in a word: gentrificaton

When I first visited Wicker Park last January, it was a lot more urban and a lot less glamorous than I was imagining based on the constant praise my boyfriend was giving his new home. (Yes, this is the same area and/or park that the Josh Hartnett movie Wicker Park was named after.) In my defense, it was nighttime when I arrived and it was my first taste of the Chicago cold, so I was focusing more on keeping my face inside my jacket collar and my hand gripped around my suitcase handle than on the surroundings. I saw iron bars covering shop windows and doors, I saw 24-hour check cashing places, I saw shady looking discount furniture stores: it wasn't very pretty.

When I came back in June with my all my worldly possessions in tow, it did not look much better for the first few weeks I was there. But as I set out to explore the thrift stores littered between bars and pubs, boarded-up store fronts, and discount furniture stores, I saw it was actually more glamorous than it looked. It was the city hipster style of glamorous, which is a little dirty; or if not glamorous, then it's at least cool. The windows were covered with art, the boarded-up store fronts covered with music and art show posters. There were at least three independent coffee shops, some crazy take-out places, and several banks.

If you haven't guessed, I'm talking about gentrification, a word I didn't actually know the definition of until a few months before I moved here (which, by the way, was five days shy of six months ago). For those who are sheltered like I was (let's face it, Santa Barbara was gentrified before it was even born), gentrificationmeans the process of renewal and rebuilding accompanying the influx of middle-class or affluent people into deteriorating areas that often displaces poorer residents(taken directly from the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary).

Technically Wicker Park was gentrified already before I started college, but now you can see the stores rushing to keep up. I have seen the ridiculously expensive Akira Chicago jump around North Avenue, moving from smaller stores to bigger ones with bigger windows, start offering valet parking, and putting up its bright red awning outside new Women stores and Accessories stores and Mens stores and Shoe stores and stocking areas. I have seen the local pizza place and brewery, Piece (which does not sell Chicago-style pizza) take over the ex-high end stuff store next door and start offering take-out. I have seen boutique shoe stores and boutique thrift stores move in and two of the three independent coffee shops move out. And most tragically and hideously, I have seen Bank of America with its bright blue and red move in to occupy not one, but three store spaces on one of the big corners in Wicker Park. What used to be a hot dog take-out place, a huge independent coffee shop with couches, and a convenience store, is now a beacon of florescent light seen for miles. And what used to be the busiest, bustling six-way intersection of hipster haven now has a Starbucks, three banks, an upscale bar, and, I think, a cell phone store littering its corners.

I'm not overly focused on these things anymore, the corporatization of the purely independent, but I do think it's rather unfortunate. Not only for the character of the neighborhood, but more importantly for the people who get displaced by this gentrification. Chicago has a fairly strong undercurrent of race issues, exacerbated by the fact that the yuppies follow Bank of America and suddenly all the minorities find themselves living together in the only area they can reasonably afford.

Nevertheless, the hipsters who wanted to live somewhere edgy who moved to Wicker Park in the first place are now moving on to a place like Logan Square, located just slightly north and west, which has a slow influx of independent coffee shops, restaurants, and boutiques, but it still has the cheap movie theaters, dollar stores, discount family stores, Mexican markets, and boarded up store fronts.

My neighborhood is a little different because it's inhabited by young families mostly (perhaps these hipsters grown up?), but the main drag is a postcard of beauty: brick, lights, couples pushing strollers, and lots and lots of restaurants and little boutiques. There's something for everyone in that little half-mile stretch. Just one block west and a couple steps north of this charming village is an ugly intersection (mattress store/bank/Wallgreens/shady discount jewelry store), and a bunch of fast food and some nondescript stores, most of them with signs written in unidentifiable foreign languages. Some of this quick shift I can chalk up to Chicago just having some unforgivingly ugly streets no matter how far north or south (or east or west) you go; these streets near my house are two such streets. But the rest? Well, more gentrification, I guess. The young couples haven't procreated enough to expand outward yet. I don't really really mind because there are three dollar stores, one brilliant and cheap Mexican market, five Thai restaurants, and several check-cashing places (for those last-minute, late-night laundry quarter runs) within walking distance. Not to mention four coffee shops (one Starbucks), 20-30 restaurants, an awesome used book store, and my bank... you get the idea.

I think I've reached my satisfaction point of discussing things I really don't know much about. But I would like to note that I've been interested in this real estate/development/planning stuff since I became familiar with it in college and I'm wondering what kind of job I can do that will incorporate that, my desire to learn everything there is to know about that in Chicago, and writing. Business journalism, maybe, which I always thought I hated.

coexistence

Downtown was a disaster this morning. Cars driving on wet, slushy black streets. People walking on icy sidewalks, using muddy crosswalks. Piles of dirt-peppered snow lining all the curbs. Shop owners at work with their snow shovels and salt beneath the busy feet of morning commuters. Chunks of snow and ice falling with the wind from the tops of the buildings. Snow dusting the street below the train tracks after a train goes by--every 7 minutes during rush hour. A layer of dirt, water, and salt lining the floors of the building entrances. Everything is chaotic compared to its usual bustling precision, yet there are a few patches of glistening snow that remain pristine. A layer on the sills of some windows, an outline on some of the building decor, a light powder dusting the planters. Every so often, too, amidst the piles of dirty snow and ice, plowed and shoveled into submission, there is a patch of snow that remains untouched on a forgotten corner somewhere. No one has needed to step through it with their booted feet. It has not wandered in the path of any shovel: it is smooth and as white as the day it fell.

zombie

It's amazing to me that the last couple mornings I have managed to go through my morning routine and, 40 minutes later, find that I'm walking out of the train at the correct station. It's similarly amazing that I turn the corner and the clock on the bank overhang miraculously reads 9:00, no matter how long the ride seemed to take (without it ever really registering in my mind). For the past weeks the clock has been religiously reading 9:10 whenever I turn that corner, no matter how short the ride seemed. Nevertheless, the way I mark my book, close it, and put it away at the stop before mine is really more of a reflex... and the way I walk to the correct place to get on the train in order to get off at the correct place is not something I think about. My mind is replaying my evening or thinking about the book I was reading or anticipating another unmemorable day at work...

the wonder of snow

What was a white dream last night was a brown, slushy rush-hour nightmare this morning.

But that doesn't change the wonder and excitement I felt when I was walking to the park last night, my boots making a sliding crunch every time I stepped. Every single sky-facing surface was covered in a pillowy layer of white. Every detail of the tree trunks, bare branches, and few remaining leaves were outlined, every iron fence, every street sign. It was fresh snow and still falling, so the plows hadn't made their way to the side streets yet; the only thing differentiating the sidewalk from the small residential street (besides a jarring step down the hidden curb) was an occasional tire path. It was silent, the usual bustling pedestrians were at home or in taxis, many of the cars either buried under mounds of snow or slowly making their way on the main streets. The snow fell lazily, tiny white particles swirling with the wind, sparkling under the street lights, unobtrusively attaching themselves to strands of my hair, the fur on my hood, the toes of my boots. Excellently aimed snow balls hit my face, the cold prickling my skin and immediately melting down my neck, past the high collar of my jacket. The night was bright, with the yellow street lights reflecting white, the sky hazy and slightly orange.

