Nico's furrowed face is outlined by long curly dried-out locks the color of iron. His round body moves like that of a Beijing CP politico: smoothly, leading from the belly, and with a keen awareness of its own power. His demeanor is frightening a little, as he intends it to be. He has an excellent sense of showmanship when it comes to self-presentation I think.
He keeps two dogs - living props that provide image-support. Their square jaws and deep bellowing barks menace any passersby who stray too closely to the chain-link fence. He's a cussing, rowdy, son-of-a-bitch (this will be ironic later) whose tirades can last for several hours; his voice is my frequent companion on cool afternoons when the window is open. In Nico-lingua, the F-word is usually a negative adjective but it can also be a demeaning noun or verb. Last week, a triple-threat parts-of-speech f-bomb assailed my aural cavities as I relaxed behind the hedge. "Why the f*** are you f***ing with the f***ing windows? Just leave it the f*** alone!" I'm not the recipient of the curse-o-matic combo, so I can giggle from my seat.
Swearing doesn't offend me. It just sounds silly or cheap or uneducated. And sometimes ugly. But usually it makes me laugh because it's just so ridiculous. I'm not a swearer. Not since high school (now you see it).
Several months ago, Nico leveraged his Harley Davidson and his street-cred into an official Hell's Angels membership. He tromped out of the kitchen and into the yard, his new members leather jacket gleaming over his fluffy flannel man-jammies, spinning in front of me from across the fence. "Get a look at this," he bleated gruffly, like a child with his first home-made ashtray. "What do you think of that?"
I gazed at the Hell's Angels logo emblazened across the back. His face was a mixture of pride, teenage rebellion, and Christmas morning delight (the latter of which kind of ruined the whole Hell's-Angels-mugster-persona thing. No self-respecting law-flouter had any business looking that joyful). His shamefaced bravado as he awaited my response suggested that perhaps he wanted my approval, felt silly that he wanted it, knew that he probably wouldn't get it, was ready with his defense if he didn't, but still really hoped he would anyway. I smiled at this rough middle-aged man twenty years my senior. "Well, congratulations, Nico. Looks like that's quite an honor." He's so tickled he almost wiggles.
Now Nico spends his days feeding me Hell's Angels tidbits. He perches on his wood-latticed terrace, spraying his freshly-seeded grass, his jacket hung from a lawn chair as if on display (which it is). On any given day I learn that Hell's Angels is really just a nice club, filled with members who travel the world on their Harleys doing good, not evil. He expounds on the goodness of their deeds at great length, and also on their stoic silent suffering at the hands of society and especially, the police. They are benevolent do-gooders, misunderstood by the world because of a few bad apples. I smile and offer sympathy. It really is rough to be a down-trodden biker isn't it?
Yesterday I was in my usual morning out-of-sight hedge spot. Nico wandered out with his typical nonchalance for physical aethestics - his iron mane in wild disarray and his wife beater pulled up over his protuberant belly. He approached his fiercest dog, Chuckles, who was sniffing me through the fence links. Unaware of my presence, he leaned over the bulldog and ruffled her all over, talking to her in the gentlest of baby voices. "Is that my girl? How's my sweetie? Are you my sweet baby girl? Are you my girl? Who's your daddy? Huh? Who loves you most Chuckles? Who loves you?" I froze, not out of personal embarrassment but because I know that most humans resent even unwitting intrusions upon their secrets. I doubt Nico will overlook my witness to a trait he considers weak: vulnerability. Nico doesn't know that I see right through that facade of his. He may look bad; he may BE bad sometimes; but his innate nature is as soft and pliant as a newborn kitten. Somewhere, if he had a mother, there is a silent-home movie of scrawny little Nico with gentle pleading eyes handing his mother a bunch of dandelions.
Nico is exactly like Ozzy Osbourne from the Osbournes: a bat-head-eating devil-worshipper on display who spends his evenings sipping Earl Grey tea on the couch with his lap dog and looking overwhelmed by the antics of his much scarier wife and children. Nico spends his life biting heads in public but at home (between screamings) Nico spends most of his time tinkering on his bike, seeding the lawn, chatting with the neighbors, adopting a young protege he calls "Wonderboy" and passing out BBQ bounty like a meat-laden Santa.
Will I ever tell him that he's sweet and huggable?
