I’m riding the brown line from Albany Park to The Mart.
The ride itself is a bit meditative, everybody in my lcar is absorbed in their devices, you could hear a mouse fart. Sometimes, you do get the occasional person who feels the express need to express themselves and broadcast their conversations about nothing at all, actually. I idly wonder what would it be like to steal fragments of these intrusive conversations and piecemeal them into a sound byte, just for the sake of self entertainment. Then, I’m not that motivated to squander the energy in doing silly thingies like I once used to be, so interactive with my surrounding environment. In a world of digital distraction, reality does provide for cheap endless entertainment when one looks and observes the world around them.
When I pass this clock tower, I’m reminded of my youth. I would journey to Ravenswood avenue and hike along the metra tracks looking like one of the boys from the movie Stand by me, and this clock tower would be my stopping point. I used to think it was so terribly far from my home, and it was the most visible place you could see visually. It’s funny how some places are saturated by a moment of our own timelines, and we forget these things. Take them for granted, scarcely realizing that someday, we will look back and realize we were in those places, we lived a part of our existence in them, they symbolized a place in ourselves. I saw my young pup self, an imprint from my fractured memory hiking along, having fun being on an ‘adventure’, an intrepid urban adventurer looking to discover something lost or valuable in hidden places.
Right now I’m reading : Mortal Trash by Kim Addonizio. Sometimes I do dig her work, and a few poems I found were replete with allusions to past experiences and blunders, triumphs, and ennui from life. Of course these are powerful shaper’s of ourselves, since they were things we partook in, like a play and we the actors in the theater of minds. I realize this now, that I’m in a place I neither wish to be in, from, or associated with, but rather in some other world entirely. Yet I suppose not learning and knowing of such places helps, for when I arrive I don’t want to feel like I’ve arrived, or I’ve been there my entire life before even having stepped foot on its soil. Yet I didn’t find her work as ‘me’ as Richard Silken (who wrote ‘War of the Foxes’). There was a way in which he flowed and detailed his poems that resonated with me. It was clean, descriptive, and beautiful, a touch of melancholy and a smattering of cunning.
I ran stoops this morning at the park, he was quite happy. Lately it’s been too arctic cold to even venture much farther than I ordinarily would like. I was able to cast the ball yesterday as well so he’s going to sleep in good today while I’m at work. I see my friend Amra at The Mart now, she’s such a sweet Bosnian girl, and I made friends with her and her husband just from walking stoops at Eugene field so much. I also befriended my neighbors Angela and her son Chris, who sometimes dogsit stoops for me when I go on road trips. I took a liking to the kid, he’s an honor roll student and takes his studies seriously. I was mentoring him for a spell, until his moms tried making me his free tutor/babysitter. Funny how some people try to take a mile when you give them an inch. I wonder to myself what would happen if I asked them a favor or leaned on them expecting their help with this or that ? They might for a little while.
I gave the neighbors upstairs in unit 3B some last minute gifts. This sweet woman named Paris I gave a Japanese style notebook I got from Kinokuniya at Matsuwa marketplace, and her son a book : How to Draw Almost Anything. Small, neighborly gifts, I like to think that they enjoyed them. Every now and again, I like practicing random acts of niceness if only to brighten up somebodies existence. Restoration in humanity starts with giving, not always receiving and waiting for others to initiate life.
I have volumes of journals, sketchbooks, notebooks that are dying for me to bleed ink all over the blank pages. These days I seem to be too busy, preoccupied, I have to exhaust myself to the fullest just to make it another day. My world is such like a finely tuned precision orchestra, one wrong wave from the conductor can send my performance into full disaster mode, and unlike in IT there’s no disaster recovery from that. One instrument fails, they all do, as one. Sync or swim.