Cities, with all their concrete, brick, and stone, can be beautiful in their own grotesque way. But the snow erased the concrete and the dirt, outlined the stone and brick, and created, for lack of a better phrase, a different world. A dream.

The snow continued through the night, stopped to let the shop owners shovel, the commuters walk and wait, the car drivers scrape, the salters salt, and the snow plows clear. By the time I got outside, there were signs warning of falling ice, the sidewalks were concrete again, the curbs black with the dirty white, the planters, trees and hidden parking lots still pristine. It's snowing again: small dusty particles mingled with the larger white, all lazily swirling with gravity and the wind. With any luck, by the time I'm finished working all will be white again and I can try my hand at a snowman or a snow angel. Or another snow-ball fight.

I figure I have this winter and maybe next to enjoy the snow before I start hating it and the hassles it causes. I only know one person who has lived here for longer than two years who still likes the snow. Maybe I will be that person in another few years. Or maybe I will retreat, sheepishly, back to California.

walking ten miles, uphill both ways, in the snow

I have such an understandably California mentality when it comes to weather. It just started snowing again, and from my ninth floor perch in the center of downtown it doesn't look like much -- just swirling dust that's not accumulating. But my mind starts whirling when I think of how the plans I have tonight and tomorrow might be affected by the weather. Will I not be able to walk the mile from the train to my violin lesson? Will I not be able to walk back? Will I not be able to wait outside, in the middle of the freeway, for the train? Will my violin get horribly out of tune just from being outside? Will it be wet? Do my boots have enough traction? Are they waterproof? Am I dressed warm enough?

In college I would miss class, cancel appointments, walk, umbrella in hand, or drive down the street when it rained. Here I have to walk and ride buses and trains like always. I have to get to and from work on time, go to the gym, and once a week I have to get to my violin lesson. My life goes on just as it did in summer and fall, I keep doing what I'm doing regardless of how cold it gets, how high the winds, how icy the sidewalk, how heavy the snow or sleet or rain. I might take a taxi, stand under an awning, or decide to spend a Friday or Saturday night inside. But this day is just a day, and days don't stop even when the weather intervenes.

-----

Despite my general ignorance when it comes to any weather besides rain, I do, however, feel I've become accustomed to my thermometer reading 32 degrees, 28 degrees, and even 20 degrees. There is no more dancing in my room in the morning with long johns in one hand and three pairs of socks in the other, a selection of gloves, mittens, scarves of various degrees of warmth, long-sleeved shirts, sweaters, and knee-high boots strewn at my feet. Whatever I wear -- long-sleeved shirt or sweater or both, mittens or gloves, boots or moccasins, I'll make it to the train and to my office, and by the time 5:00 rolls around, I'll be sweating under my sweaters and long-sleeved shirts, my hair straight from the heating, and it won't be nearly as cold outside. I'm OK now -- the dance will commence again when the highs are in the teens. My California-bred brain might even try to devise ways for me not to go to work or the gym or violin lessons.

so this is (REALLY) winter

Look! It snowed Saturday afternoon!


Here's me looking goofy outside of my apartment. And my parents will be happy to see that I'm wearing my heavy jacket.


After a few hours of snow and a bit of hail it started raining, and by the time I went outside again Saturday evening, there were piles of brown snow on the sides of the roads, there were little icicles hanging off all the signs and overhangs, and the sidewalks were coated with ice.

And by Sunday it got so warm and rained so much that it looked like it had never snowed at all.

so this is winter

This was taken from my front window, looking out on the sunrise, the tree missing its leaves, and the buildings down the street. Cute neighborhood, no?

There is 100% chance of snow tomorrow. I don't know how they can predict something 100% when they have about a 20% success rate when predicting Chicago's weather... nevertheless, I have my snow boots on and I'm ready to go. A California girl can't afford to be caught in a "wintry mix" without her snow boots on.

mid-life crisis

I've been thinking about this guy a lot today.

Not because he's handsome or inspiring -- I only have enough room for one handsome, inspiring boyfriend in my life -- but because what he's doing is radical. He's traveling around North America doing a different job every week for a year. He's a hippie -- he's sleeping on people's couches and he has dreadlocks. He somehow doesn't need money -- he's doing all these jobs and receiving no pay, the companies are only making a suggested donation to a charity. He's a really a fictional character in a sense, an online personae, yet his mission is very real: to find a job that he loves.

Isn't this what we all want to do with our lives? Work at a job we love and consequently never work a day in our lives? This is why we go to college, major in what interests US not what interests our parents, this is why we head into our adult lives hopeful and starry-eyed. But how many people actually have the luxury of finding and doing what they love? I, for one, feel stuck. I need to pay the bills (not to mention that I need something else to put on my resume), so I need to stay where I am. It's not ideal, it's not my dream job, but it's something. There are so many jobs in this world, but the vast majority are closed, meaning unless you have the experience and the skills, you can't hope to get the job. For now, I'm a journalist. I'm not even the journalist I think I'd like to be, but I'm doing what I'm doing, blindly following the career path in my head that may or may not actually work with my life. Maybe I don't want to commit the hours to my chosen profession. What then? And what about those who are stuck somewhere less strategic? Like a temp job or a secretarial job; something they couldn't do forever? What do they do?

I've always thought I might like book publishing or advertising or editing or even public relations: I know how to edit and read and deal with people, but without real experience, I can't even hope to break into these fields. My perfect job could be waiting somewhere I will never get to because I chose to focus on newspaper internships and jobs in college, not get experience in every possible job I think I might like to work someday. I also had to pick a major, and in order to ease my mind of the gravity of my decision when I was a senior in high school and a freshman and sophomore in college, I told myself that it didn't really matter what I picked as long as I liked it. But it did in a sense because majors automatically close a lot of doors. I've also been thinking that maybe I should have become an architect. In order to break into that field I would need to become a student again, study for years, go into major debt, and again, send out my resume in hopes that someone, anyone, will hire me. Or maybe I should become a cook: go to culinary school and join my sisters in Santa Fe, New Mexico for the grand opening of our new restaurant Lindsey'S Peach. Or was it Linsapa's (pronounced: Linseppe's)?