Naw......it would be too cruel.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Going Carless
I don't have a car.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Well, at least, I didn't,
I don't want one you see. I've been living without one for over a year and I can count the times on one hand I've really needed one.
I bike. And El. And Metra.
I'm a reverse commuter. It takes me an hour and fifteen minutes door-to-door to my new job. I hop on my orange Trek in my black dress slacks, frilly taupe blouse, and over-sized silver hoops. My 2 inch t-strap wedges dig into the sharp-toothed pedals. And I go.
I hurtle through the early-morning traffic and snigger at the daily pileup at Roosevelt Rd. You poor slobs. I slip through the 12-inch opening. I meet the stares and smile broadly. Why is it so weird for a dressed up woman to bike? Men do it all the time.
As I travel, I smell things. In China, I used to name stinky smells: fried rotten tofu, gym socks smell, seeping sewage, chemical smells, burning coal, garlic-n-body odor. They were distinct smells - encountered on a daily basis. But there were other smells too (most of them food) - spicy mutton fat over an open fire, oil sticks, fried garlic, flatbread with chives, roses, magnolias, purple-y wisteria vines over the endless bike racks, diesel fuel. I smell things in Berwyn: magnolia trees, dill, basil, wet grass, french fries, exhaust fuel hovering above pavement, dead squirrel, and then the sharp harsh smell of some tree that I haven't yet identified. I love them all (even the squirrel) because they make me feel alive.
I pull up to a bike rack at my station and in one fluid motion, I dismount, set down my heavy bag, unhook my pant tie - and in a moment - I'm a professional. I wheel my black briefcase into the coffee shop, pausing to wipe the sweat with a tissue. And then I'm on the train.
I like the reverse commute. Who would ever drive this route? You're all crazy, just so you know. I listen to NPR and sip cinnamon dark roast coffee while planning my day on my Dell. My favorite conductor is Bill with the reddish-brown beard. He winks at me most days when he punches my 10-ride ticket. I smile and twinkle back - friendly.
I exit at a tree-lined station and walk the final mile. I smile and say "good morning" to every person I meet. They mostly like it, although some look at me like I'm crazy. But it makes me laugh when they do that. How did people get so disconnected anyways? I get lots of stares again: maybe it's because I'm still a little bit cute and not quite old or fat yet. Or maybe my fly is open. Who knows? Maybe it's boogers. Or maybe people just like to watch other people as much as I do. But I get stares every single morning - walking or biking. Maybe Americans aren't used to seeing active people in everyday pursuits. I guess I'm supposed to go put on a sports bra and spandex. But then, I'd still get stares, now wouldn't I?
I like this lifestyle. When I buy my house, it's going to be next to public transportation like now.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Blogging Amityville Horror
I am live blogging the original Amityville Horror. I thought it was time to see it. This post is filled with spoilers.
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
10:00 I hate scary movies. Why am I watching this?
10:10 The realtor looks exactly like this woman from my parents' church. Husband mentions it and I laugh.
10:15 Why does the evil house wait a month to get nasty? Doesn't it hate them immediately? Is it waiting for autumn?
10:20 What exactly is happening to the priest in the upper room when he tries to do his exorcism? Are they buzzing him to death? Sucking his breath away with their high-powered wings? Are they impregnating his lungs with thousands of larvae in some sort of evil twisted virgin fly birth?
10:25 Margot Kidder is doing partially-nude ballet in the bedroom. Do any women actually do this? Shout out if you do please because I'd like to know.
10:30 Husband posits that they had to pull on the black cat's tail to get it to yowl like that. This makes me think of 3rd world zoos, where you can usually slip a few extra bucks into the attendant's palm to get them to poke the lions with a sharp stick so they'll roar. "Look kids....lion!"
10:33 A nun with some flowers is seriously freaking out. Where are the flies, I ask you? She's driving away in a rusty gran torino look-alike and now, puking. Evil houses make people of the cloth sick. Got it.
10:40 Ooohhhh! Evil house can control cars remotely. It crashes with the priest. Ha! There's a fly on his windshield. It's those omnipotent flies again. Do they cause the trouble? Or do they only show up because of the imminent feedings?
10:40 There's a babysitter with full dental head gear! In broad daylight! In public! Hooray!
