this also makes me glad to know that I did not lose his love to anger or regret, but it turned a different corner and kept itself resigned to a different strain.

they sit and I relax a little, restoring tidiness to the cluttered counters. It is no surprise to me that they two are the nucleus of the circle and the conversation waxes and wanes about them like bursts of light. but eventually, he returns. i burn in a bright way for him. our conversation style, the kind we used to share late into the night, the kind we had to decipher constantly, the kind that is full of references that mean something only to us, also returned. it is a strange thing to be in the middle of so many things and still have a completely profound conversation with someone who just wants the best for you and you for him. it is a little surreal. and it makes you feel like maybe you're not the only one with such a craving for meaningfulness.

in our five minute conversation, we retraced the steps of this year, we planned out the next five--separately. he gave me a contact of a place that might be willing to launch my comic book class for kids. I reset my levers and pulls for his mind, the gift of patience, a chance to be heard. and we made self referential elbow nudging jokes about each other. he even managed to acknowledge me in such a weighted way that my ordinary life seems complete the way it is and the way it isn't.

how did I lose this man from my life? time. being busy. knowing that there are certain people for whom it is too painful to be around. for both of us. so. it is unlikely I will be able to skate on his surface without some kind of intent and I can't find one that isn't a revisitation of our chemical dependence. so perhaps we will share some limited contact in various ways and it will be for the best. and I will know that there is another someone out there that wants the best for me, no matter who I've been or who I become.

stine

see, this is it.

this morning I wish I could have said all the words waiting to burst from my heart. the ones about my life, my goals, and how this company is a match for them. I wish I could adequately battle your suspiciousness, I wish I could not falter in front of your savage wit, I wish that you could mind meld with me and just know my thoughts.

for then you would know so much more.

but I will not be deterred, even though I may not be understood, you will sense the power of my conviction in my actions and life, you will see the ripples of this coming off me. you want me to be myself, fully realized, and I see this as a way of being that.

I just wish that I could have told you fully how it is for me. but my words were stuck in my throat and my heart was on fire.

you.

stine

virtual memory box...

The thing is, I've been using the internet (aka The World Wide Web) in some form or another for twelve years. That's a goodly portion of my life. I've spent the formative years of my life living it, then writing about it somewhere in a computer, and keeping a record of some of my days either in the clunky phrase of online journal or the bugsinamber blog, or here. And, as it turns out, in email...

The other day I had this thought that I had not visited one of my many email accounts, a Yahoo! one. It isn't one that I frequently receive mail in, but I do try to remember to log in every so often in an effort to mainain the account, and the storage of two years of correspondence with people in my life.

As I began reading through some of that correspondence, I was surprised at how much I've changed in the last five years or so. My writing has become so much clearer, but much less playful. Even though that was probably the most sad time of my life thus far, I wrote with an amazing sense of play and good naturedness, that covered up my situation. I have since lost that ability to actively hide my angst, both in writing and in life. I suppose it is a better thing that is is clearer, less bogged down by words and attempts at cuteness, but I wonder if that cuteness is what brought the fiction into my words, and that its appeal is bigger than I thought.

Also, I was pleasantly surprised by the discovery of a picture of myself I had sent along as an attachment (which in those days was quite the feat...scanning a physical specimen, making sure it wasn't too big, connecting the dots from your computer to the broswer, and the interface of broswer's back then were not as kind and simplified as they have become). The picture is one of me sitting in a chair that Vince and I found abandoned (or merely resting) in the hallway of the Southport apartment. I can't tell which of our many apartments the photo was taken in, it could have been Lincoln Ave, but it easily could have been Bosworth.

This was back in the day when I put a lot of effort into looking good, and it shows. My hair is dark and slightly purple-y red, an eggplant, perhaps. I used to blow-dry my hair. every. damn. day. My face is clear, bright, a lie. No freckles, the "camera" was a small polaroid piece of junk (the i-zone I think it was called) that simply couldn't pick up too many fine details, so my freckles don't appear at all, which at the time I was thrilled for, I hated having freckles. so. very. much. My eyebrows are perfectly groomed, thanks to frequent waxing sessions. I look at them now and see that they frame my face, they set the standard for the rest of my look. Mostly ungroomed, they sit like caterpillars above my eyes, setting the tone for my wild hair behind them. I am now as natural as I can suppose to be, with a few tweakings now and again.

At the time, I was sensitive about my teeth, nose, face in general. I really believed that it was better if I didn't smile. So I tried not to. I took a lot of pictures with that camera, always trying to attain the perfect picture of me. And nearly all of them have that dour pout of a girl who feels insecure and unattractive. Of course, anyone who knows me now knows that I smile for the hell of it all the time. There is never a time when the thought of my ugly teeth or big nose interferes with my smile.

Then, the most curious thing, something I had forgotten about, is that I am wearing a black top of some undefined sort. At this point in time, I usually only wear black shirts for work, and they are as feminine as possible. I forgot how badly I used to dress then, like a frumpy, dour, unfashionable old lady who just didn't know any better. I suppose how I dress now is not necessarily an improvement, but it's definitely a better reflection of the person inside than all that black and bore was.

It was just stunning to me to look upon this lost relic of my past and realize that my physical self has changed immensely and it reflects all of the ways I have opened up to life, all of the insecurities I've shed, all of the judgments I held are gone. I am simply me, and there's no one else standing in front of you. That makes me very pleased.

stine