So here I am, my peers beside me. We're motivated, smart, and we have college degrees: but all we see when we look at our options for now and in the future are closed doors. Sean Aiken (the man that prompted my rant today) is 36 weeks into his adventure, and nothing really has struck a chord with him besides his job in advertising or raising funds for cancer research: perhaps not entirely related to his degree in business administration. Of course, he could write a book now, become a travel book writer, start a T-shirt company, or whatever because people know his name, but even the man who has "tried every job" can't identify definitively the one he loves. Come to think of it, I know very few people who like their jobs without a "but"... maybe Juli and maybe my uncle. Maybe it depends on the type of person you are. Would I have said even last year that I liked my job at the Daily Nexus, when now I look back with such longing?

My argument is unraveling at the seams. I could go back to school and become an architect, I could even go back to school and become a doctor, or a teacher, or anything I wanted. I, like most of my peers with college degrees, have that luxury. I realize not everyone does. I think my problem right now is just deciding one way or the other, and at some point giving up on everything else. I don't have to do that yet, but I just hope that when the time comes I feel like I have landed somewhere worthwhile.

ruby slippers

I come home to California for Thanksgiving and I barely step foot outside. Even so, I know what the air will feel like if I do and I can picture all the local landmarks. Things don't change, and even though I haven't been here for close to six months, I can still picture my surroundings so effortlessly. The ocean and beaches to the West. The beach side communities, Camp Pendleton, and later Los Angeles and Santa Barbara to the North. The city of San Diego, the harbor, and Mexico to the South. The desert and mountains to the East.

In Chicago I don't have such an effortless connection to my surroundings. The gridded streets confuse me sometimes, and I don't know which way is North, South, West, or East (well, generally, the lake) and what the landmarks in those directions look like. I don't know what the air will feel like when I step outside or how strong the wind will me: I'm chained to my thermometer. I don't know what happens when you drive past the city limits and reach the part of Illinois that grows the corn and soybeans that we all eat. It's a black hole, most of it, and the surrounding states are even a darker shade of black.

After four years in Santa Barbara I had a pretty good idea of my surroundings. But I don't know if I'll ever get to that point in Chicago: It's such a huge, mysterious city with sprawling suburbs, that I don't know if I'll ever see these places I hear about in the news and from Chicago natives. But until then, I'm not sure I'll ever feel like I'm home.

I am not alone

Chicago is the most caffeinated U.S. city

Thanks, Dad, for looking out for me.

I am happy to report that I have not had caffeine for the last two days and have not gotten a headache. It's a mystery to me, but I'm not complaining.

the red pen

The two subscribers to the World Jewish Digest who also read a la deriva won't be getting their December copies for another few weeks... but when you do, please note that the Uganda brief that has my name on it meant to read like below. The other readers of my blog should save themselves the trouble and not bother to subscribe:

---

Much to the dismay of the people standing in the back of the room, those who were lucky enough to find seats kept filtering in and out of the back door to the bathroom down the hall. At the front of the room stood Aaron Kintu Moses, director of education and acting spiritual leader of the Abayudaya, or Jewish, community in Uganda. He was proudly discussing the new water tanks that held, for most of the residents, their first taste of running water.

The sounds of screaming children wafting through the open door from the middle school Halloween dance down the hall did not facilitate a perfect understanding of Moses’ strongly accented English, but the photos circulating around the room—of children excitedly using the new spigot to wash their hands—filled in the blanks. Moses, clad in a green dress shirt, a red tie, and a blue Bucharian kippah, wore a face of equal elation and pride as he spoke erev Shabbat to Congregation Hakafa at a community center in Winnetka, Ill.— an affluent suburb of Chicago—about his community of 800 Jews in central-eastern Uganda. In addition to limited running water during the rainy season, the community now has five synagogues, a primary school and a secondary school.

“This is so good,” Moses said to an overfilled room of assorted ages and backgrounds. “It is so important to have brothers and sisters together from all around the world, to come together as Jews.”

The Winnetka visit was only one stop on Moses’ month-long speaking tour at Reform and Conservative congregations around the United States. He hopes to educate fellow Jews on the history of the Abayudaya, collect contributions to help the population grow and advertise for the fifth annual two-week long trip to visit the community, which will take place next month.

Although the Abayudaya have been practicing Jewish customs learned from military and political leader Semei Kakungulu since 1919, 300 of them underwent formal halakhic conversion to Judaism in 2002. The conversion was conducted by Rabbi Howard Gorin of Congregation Tikvat Israel, a Conservative synagogue in Rockville, Md., with a team of other conservative rabbis. Gorin said this trip was his first to Africa, but he has since been back to Uganda, and will soon visit the Jewish communities in Nigeria.

“One of my biggest fears was that this would be a nominally Jewish community,” said Gorin, “But this was an organic Jewish community—they were so powerful in their commitment and it even more powerful because they were practicing in Uganda.” He says the conversion was especially important to the Abayudaya because served as a formal introduction to the Jewish community worldwide.

Moses discovered his own Judaism during the reign of President Idi Amin (1971-1978), a ruler who was notoriously unaccepting of other religions and ethnicities. He said people, such as his father, were jailed and harassed for being Jewish. Moses himself was punished by his teachers for not going to school on Shabbat as he was required to.

“I would be lashed by my teachers because I wouldn’t go to school on Shabbat,” Moses said. “I also saw my father be put in prison because he built a Sukkah—the government thought he was building a place for rebels to meet.”

During this time period, the number of Jews in Uganda fell from 3,000 to 300. Following Amin’s reign, however, Moses helped to build the community to its present day numbers. Today, Moses said, Jewish children go to school alongside the local Christians and Muslims, praying in synagogues made of mud and shells.

Following a brief oneg—celebration—the Winnetka congregants left their makeshift synagogue in the community house made of wood and drywall, wallpaper and flowered curtains, and got in their cars to drive home.

---

This is what should have printed, but due to an extreme error in judgment, a complete lack of respect, and my inability to fight back, an atrocity actually appears on the page. Embarrassingly enough, "raise awareness" actually appeared in the edit: I tried to edit it out.

I sometimes wonder why I care.

harmless addiction

It's 3:45 and I'm drinking my cup of pomegranate white tea as fast as I can, hoping I can catch the faint wisps of pain brewing in my forehead before they become an aching caffeine headache that can't be cured with pain killers.

I knew this would become a problem a few weeks ago when I was looking forward to that soothing and awakening cup of tea each morning when I arrived at work. And now that it's gotten cold, it's extra nice to hold that warm cup, swirling with (fake) milk, and check my email.

But Saturday I didn't have my customary cup of caffeinated tea in the morning, and was struck with a pounding headache at 4:00 p.m. that didn't go away until I broke down and had a cup of English breakfast tea with dinner.