11:00 MIDPOINT: Jody is a spirit girl who can control flies toward malignant purposes. Through Jody, flies cause breathing trouble, puking, open festering wounds, and car brake malfunctions. Jody apparently doesn't like people in her house. But she also really likes killing them, since she waits to take any nefarious actions until well after the time when she might have easily kept people from her home. Jody can close doors, turn off lights, and do cheap disappearing magic tricks with grooms' pockets and money. I don't know where the money goes. She can also mess with phone lines, or perhaps aural cavities (not sure which). Jody befriends precocious cute little girls in order to eventually throw blame, presumably so that she can keep up her dirty deeds as long as possible. Finally, Jody incites adult male madness.
11:05 I'd like you all to know that James Brolin is wandering around at night in his tighty whiteys. This makes me very happy.
11:15 James Brolin (now fully-clothed) has chosen to steal a rare book from the library. Why in the world didn't he use his library card? And now Margot Kidder is praying for help, which God has answered in the form of her scrappy lumberjack neighbor........ Who has just disappeared......Hmmmmmm.
11:30 There's a secret room in the basement (which is "a secret passage to hell"). James has just seen his face with red Halloween plastic devil horns on his head. Oh.....the cross has turned itself upside down and is all oily. That mischievous Jody.
11:40 Jody, or perhaps her flies, are trashing the angels at the church while the priest prays frantically. Wait a minute, that clever monkey, she only made him think that it was being trashed - thus blinding him. (No that sentence doesn't make any sense but it's exactly how it happens). Literally he sees the angel falling and then he's blind - but the angel didn't really fall.
11:40 I want to know why Jody sounds like a scratchy old polish man when she yells at people to get out.
11:50 Why is the helper-priest so unhelpful? There's no reason to be surly. Wouldn't he want to help everybody out?
12:00 And now, all hell breaks loose. James Brolin with wild crazy eyes, stomps about the house with his sharpened ax. Jody, who kind of looks like a baby gorilla with red eyes, watches from the upstairs. Margot Kidder turns a hundred and two (kind of like what she looked like in superman). Windows burst, stairs bleed profusely. James Brolin gets the family out and then goes back for Harry. He is drawn to the basement which is seeping smoke. He falls through the floor (no, no Jody - naughty monkey) and into oil. He's rich! No, but almost dead, if it weren't for Harry the wonder dog, who looks menacing but really just wants to save him from the goo. They leave together with a now goo-free James Brolin.
The end
Friday, July 10, 2009
Biking Through Woods on a Rainy Day
Do you think Frost will mind? And is mimicry truly the sincerest flattery? (probably)
Perhaps it is that my body is comprised of organic material. Something deep inside of me craves the flutter of wind-tickled leaves and the luminescent golden hue cast upon faded brick in the last 5 minutes of sunset. I need to bury my hands in powdery humus and to squish my toes in wet earth. And sometimes I need to immerse my entire being in the dark, mossy, decaying and vaguely menacing faerie world into which a steady drizzle has transformed my cheerful woods.
I set out clad in a red sports tank, my black yoga pants-leg affixed by an old hair scrunchy as protection against the tire chain that longs for a taste. Why didn't I get a chain guard? Or a kickstand for that matter? Oh, that's right, because it wasn't cool 10 years ago when I bought my Trek.
I pedal through middle class neighborhoods with those distinctive brick bungalows which looked frighteningly urban to me when I first moved here from Idaho. I cross heavy traffic and am deposited by a meandering street into an upper class neighborhood of 19th century Victorians and Frank Lloyd Wrights. Usually this drive is beautiful and soothing to me but today it is too staid; too safe. It is wildness I seek. Some do not seem to need such things - perhaps it was bred in me in childhood - in the mountains.
Only a few drops are falling so I press on, but it does not really matter - only the materialization of the threatened thunderstorm will send me back. The path suddenly appears on the right and I swerve, disappearing instantaneously from prying eyes. They are safe and warm in their little cars; I pity them. But they are already gone from existence. Here lay miles of forest preserves richly inhabited by robins and fauns and beavers. I am no longer in Chicago at all, cannot hear the hum of traffic.
The river to the left is engorged from this summer's heavy rains. Perhaps it will overflow again. The rain increases alongside the steady pumps of my legs; my clothing draws it in, becoming heavy and sodden as the waterproof sunscreen on my skin begins to intermingle with the rain in chalky rivulets down my arms. Why does it do that?
I lose myself to Tolkien's Mirkwood or perhaps the Direwood - inhaling the rich scent of decomposition. The wood is vast and impenetrable. I am aware of ancient moody stares which follow along the trail. The rain's transformation is complete. Mud splatters up my back and hair; I embrace it, knowing that I am being transformed as well. The woods will accept me in this guise. A coiffured and pampered being has no business here - not in a Rainy Wood.
Two speckled fauns gaze at me in surprise, flagging their little white tails which brings their mother to investigate. But I am already gone, whizzing down the path in a drenching downpour. I am a fool. I have put on mascara; it is melting down my face in two black pools. I smile. I am a ghoul.
And then there is a peal of thunder. Surely lightning must follow. I recall my close shave with that fierce lightning storm in that one lake that one summer. I shudder and turn my bike. It is glorious to feel otherworldly and omnipotent; it is terrifying to understand one's mortality. The thunder recalls me to earth and I am just a wet, filthy, crazy, vain woman with aching, burning 34-year old lungs. I increase my speed further, now racing against time.
I burst from the forest preserve onto a major road. Silver Hondas and gleaming red Pontiacs gaze at me in dismay. I do not belong here in the living world. I careen through a muddy puddle, spraying muck in a wide arch. I glance at myself. I am a mess. I wonder what these by-passers see? I raise my face to the rain so that it can penetrate my being even deeper. I barrel through the traffic light, ignoring the red - a whizzing, splattered, sodden creature with raccoon-eyes and crazily-spiked hair. I make contact with pitying eyes and grin broadly. They do not know what it is to be wild.
Perhaps it is that my body is comprised of organic material. Something deep inside of me craves the flutter of wind-tickled leaves and the luminescent golden hue cast upon faded brick in the last 5 minutes of sunset. I need to bury my hands in powdery humus and to squish my toes in wet earth. And sometimes I need to immerse my entire being in the dark, mossy, decaying and vaguely menacing faerie world into which a steady drizzle has transformed my cheerful woods.
I set out clad in a red sports tank, my black yoga pants-leg affixed by an old hair scrunchy as protection against the tire chain that longs for a taste. Why didn't I get a chain guard? Or a kickstand for that matter? Oh, that's right, because it wasn't cool 10 years ago when I bought my Trek.
I pedal through middle class neighborhoods with those distinctive brick bungalows which looked frighteningly urban to me when I first moved here from Idaho. I cross heavy traffic and am deposited by a meandering street into an upper class neighborhood of 19th century Victorians and Frank Lloyd Wrights. Usually this drive is beautiful and soothing to me but today it is too staid; too safe. It is wildness I seek. Some do not seem to need such things - perhaps it was bred in me in childhood - in the mountains.
Only a few drops are falling so I press on, but it does not really matter - only the materialization of the threatened thunderstorm will send me back. The path suddenly appears on the right and I swerve, disappearing instantaneously from prying eyes. They are safe and warm in their little cars; I pity them. But they are already gone from existence. Here lay miles of forest preserves richly inhabited by robins and fauns and beavers. I am no longer in Chicago at all, cannot hear the hum of traffic.
The river to the left is engorged from this summer's heavy rains. Perhaps it will overflow again. The rain increases alongside the steady pumps of my legs; my clothing draws it in, becoming heavy and sodden as the waterproof sunscreen on my skin begins to intermingle with the rain in chalky rivulets down my arms. Why does it do that?
I lose myself to Tolkien's Mirkwood or perhaps the Direwood - inhaling the rich scent of decomposition. The wood is vast and impenetrable. I am aware of ancient moody stares which follow along the trail. The rain's transformation is complete. Mud splatters up my back and hair; I embrace it, knowing that I am being transformed as well. The woods will accept me in this guise. A coiffured and pampered being has no business here - not in a Rainy Wood.
Two speckled fauns gaze at me in surprise, flagging their little white tails which brings their mother to investigate. But I am already gone, whizzing down the path in a drenching downpour. I am a fool. I have put on mascara; it is melting down my face in two black pools. I smile. I am a ghoul.