I don't like addictions. I don't like withdrawal headaches. But I love tea. And though decaf herbal tea is delicious at times, I prefer the whites and blacks and greens that usually come with an added dose of caffeine. It's not that I need the caffeine (though my addiction insists that I do), it's that I like the warm liquid in my hands and in my belly on a cold day.

edit: you can write but you can't edit edit

This morning when I turned on my computer I was greeted by an unknown symbol in the lower right hand corner of my web browser. A cloud with little stars. They are, apparently, now predicting snow showers and a low of 29 on Tuesday. And WIND on Monday.

Now what?

(edit)
Well now, I watch the weather and see that they changed their minds after all. Partly cloudy with a 20% chance of precipitation. I do, however, have plans to build a snowman in the park and go sledding with one of my roommates when it does snow: making childhood memories I don't have. Whoopee!

Blommer Chocolates

On certain days, at certain times, when the wind is blowing just right, it smells like chocolate in downtown Chicago. It's not a sickeningly sweet chocolate smell, it's just a faint hint that hangs on the wind and flies through the city streets. There are so many disgusting things that cities can smell like, and sometimes Chicago can too, but on chocolate days, even when it's cold, it makes it all the more worthwhile to live here.

disconnected stories with the same theme

I walked to the train this morning, ears freezing off my head, cheeks stinging, wondering how I'm going to survive the winter. I'm never going to wear my hair up. I'm going to invent a nose warmer with my sister and start a company. I'm going to get a black ski mask and never show anyone my face. I'm going to wear ear muffs. I can't wait 'til it's cold enough to wear my winter coat: then I will be warm.

-----

I stood on the packed train this morning, wedged between a tall guy in a smelly red fleece jacket, a guy in a hat reading the New York Times, and the door. It was so packed that I didn't have to worry about falling: gripping as tight as I could onto the metal pole, bending my knees, or shifting my weight. I was sweating inside my new wool sweater (from a thrift store, $5), a scarf, my new brown boots, and my California-winter jacket. I turned my face up to the train map above me and wished I was almost at my stop.

-----

A woman in the elevator mentioned to her companion that it's supposed to snow next week. A flutter in my chest and a million things running through my head: what will I wear? what shoes will I wear? How cold will it be? When will it happen? Where will I be? Isn't it too early for snow? Is this the beginning of the winter? My cheeks red, my eyes twinkling, myself getting suddenly three feet shorter, a sled appearing in my hand I gazed out the window, looking for a cloud. I burst into the office, smiling, and said quickly to my co-worker, a Chicago suburbs native, "Someone in the elevator said it's supposed to snow next week." "No way," she said. "Don't ruin my morning." Well, anyway, weather.com says it's not supposed to snow next week. In fact, the lows don't get below freezing and the highs don't get below 45. I'm going to buy wool socks and long underwear and sweater tights and long-sleeved shirts and more wool sweaters that aren't itchy and I'll be fine. And snow? This is me in snow:


-----

I always write about the cold. I have other things to say, but sitting here at my desk, still in my wool sweater, sipping my tea, the cold is what I think about. Because it might not be warm outside, but it's not warm inside either. My fingers are chilly on the keyboard, my nose is frigid. About that nose warmer.

my world is burning

It's so hard to sit here at work like always, gazing out the window at a wall of windows, and imagine the fire that's burning somewhere moderately near my house in San Diego.

apartment-renting blues

I need someone to fix my shower.

This morning in my zeal to stop our ever-dripping shower head I put a bit too much pressure on the "Hot" handle and it broke off in my hand. Probably a testament to the fact that my landlord paid $3 for it at Ikea or Walgreens... or Deals, my favorite dollar store (and he, in turn, paid someone $3 to install it). I don't know how it broke, all I know is that it will not reattach because it's broken, I can't turn on the hot water with a wrench, and my roommates and I are sentenced to cold showers, no showers, showers at boyfriend's apartments, or public showers at the local pool until it is fixed.

I feel so powerless to fix it. I have called my landlord twice and the fix-it man twice, still no appointment. And none of my roommates or I are even there during the day anyway to get this taken care of. This sounds familiar, right? (My bathroom fiasco in Spain, for all you loyal readers.) Well, at least the toilet works. I keep telling myself that am a journalist: If anyone can make this happen, I can. Today I successfully navigated a website entirely in Hebrew (which I do not speak or read) to locate an email address. I can make a couple of Americans fix my shower in a timely manner. It just makes me nervous because this request is so urgent: It's not like we can live with it like we live with the nonfunctional buzzer and intercom, the clogged dishwasher, and the dripping shower...

the march of the cold

I came to the realization very quickly this evening, while standing on a street corner waiting for a bus, that my flimsy summer flats just don't cut it anymore. They don't block gusts of wind, they don't keep my feet dry in a light drizzle: they do absolutely nothing to keep out the 48-degree air.

I'm getting a little worried.

suddenly, everything has changed

I slept with my air conditioner on last night. Last night and for the past week because the persistent 80- or 90-degree heat found its way into my room and couldn't be drawn away -- not with the help of fans, not with open windows. Today I'm thinking it might be time to put it away because finally, finally the weathermen are predicting what I assume to be more normal temperatures for this time of year in the 50s and 60s.

The change occurred in the span of about three hours last night. I stepped inside (to see my boyfriend perform improv) at about 7:00 p.m. wearing short sleeves and sandals, the heat and humidity noticeable. I stepped outside again at about 10:00 p.m. and had to put on my sweater: the air felt lighter, crisper, slightly cooler. This morning I made my way to the train station wearing a sweater and a scarf, crunching fallen leaves as I walked down the street. It was, as my neighbor remarked at the door, a beautiful morning. Tomorrow I suspect I'll be wearing a jacket: the temperature is supposed to drop another 10 or 15 degrees.

Weather aside, the world felt different this morning too. Last night was really the first night that I've "gone out" with a girl friend. One of my roommates to be specific, and the evening consisted of everything a good night should: comedy, lots of talking and laughing, beer, and no regard to time. Of course, I realized this morning as I crunched my way to the train station 15 minutes behind schedule, gambling on the fact that the train would only take 30 minutes, that Monday was not a very strategic night for this experience. Nevertheless, as I sat on a bar stool last night just talking, and again this morning in my kitchen, I started feeling what I felt most of last year: the feeling that starts in my stomach and spreads to my racing heart and up to my content brain, the feeling that I am doing the right thing. What's more, this feeling spread through my sleepy eyes and pounding head to my desk at work and suddenly my to-do list didn't seem so dire and my work here didn't seem so final. This is what I do now, not forever.

All this contributed to my feeling this morning, as I strode across LaSalle in the direction of my building in my mini-heels and scarf, that I belong here. I belong where there is the sun glinting in the windows of skyscrapers in the morning, where there are honking cars and people wearing suits crossing the street. I belong where there is, finally, fall.

weird weather

Last year, runners in the Chicago Marathon had to wear pants and long sleeves.

just wondering

For the past almost three months and even before that I have been looking at everything in terms of "when I have a job." I knew (rather, I hoped) my unemployment was temporary, so I tried not to get involved in too much or make too many plans for fear I would have to reprioritize and reschedule once I started my variable freelance work, part-time job, or full-time job. Now that I am on the eve of starting my job and a few short weeks away from actually earning an income, I'm wondering what I should do.

In college (and even high school) I was limited to the few activities I had already chosen: the newspaper, my classes, my internship, swimming, and socializing. Here I have a blank slate. A beaded bag just waiting to be filled. Now that I possess this freedom to do what I like I feel paralyzed by it. Maybe I don't want to join a swim team. Maybe, with the winter looming, I don't want to purchase a bike and try to be a triathlete. Maybe I don't want to take a cooking, yoga, photography, or art class (they're all ridiculously expensive anyway). Maybe I don't want to pick up guitar again or learn a new instrument. Maybe I don't want to freelance. Maybe I don't want to write the Great American Novel (or Short Story). Maybe with nearly ten hours of my daylight committed to work and transportation there there's no time for anything else. If I load everything up now, then, like college, I will have no time to be flexible: spend a quiet night at home with my boyfriend, go out with a promising new friend, curl up in all the blankets and scarves I can find when it's 20-below outside and read a book, go to sleep early. I always loathed that my jam-packed schedule in high school and college didn't permit me to be spontaneous. Now I'm wondering if I really want that spontaneity: whether I will still feel busy and purposeful or just plain idle if I have it.

The Aon Center

This is where I work. Well, today and tomorrow anyway. It is, I believe, the second tallest building in Chicago; it has 83 floors and at least eight banks of elevators. I have an office with a window that overlooks the river, the lake, and the mess of city below. I have a thick credit card-shaped pass that says "Visitor" and demands that it be "surrendered before leaving the premises." There's a picture of a middle-aged man on the door that supposedly says my name: Mike. Apparently he doesn't do much all day long, because since I got here at 9:00 I've only proofed three ads. All for Dell. There are cassette tapes, yes, cassette tapes of 70s and 80s punk bands and some others I've never heard of lining the walls of the office.

Funny story about this building I learned on the architecture tour I took a couple of weeks ago. The building was originally designed to be the world's tallest marble building (apparently Chicago has a bit of a Napoleon complex that it's compensating for with all its tall buildings) -- clad in the same marble as Michaelangelo's David. The weather proved too much for the stone and it had to be re-clad thirty years later in white granite (for, as one might imagine, quite a hefty price). Nevertheless, it is still quite an imposing figure on Chicago's skyline.

when it rains, it pours

I have a job.

Beginning next week, and extending every day from now until whenever I decide to quit, except Federal holidays, Jewish holidays, and weekends, I will be joining the thousands of people dressed in suits who commute downtown to work. I will sit or stand among my fellow commuters for the 45-minute train ride, I will walk the block to my building from the L stop, and I will ride the elevator up the skyscraper until I get to my office. Or cubicle. I am the new Editorial Assistant at the World Jewish Digest.

I'm not sure exactly what that entails yet. But it is some combination of what I want to be doing: writing, editing (and some administrative work).

This comes at a perfect time: just when I was going to have to start applying for more jobs, just when I was getting completely, unalterably bored, just when I was about to run out of money. And because I am so bored, I am using my last two weekdays of freedom to do some freelance proofreading at some sort of company downtown. It pays double the most I've ever been paid per hour.

exploring modern sexuality

I first became acquainted with the term "ex-gay" a few months ago when Chad Thompson came to speak at UCSB, parading his book titled Loving Homosexuals as Jesus Would: A Fresh Christian Approach. Mislead by the title as I'm sure the author intended, I threw the flier on my busy university editor desk and vowed to deal with it later. But what I thought was a Christian telling people "It's OK to be gay" had the queer community in furor: it was actually, if you read the fine print, a reformed homosexual Christian telling people "You can change. I did." Rather, from his website, "Provide a living counterexample for those who say that homosexual people can never change."

It's a baffling assertion, really, that it's possible to change one's own sexuality using only self control and a really serious devotion to God and religion. My knowledge of sexuality comes from within, of course, and I'm pretty devoutly heterosexual. My knowledge of religion comes from myself, of course, and I'm pretty casually Jewish. Two identifications that I suppose make it very difficult for me to understand what it's like to be homosexual and Christian. Nevertheless, I was lead to believe that homosexuality is nature, not nurture. The same way my hair is brown, I'm short, and my eyes are brownish hazelish, nature is difficult to change.

To be fair, there is something to be said for people who are able to find something they don't like in themselves and decide to change it. That's hard to do. But I'm not sure if it's quite that easy with the question of sexuality. Ted Haggard accomplished it in a couple weeks. Larry Craig probably will too if he ever decides to admit he was, indeed, soliciting sex in a men's airport restroom. The bottom line is these people can say whatever they want to appease themselves and others who think it's wrong, but we won't ever know what they think about at night before they fall asleep, whether they are ever satisfied again being just heterosexual. Really, it doesn't matter: they are only denying themselves of love, pleasure, and honesty. It's sad, really. Another ex-gay Charlene Cothran (founder of Venus magazine based in Chicago) did an interview with a New York freelance writer that's published here (see April 10, 2007). It's fascinating and I admire the writer, for having the huevos to ask her most of the questions he did, and her, for answering them. So he asks her whether she's still attracted to women. Well, it seems to me that would be the hardest to change: it's easy enough to abstain from sex, dating, and to change your "Looking For" on Facebook to read the opposite gender, but pure, physical attraction is rather involuntary. So she answered: "I would say after 29 years of walking in the sin of lesbianism that if the devil were going to try and tempt me that he's probably not going to send a football player, if you will, because that didn’t do it for me. You follow me? I’ve got sense enough to know if he tries to tempt me he's probably going to send something that resembled the thing that I was entangled with. You follow me?" I follow. And it's a great answer. But basically she's saying, "Yes, I'm still attracted to women, but I think it's evil so I try to shut it out."

Why shut it out? I find it incredibly disheartening that religion is the trigger and the proof behind many of these "reforms." Religion that's supposed to facilitate a good life (happy and healthy?) and a pleasant afterlife. That's for another day. It's just tragic that they would be so devout as to deny themselves of having a completely loving, happy relationship with another person: same sex or opposite.

groundhog

Somewhat appropriately I got my first glimpse of the cold today. A week ago, a cloudless sky and bright sun meant I would have been foolish to leave the house in anything other than shorts. Today, the sun looked only deceptively bright, and people started pulling out fall jackets for their commutes. It was, in fact, the first time Chicago's morning streets have seen me in something other than short sleeves or a tank top. It's nice to be cozy, but pulling out my jackets from the back of my closet also unearthed a sense of unease about the coming winter. Unease, mostly, because I don't know what to expect. And I don't yet have half the apparel I think I need to survive the winter.