And then there is a peal of thunder. Surely lightning must follow. I recall my close shave with that fierce lightning storm in that one lake that one summer. I shudder and turn my bike. It is glorious to feel otherworldly and omnipotent; it is terrifying to understand one's mortality. The thunder recalls me to earth and I am just a wet, filthy, crazy, vain woman with aching, burning 34-year old lungs. I increase my speed further, now racing against time.
I burst from the forest preserve onto a major road. Silver Hondas and gleaming red Pontiacs gaze at me in dismay. I do not belong here in the living world. I careen through a muddy puddle, spraying muck in a wide arch. I glance at myself. I am a mess. I wonder what these by-passers see? I raise my face to the rain so that it can penetrate my being even deeper. I barrel through the traffic light, ignoring the red - a whizzing, splattered, sodden creature with raccoon-eyes and crazily-spiked hair. I make contact with pitying eyes and grin broadly. They do not know what it is to be wild.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I Took a Blogging Hiatus
I went blog-free almost exactly 6 months ago. It's really not a good idea to go missing when you are just starting out on a new venture. I took off for several reasons:
One) I have a fundamental mistrust of the internet. I have thoughts and I like to share them but do I really want them out there - in net-space - forever? I have a tendency to express myself impetuously and much more strongly than I may intend. Upon further reflection, I will generally balance myself. But I can't "balance" posts that are just.....there.....forever.....for anyone to read. (Okay, I have no following anyway and I can limit access to my blog but you get my point).
Two) Isn't blogging just so self-centered? Isn't it a little narcissistic? Does anyone really want to hear me blathering on about daisies and possums and Al Capone? Do I really have anything of value to say that hasn't already been said by someone else? And even if I do, is it self-serving to always have to put it out there? Why not just keep a journal?
Three) Is anonymity important to me? All two of you know who I am. Maybe if I were utterly anonymous I wouldn't have to worry about being impetuous or narcissistic. But then, I would not be known - and it is my opinion that most human beings want to be known - by at least someone.
Four) The title. What the heck am I going to do if I move to Forest Park? Or West Town? Can you change the title of your blog? Or is it irrevocable, once you've started a blog? Do you have to start a new blog to get a new title?
Five) Purpose. I don't know what I want this blog to be. Right now, it's about local living. In Berwyn. What if I want to write about other stuff? Maybe I should start a blog called, "Crap - From Me to You".
And yet, despite these reservations, here I am, blogging again. My desire to communicate must have overcome my reservations.
Now that you've made it this far through the post I might as well go into the most compelling reason for my hiatus. It has to do with that lady in the antique store on the south side of the Oak Park Metra stop in Berwyn. The truth is, I mostly quit blogging because going over the minutiae of my "discoveries" just seemed so empty in comparison with the magnitude of the pain that I saw in people's lives this year. Maybe that's all the more reason to keep on living the simple life and making joyful discoveries; no, it is DEFINITELY all the more reason to do so and it's the main reason that I'm back. But for awhile, about six months, life just seemed too complicated for blissful blogging.
In March I went for a history tour of southwest Berwyn. It was a self-operated tour (meaning: a book on Berwyn and my reluctant husband). It was a gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine; I was looking for the original homes of the founders of Berwyn (I found them, by the way; you can too if you want to). Just at the tail end of my tour, I spotted a charming little antique store that I'd somehow overlooked in my months of "Berwyn discoveries." I sent the husband down the street to look at books and stepped in.
I found myself in the awkward situation of interrupting a tete-a-tete between a 40ish weeping woman (clearly the owner) and a 50ish man, who appeared to be offering solace through food. They stopped to stare at me, she with the weeping eyes and he with the styrofoam carryout food container. I cleared my throat and tried to turn-about but she waved me in. I was trapped. I began listlessly circling the store as weeper and comforter continued their discussion. The reason for her tears became evident (and you've already guessed it anyway): she was losing her store. No, wait, she was losing everything - the whole caboodle - store, livelihood, savings and home - all in one fell swoop. Reasons for tooth-gnashing indeed.
Mr. Muncher gave a final squeeze and shuffled out the door, leaving me to face her grief and vulnerability - alone. I did the best I could, trying for gentle, compassionate honesty. Quietly, "Is the bank taking it?" "Yes," she replied. "Do you know what you're going to do?" "No," she answered. "It's just me and my kid. I don't know where we're going to go. Oh, I can let you have those books for forty bucks." I gazed down at the rare Mark Twain hardback I happened to be holding. "This one or the whole set?", I said uncertainly. "The whole set - all 23." I stared at the beautiful books trying to think of something else to say. Could I bear to buy the set from her for $40? I should have. I really should have. They had to go and they might as well go to someone who would love them. But at the time, we weren't experiencing an abundance of funds and $40 was a lot.
I set the book down and tried to think of anything that could give her comfort. I had no words. Only commiseration and gentleness. "We've been looking for full-time work for almost a year," I said. "Nothing yet." Her eyes lit up at the thought of helping someone else. "Oh, I know someone at the high school. Let me give you his number. Maybe it will help." I took the proffered card from her and reflected on the fact that a person losing everything could take comfort in perhaps helping someone else. I guess having to live as a recipient of sympathy and charity can become exhausting. Maybe people just want to feel the relative power and joy of being able to help others for a change. At any rate I pocketed the card and thanked her.
I headed for the door, pausing on the threshold. "Well, good luck to you." "Thanks," she said.
I know we're all tired of hearing about the economy, but its force is evident here in Berwyn. I see it in the for sale signs (at least 3 per block) and the boarded up windows still tressed in dangling Christmas lights. I see it in the hundred year old bungalow I looked at last year for $300,000 (lovingly restored by a sweet middle-aged hispanic couple) now in foreclosure at the bargain rate of $189,000. I wonder where they went? I see it in the kid who couldn't afford the buck for the pool party (which I provided) and the elderly Guatemalan mechanical engineer who is currently washing dishes after being laid off.
So that's why I quit blogging. I had nothing to say that I felt could transcend the reality of a single mom losing her life and dreams.
But here's the deal: life has a say of turning out okay. Most thing turn out okay eventually. Really. It may not seem like it, but it's true. It always gets worse before the upturn. True, you may lose stuff irrevocably and, true, things may be altered in the process, but there's always an upturn or at least a new-turn. And that's where I am. America may be forever poorer and people may never be able to climb back into who they were and what they had, but they will be someone else with other possessions and new priorities. You just have to make it through the steep plummet. And then you'll see what is on the other side. Joy and pain is always there.
One) I have a fundamental mistrust of the internet. I have thoughts and I like to share them but do I really want them out there - in net-space - forever? I have a tendency to express myself impetuously and much more strongly than I may intend. Upon further reflection, I will generally balance myself. But I can't "balance" posts that are just.....there.....forever.....for anyone to read. (Okay, I have no following anyway and I can limit access to my blog but you get my point).
Two) Isn't blogging just so self-centered? Isn't it a little narcissistic? Does anyone really want to hear me blathering on about daisies and possums and Al Capone? Do I really have anything of value to say that hasn't already been said by someone else? And even if I do, is it self-serving to always have to put it out there? Why not just keep a journal?
Three) Is anonymity important to me? All two of you know who I am. Maybe if I were utterly anonymous I wouldn't have to worry about being impetuous or narcissistic. But then, I would not be known - and it is my opinion that most human beings want to be known - by at least someone.
Four) The title. What the heck am I going to do if I move to Forest Park? Or West Town? Can you change the title of your blog? Or is it irrevocable, once you've started a blog? Do you have to start a new blog to get a new title?
Five) Purpose. I don't know what I want this blog to be. Right now, it's about local living. In Berwyn. What if I want to write about other stuff? Maybe I should start a blog called, "Crap - From Me to You".
And yet, despite these reservations, here I am, blogging again. My desire to communicate must have overcome my reservations.
Now that you've made it this far through the post I might as well go into the most compelling reason for my hiatus. It has to do with that lady in the antique store on the south side of the Oak Park Metra stop in Berwyn. The truth is, I mostly quit blogging because going over the minutiae of my "discoveries" just seemed so empty in comparison with the magnitude of the pain that I saw in people's lives this year. Maybe that's all the more reason to keep on living the simple life and making joyful discoveries; no, it is DEFINITELY all the more reason to do so and it's the main reason that I'm back. But for awhile, about six months, life just seemed too complicated for blissful blogging.
In March I went for a history tour of southwest Berwyn. It was a self-operated tour (meaning: a book on Berwyn and my reluctant husband). It was a gorgeous day with plenty of sunshine; I was looking for the original homes of the founders of Berwyn (I found them, by the way; you can too if you want to). Just at the tail end of my tour, I spotted a charming little antique store that I'd somehow overlooked in my months of "Berwyn discoveries." I sent the husband down the street to look at books and stepped in.