HOY

Now that I live in a big, decadent American city, I had to wonder a little more about today's date when I boarded the inbound train this morning. Six years ago today my mom was shaking me awake before my alarm saying, "Lindsey, something has happened. You've gotta see this." This year at around the same time I was riding public transportation with the beautiful Chicago skyline shining in the background.

parallels

I haven't worn heels since I arrived in Chicago over two months ago.

I've never been an overly willing heel-wearer because I don't like the click-click they make when I walk, I don't like blisters, being topply tall, or getting them stuck in the cracks of sidewalks. I would wear them in college occasionally when I was going out (usually accompanied by makeup) or when I wanted to look professional and commanding. Having a boyfriend eliminates the need to go all out when I do go out, and I don't have too many girlfriends to go out with solo yet. So I stick to my flats.

I haven't worn makeup since I arrived in Chicago over two months ago.

I've never been an overly willing makeup-wearer because I don't like the way it feels when I sweat, I don't want to become dependent, it takes entirely too much time, and I really don't know what to do with it. I would wear it in college occasionally when I was going out (usually accompanied by high heels) or when I wanted to look professional and commanding or just change my appearance. Having a boyfriend eliminates the need to go all out when I do go out, and I don't have too many girlfriends to go out with solo yet. So I stick to my face.

Today I wore both these things. I tottered around in a full suit, heels, straightened hair, and makeup feeling like a little girl in dress-up clothes and makeup, smearing colors all over her face (thinking it looked pretty, of course). I suppose to the innocent observer I looked like just another business person, like all those that frequent the Loop each business day. I felt ridiculous.

Ridiculousness compounded by the fact that I overcompensated for how long it would take to get from my northwest apartment alllllll the way southeast into the Loop. I was wandering around for a half hour, purposeless, before my interview, wishing it was okay to sit down in the middle of the sidewalk. Then I realized my professional appearance was somewhat mauled by the bleeding blister that had formed on my left heel (again, from the heels). I scratched my eye, only to find a scar of black eyeliner left of my finger.

My interview went fine, thanks.

feet and buses

Cities are amazing places. Yes I have replaced the sound of the ocean for the sound of traffic almost drowned out by a window air conditioner, but I have also replaced my car with my feet. Or in some extreme cases, a bus or train. My neighborhood is amazing. Within a half a block from my new apartment I can find a record store, an L stop, two book stores, a little market, a movie theater, three coffee shops, three dollar stores, several banks, a Wallgreens, a library, a park, a pool, and a smattering of boutiques and restaurants. There are about five thai restaurants in fact. If I venture a little further, I can find a bigger market, and if I hop on a bus I can reach Target, a supermarket, and Trader Joe's.

I like the ocean. But I can see the point of the new urbanists who work toward cities instead of suburbs, feet, bicycles, and buses instead of cars. It's extremely convenient.

lonely musings

I opened up the free daily that's on every street corner today and found an article that I have already written. Two years ago. And then again a few months ago. "Old news!" I wanted to shout. I also considered copying my clips of that very same article (only better, of course) and sending them to the woman I just sent my resume and some other clips to at that very same publication. I can write and research like these people. I can even break the story two years earlier. So, then, what do they have that I don't have? A few more years maybe? A few more dollars saved up in the bank from a past position? I will probably find, once I finally get my foot in the door, that I have a lot more to learn... but in the meantime this "rule" that you can't work at a metropolitan daily if you've never worked at a metropolitan daily before is just silly. And something like a catch-22.

Speaking of catch-22s, I have decided that if I must get an hourly job to pay the bills, I would rather work at a bookstore again than dirty my hands with whipped cream and espresso and grumpy customers who haven't yet had their morning coffee. There's a hip-looking, non-corporate bookstore about half a block from my new apartment... I might see if they're hiring. Then I can get serious about this "foot in the door" business.

I'm really enjoying this free time I have to read for pleasure again, and I'm devouring books like I did before I had to read for class. In light of this, I'm glad to be graduated. Because I have the time and the lack of stress to read books for pleasure, and I can read and analyze them in my head without having to compete with pretentious English majors for attention. Despite my general disdain for fellow English majors and sometimes English classes, I think if I were to do it over (college, that is), I would probably choose to be an English major again. I really like fiction. More than poli sci or psychology or sociology or biology or geology (all majors I briefly considered), I think it made sense to study something I enjoyed. Even if I didn't learn a bunch of equations or theorems or laws... what good does learning that technical stuff do, anyway, if I don't use it? It's quantitative versus qualitative, I guess, and in my everyday life I dwell more on things I make up, things I find and learn in fiction, things I read, than I do on why the sky is blue and how concrete is made and why buildings look the way they do. I was just walking around the Magnificent Mile (which was so magnificently crowded that I had to leave) -- probably the reason for all my city questions. But walking around, I cared more about where that guy with the frenzied look on his face was headed and how much begging of parents those little girls had to do to get American Girl dolls.

I don't think I articulated that very well. Something my English major essay-writing skills should have fixed. But it would have been articulated considerably worse had I written it in numbers and equations. Anyway, it'll be interesting to see what my sister, a chemical engineering major, gets from college. Whether she will perceive it as useful knowledge in four years, or whether she will wish that she learned less quantitative stuff and thought and wrote a little more.

landmines

I am finding and applying to jobs with renewed vigor. The day always drags when one has tedious work to do, but after a shower, lunch, and a few episodes of Arrested Development I have found that the evening is within reach. I always get more work done in the evening and late late into the night because the sun isn't beckoning me to leave the house, do something in this city full of promises. I haven't yet wasted away the day fiddling around with my resume and cover letter. I haven't yet squandered another precious day in this beautiful city. There's still time before it gets dark, and time after that before my eyelids get heavy.

I've been meaning to compose something about this:

I saw a concert last week that summoned the rain and lightning they'd been predicting all week. It was nestled in the bosom of the city, the skyline looking down on the amphitheater, its own gray metal decor stretching up to meet the buildings.

It was a hot day, unusually disgusting actually with humidity so high it felt like a swamp -- not a grassy park by the shores of Lake Michigan. I regretted my decision to wear pants as I plopped down on the grass three hours early to join the line to get in. I rolled up my pants. The humidity persisted as we made our way to seats, gazing expectantly at the music stands, the bright yellow light, and the guitars and drums for the band. Epic, I think, would be a good way to describe the pairing of the classical comfort of violins and flutes with the familiar lyrics and acoustic guitar of one of my favorite bands. Apparently the weather thought so too. It started raining in big drops. Some people took shelter under umbrellas (much to the annoyance of the people sitting behind them); I rolled my eyes at its timing and put my face up to the sky, glad that the cool rain drops had chased away the worst of the day. At times the crash of the cymbals were accompanied by the crash of thunder. And an occasional camera flash was buttressed by a flash of lightning lighting up the sky. It was an energetic and beautiful show with or without the storm, but the rain just made it that much more novel.

The real storm occurred long after the applause, long after the damp fans made their way through the deserted downtown streets to the nearest L stop, long after the lazy train finally pulled up to the station. It was raining in sheets when we detrained. It was dark but the lightning was trying its best to imitate the sun, the thunder trying its best to rival the light show. We ran inside and curled up on the couch with some tea. It wasn't cold enough for tea, but it felt safer somehow.

reaffirmation

Thanks to a kick in the butt from my friend leeann (who has blissfully started posting regularly as well), I have started making writing part of my routine. Funny, because I have no routine. Ironic because I'm trying to make a living out of writing. Anyway, we'll see how long my inspiration lasts.

I sat outside the Tribune Tower this afternoon, stiff, because I didn't want my button-down shirt to become untucked from my skirt and underwear (as an extra precaution) or stuck to my perspiring body resulting in huge, transparent, smelly sweat spots. I shamelessly envied everyone who bustled around the tower because they had probably lived in the city for more than three weeks and knew what they were getting themselves into by walking outside, they also probably had jobs that paid at least a few dollars per hour, and maybe they also had cars: a luxury that would eliminate the need to leave one-and-a-half hours before a scheduled appointment and worry that they'd be late anyway when the bus or train didn't come or stopped needlessly. Or that the predicted three-inch rain and thunderstorm would actually come and I would walk into the building looking like a fish out of water. Which, I suppose, I am.

"Most people go the other way," my contact at the Tribune told me several times today. Yes. Most people go the other way. But I'm happy with my soon-to-be-apartment that costs approximately $400 less than I could expect for a moderately nice bedroom anywhere on California's coast. I don't mind the weather. In fact, the variety and unpredictability are rather exciting, though the winter is still a long way off.

I was sitting there stiff, envious, unfriendly, fidgety, thinking I could never translate my love for college journalism, for comparatively small-town, weekly, subscription-only business journalism, for affluent high school journalism to neo-gothic building, city crime journalism. I know next to nothing about this city. I had never heard of an alderman (which are apparently part of the government here). I'm fresh out of college and i'm shy, without experience or talent. Traveling silently to the loop each day dressed in a suit doing something terrible and boring in a cubicle is what I want: it's easier and faster.

I walked out of the building walking quickly, clicking my heels confidently. I considered untucking my shirt. It's nice understanding something. The bus routes in this city I don't understand (I had to ask the driver both ways on Michigan Avenue where it stopped). Nor the government. Nor the weather. Nor the accent. Nor the segregation. But the Tribune's sprawling newsroom with its white boards and desks and meeting rooms to discuss design and lead stories and photos, style sheets, breaking news... I understand all that. Writing a story for such a publication, even something as lowly as an obit, is scary and daunting and seemingly impossible... at least that's what my doubting mind tries to trick me into believing. But I know can do it: I've done it before.

American City

I have started 100 posts in my head in the past two weeks, fleeting ideas that have disappeared as quickly as they arrived leaving me with nothing to say nothing to write nothing with which to appease my loyal readers. Although, knowing me, I will find something to say. I have, after all, embarked on my Great Adventure in Chicago.

The truth is, it really isn’t all that different here. Just sitting on my bed in Spain provoked 1,000 words. I’ve explored this city far and wide and all I’ve managed is a few unfinished ideas, a short, lame post, and several phone conversations. It’s the Midwest, sure, it’s a big city, it has crazy weather, it doesn’t have an ocean, it has public transportation, it is two hours ahead… but I feel the same. And some of the only notable differences I’ve come across between here and California are the ridiculously high price of avocados, the way people say “pop” instead of “soda,” the way the buses don’t turn, and that none of the public restrooms feature toilet seat covers (it’s the law in California). I did, however, come across a startling and exciting response to the problem of toilet seats in the big downtown Chicago Public Library, which had those crazy saran wrap-looking sheaths that completely covered the seat and disappeared at the press of a button (http://www.brillseat.com/). And at the Pitchfork Music Festival this weekend, I got to experience 8:30 p.m. Port-A-Potties that had been used all day by thousands of hippies and hipsters in the dust and heat.

My point is not to talk about toilet seats. My point is that this is an American City, and all American Cities are alike; every American City is American in its own way (paraphrased from Anna Karenina). Richard M. Daley, mayor, has his name on every sign and poster in the city. There’s pizza, Chinatown, Little Italy, Downtown with big buildings, thrift stores, areas of big-name commercial presence, residential areas, trees, rich people, homeless people, students, people who go to work Downtown in a suit each day, mothers with lots of little children.

*****

The other week my frequent male escorts and I caught the bus down the street in order to catch another bus that would take us to aliveOne. We waited for awhile: it was late, it had started to rain. Chicago buses are lazy; their signs commonly say “runs every 13 to 25 minutes” or “runs from the early morning to the late afternoon.” Standing under the Borders overhang next to us was a woman, young, with five children gathered around her. One was in her arms. One was in a stroller. Three came to various places on her leg. They were dressed in various stages of alikeness, their hair was braided and barretted and they were quiet and stationary. But the woman still had her hands full, with five extensions of herself running around, trying to get on a bus, get seated, and pull the rope at the appropriate stop. This isn’t really American, but it’s interesting.

*****

The Fourth of July was already ages ago, but memories of the night still greet me with smiles. We drank beer and grilled things (mostly veggie). We made our way up the ladder to the roof and were silenced by the perfect night and the 360 degrees of festivities. Fireworks are legal in Indiana, I’ve heard, and Indiana is only 30 minutes away. There were explosions and bits of light filling the sky from every direction: to the south-east, the city, with its buildings obscured by smoke and light, to the south, nameless towns and families celebrating with their own explosions, to the west, to the north. I stood, speechless, for an hour watching.

*****

Is this the ocean or the lake?

*****

Are these aliens or friends?

Note: I have just finished the first book on my summer reading list not counting two Harry Potter rereads: Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. My strange capitalizations, ordering, and references in this post may be attributed, in part, to her. Irvine Welsh, I believe, is next. Watch out for the Chicago accent coming through in phonetic spelling. Also watch out for spells. Harry Potter comes out soon.

adjust

I have been here less than two days. I have replaced my student I.D. card with a CTA Transit Card. Car and bike keys for a train map. The Pacific Ocean for Lake Michigan. The sound of waves for the purr of air conditioning and of traffic. My sweater with an umbrella… except today when, to my surprise, I stepped outside and it was chilly. I don’t know quite what to think about all of this, so I’m boarding the busses and trains like a native, with my CTA card the right way (cut corner toward me), acting like I have somewhere to go and that I know how to get there.

a new adventure

Beginning tomorrow, a la deriva will become a travel journal yet again. This California girl is moving East. I'm off to drift again, so to speak, this time in Chicago.