I found myself in the awkward situation of interrupting a tete-a-tete between a 40ish weeping woman (clearly the owner) and a 50ish man, who appeared to be offering solace through food. They stopped to stare at me, she with the weeping eyes and he with the styrofoam carryout food container. I cleared my throat and tried to turn-about but she waved me in. I was trapped. I began listlessly circling the store as weeper and comforter continued their discussion. The reason for her tears became evident (and you've already guessed it anyway): she was losing her store. No, wait, she was losing everything - the whole caboodle - store, livelihood, savings and home - all in one fell swoop. Reasons for tooth-gnashing indeed.
Mr. Muncher gave a final squeeze and shuffled out the door, leaving me to face her grief and vulnerability - alone. I did the best I could, trying for gentle, compassionate honesty. Quietly, "Is the bank taking it?" "Yes," she replied. "Do you know what you're going to do?" "No," she answered. "It's just me and my kid. I don't know where we're going to go. Oh, I can let you have those books for forty bucks." I gazed down at the rare Mark Twain hardback I happened to be holding. "This one or the whole set?", I said uncertainly. "The whole set - all 23." I stared at the beautiful books trying to think of something else to say. Could I bear to buy the set from her for $40? I should have. I really should have. They had to go and they might as well go to someone who would love them. But at the time, we weren't experiencing an abundance of funds and $40 was a lot.
I set the book down and tried to think of anything that could give her comfort. I had no words. Only commiseration and gentleness. "We've been looking for full-time work for almost a year," I said. "Nothing yet." Her eyes lit up at the thought of helping someone else. "Oh, I know someone at the high school. Let me give you his number. Maybe it will help." I took the proffered card from her and reflected on the fact that a person losing everything could take comfort in perhaps helping someone else. I guess having to live as a recipient of sympathy and charity can become exhausting. Maybe people just want to feel the relative power and joy of being able to help others for a change. At any rate I pocketed the card and thanked her.
I headed for the door, pausing on the threshold. "Well, good luck to you." "Thanks," she said.
I know we're all tired of hearing about the economy, but its force is evident here in Berwyn. I see it in the for sale signs (at least 3 per block) and the boarded up windows still tressed in dangling Christmas lights. I see it in the hundred year old bungalow I looked at last year for $300,000 (lovingly restored by a sweet middle-aged hispanic couple) now in foreclosure at the bargain rate of $189,000. I wonder where they went? I see it in the kid who couldn't afford the buck for the pool party (which I provided) and the elderly Guatemalan mechanical engineer who is currently washing dishes after being laid off.
So that's why I quit blogging. I had nothing to say that I felt could transcend the reality of a single mom losing her life and dreams.
But here's the deal: life has a say of turning out okay. Most thing turn out okay eventually. Really. It may not seem like it, but it's true. It always gets worse before the upturn. True, you may lose stuff irrevocably and, true, things may be altered in the process, but there's always an upturn or at least a new-turn. And that's where I am. America may be forever poorer and people may never be able to climb back into who they were and what they had, but they will be someone else with other possessions and new priorities. You just have to make it through the steep plummet. And then you'll see what is on the other side. Joy and pain is always there.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
A Genuine Possum-Hog
Movement in the window broke me out of my television-induced haze. A really, really homely albino cat was snuffling around the stairs and gazing longingly in my window. Then he turned around, sashaying his little behind at me and giving me a bird's eye view of his nether-regions. I started at his reticulated tail. What a minute - he's a rat - a big, BIG rat. He twirled again and approached the window, apparently under the misapprehension that I have accepted his advances.
He peeks in the window, not at me, but at the large garlic, rosemary, and thyme pots on the windowsill. He's not interested in me at all! It's the food! Oh, and he isn't a rat, he's a possum - a genuine possum. He sees me at last (watches me warily) - retreats...advances....retreats again.....and disappears in the bushes in the front yard. Later, I find his muddy tracks all around the sides of the house, the steps, and the ground floor window area.
I don't live out in Sugar Grove - this is Berwyn, I'm talking about. I would find this much odder, but I've already seen the parakeets. It doesn't get much stranger than that. Besides, our housing complex in China had hedgehogs and northeastern China is about as densely populated as a place can be.
My possum visited on Sunday. I think he was trying to one-up Groundhog Phil. And what does the shadow of a possum portent (weather-wise, that is), anyway?
He peeks in the window, not at me, but at the large garlic, rosemary, and thyme pots on the windowsill. He's not interested in me at all! It's the food! Oh, and he isn't a rat, he's a possum - a genuine possum. He sees me at last (watches me warily) - retreats...advances....retreats again.....and disappears in the bushes in the front yard. Later, I find his muddy tracks all around the sides of the house, the steps, and the ground floor window area.
I don't live out in Sugar Grove - this is Berwyn, I'm talking about. I would find this much odder, but I've already seen the parakeets. It doesn't get much stranger than that. Besides, our housing complex in China had hedgehogs and northeastern China is about as densely populated as a place can be.
My possum visited on Sunday. I think he was trying to one-up Groundhog Phil. And what does the shadow of a possum portent (weather-wise, that is), anyway?
A flock of green parakeets along the Gold Coast
I have to preface this post by mentioning that I don't know the difference between a parrot and a parakeet. I read it once at the zoo but forgot it by the time I walked out the gates. I'm calling them parakeets because they are small. It's as good a reason as any.
There is a flock of parakeets living among a set of tall pine trees along Riverside Drive (i.e. Berwyn's "Gold Coast"). They are bright green, noisy little guys who make for very surreal immigrants to the neighborhood. I first encountered them during a bike ride. There they were, 15 or so of them by my count, flying in and out of rather elaborate nests, looking as comfortable in Berwyn as they might have been in South America (or wherever). Their nests aren't the "bowl" style. They form oblong cave-like structures with a single side entrance. I saw several nests spread about the branches of one tree, so I assume that there are now several extended families living together like an old Italian family.
I asked around about it and, as the story goes, someone a few years back decided they didn't want their parakeets any more, so they released them to the wild. In an unusual reversal of fortunes, the hardy couple managed to overcome a rather large impediment to survival (mainly, a total lack of ability to adapt to freedom after a lifetime in a cage). They found a nice big tree, built a nest in it, and started reproducing. Apparently, they liked the neighborhood so they stayed long-term. And now there's a flock of them. And you can see them if you want. They are right on the south side of Riverside Drive, between Harlem and Morton West High School. There's a church right across the street from the spot.
I had heard that they don't fly south for the winter. I wanted to see how they were weathering the cold. But, no dice. I couldn't even see their nests. I did hear quite a bit of racket coming from trees around the area and their calls did sound like what I had remembered. Maybe they built winter homes in the eaves of the nearby house - for warmth. I hope they make it. I want to get a good look at them again this spring. I suppose if they've already been there for years, then they'll make it through this winter too.
There is a flock of parakeets living among a set of tall pine trees along Riverside Drive (i.e. Berwyn's "Gold Coast"). They are bright green, noisy little guys who make for very surreal immigrants to the neighborhood. I first encountered them during a bike ride. There they were, 15 or so of them by my count, flying in and out of rather elaborate nests, looking as comfortable in Berwyn as they might have been in South America (or wherever). Their nests aren't the "bowl" style. They form oblong cave-like structures with a single side entrance. I saw several nests spread about the branches of one tree, so I assume that there are now several extended families living together like an old Italian family.
I asked around about it and, as the story goes, someone a few years back decided they didn't want their parakeets any more, so they released them to the wild. In an unusual reversal of fortunes, the hardy couple managed to overcome a rather large impediment to survival (mainly, a total lack of ability to adapt to freedom after a lifetime in a cage). They found a nice big tree, built a nest in it, and started reproducing. Apparently, they liked the neighborhood so they stayed long-term. And now there's a flock of them. And you can see them if you want. They are right on the south side of Riverside Drive, between Harlem and Morton West High School. There's a church right across the street from the spot.
I had heard that they don't fly south for the winter. I wanted to see how they were weathering the cold. But, no dice. I couldn't even see their nests. I did hear quite a bit of racket coming from trees around the area and their calls did sound like what I had remembered. Maybe they built winter homes in the eaves of the nearby house - for warmth. I hope they make it. I want to get a good look at them again this spring. I suppose if they've already been there for years, then they'll make it through this winter too.
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