And you know, they say hot dogs are a specialty of the city.

Romantic Without A Cause

I am printing out my last English paper. Eight-and-a-half wondrous pages of disorganized thought. It's not nearly the best paper i've written, but it's not often that I concoct the title and the concluding sentence with phrases so cleaver that I finish reading with a sigh.

Sure the vivid descriptions of cooking up may stroke the curiosity of some, but anyone who experiments knows he could end up just like Mark Renton: an addict without a future, emotions without an outlet, wandering with no destination, an 18th century Romantic without any 19th century Victorian ending.

On the eve of my entrance into real life I am strangely obsessed with Trainspotting. A bit of an inappropriate book and/or movie to live by, certainly, but I think they have good intentions. As do I.

I'm going to be just like you.

when is not all the time

I just decided to do my English last paper on a topic that would allow me to deviate and make my academic career go full circle. I'm going to touch on Romantic poetry (which I studied most in 12th grade) , and modernism (which I have always liked). I came across this gem from a paper I wrote four years ago that I was always so proud of: He suggests that despair is temporary in the line “but when the melancholy fit shall fall” (223) with the use of the word “when,” because when is not all the time. This is the kind of line that reporters would sometimes turn in (you know, when I used to edit at the newspaper), and the whole office would laugh about it and repeat it before I would finally delete it.

I'm rather embarrassed. This is precisely the reason why I generally refuse to read my articles after they've been published -- especially the ones that sit collecting dust in big red memory books -- they may remain clearly good in my mind, but my refined eye won't be able to read them now without cringing.

now what

Freshman year -- and even sophomore year when we had time -- I frequently ate dinner with a group of three other girls who lived on my floor. We'd eat, we'd laugh, and we'd sit there for hours procrastinating the evening's studies. Junior year we all went our separate ways into I.V. or abroad; we didn't see each other quite as frequently and it became more and more difficult to get us all in the same place at the same time. But this year, we made an effort every few weeks to have lunch, not lingering as long because of various time conflicts, but nonetheless sitting together, laughing, and catching up.

This evening we had dinner. We lingered just as long as we used to at the dining commons, this time in the natural light of a restaurant and not under the horrible gaze of that mural in Ortega. It was pleasant until I started to think about it as the last time. When I started college I never thought it would end. I remember so clearly walking around campus the day I moved in, talking to my neighbor who would later become my good friend, wondering at the experiences that lay ahead. And here it is, ending. I'm ready for it to be over, i've taken from it all I could have -- i've grown up -- but it's terrifying looking ahead because I know it will never be the same. My life here is such a bubble. I have a dozen good friends within arms reach and all the intellectual stimulation I could ever need a five-minute bike ride away. What is the real world like?

I've been riding the last few months on the excitement and adventure of graduation, or at least the big decision, and now as i'm about to begin my last day of classes, write my last paper, take my last final, complete the last day at my internship, it's beginning to feel real and i'm not quite sure what I should do. Run around and celebrate? Stay quiet and soak in the nostalgia? Go about my business as usual? Try to forget?

-----

I've had an obsession for the last four years with the hot dog stand on campus. Whenever I am fortunate enough to pass by it (which has been quite often this quarter due to the location of my classes) I am treated to the potent aroma of beef, turkey, and veggie hot dogs sizzling on the grill. I have never smelt anything quite like it, so juicy and so flavorful, and I suspect I never will again. But even though I have long harbored this obsession, for whatever reason I have never actually bought a hot dog there. Now, because I only have a week left here and i'm safe from the possibility that I would also become obsessed with the taste of these hot dogs, I have decided to walk up to the stand and order.

uncovered

Two people were playing chess at a card table set up on one of lawns on campus this morning. It wasn't particularly sunny, nor were the bike paths and sidewalks humming so early on Friday morning, but nevertheless there they were, a man and a woman, playing chess.

I didn't think anything of it until I glanced again and realized that the woman was naked. Completely naked, sitting with a crossed leg and arms in front of her chest, in the middle of campus.

Things just outside of the realm of "normal," even for a university, generally occur this time of year. One of the advanced art classes unleashes its artists and their comments on society upon the campus, artists who set up public displays that are designed to raise the eyebrows of the passersby. This year there was a man hidden in a tree, yelling compliments and insults down to walkers on the busy sidewalk underneath; a few students sitting in the middle of a saran-wrapped group of trees; a man riding his unicycle around and around the main roundabout on campus; an unbirthday party; and my personal favorite (aside from the naked chess player), a woman pretending to fish in the grimy campus pond.

I wondered why I hadn't noticed the naked woman before; surprised that my mind would see the other details of the scene, the chess pieces and the man's colorful hat, but not acknowledge the woman's obvious nakedness. I was also struck with concern, both because there was a chilly wind blowing and because one of the last sexual assaults that occurred on campus was in the early morning. And why did she choose Friday morning - the volume of visitors to campus, especially in the morning, is comparatively low after the Thursday night bar specials. The point behind such a performance was to incite thought, and she certainly got me thinking… so I rode by again about an hour later, just to see how other people reacted - especially boys -- now that the sun was a little higher in the sky. I didn't see much out of the ordinary, but as I was passing a man yelled at her, "Aren't you cold?" She replied cheerily, "Well I was a little before but now the sun's out."

It was interesting that she answered, chose to step out of her world, her objectivity in the eyes of others and interact with the student. She was just that when she wasn't speaking: an object. An object that was there, but wasn't, masked behind her art project. Talking to the student made it seem normal. Maybe it wasn't all that strange.

Our Favorite Goat

It doesn't matter if it comes from Al Gore's mouth, from Jon Stewart's mouth, or my roommate's: I inevitably get irritated when anyone blames everything on "the Media." The Media is everyone's favorite scapegoat, but I might consider taking their criticism with more than a grain of salt if I knew what they were talking about. I am often on the side of the Media because I am a part of it and I generally believe in its supreme importance, but I don't pretend to faithfully campaign for the goodness of our country's media at all times even when it's doing something wrong. That's my disclaimer.

What is the Media? Are we talking about big newspapers, little newspapers, magazines, celebrity gossip shows, Cosmopolitan, The O'Reilly Factor, News at 6, NPR, ABC, FOX, the Onion? I think half the time when people are blaming all of the country's problems first on Bush, and second on the Media, they don't have a clear idea of who they're talking about. Al Gore included (during his Thursday appearance on The Daily Show, which was the trigger of my post). He made a lot of good points and Jon Stewart was generally hilarious as usual, but Gore was talking a lot about the Media and he lost me at the capital M. Which Media? After listening to him berate newscasters mostly, I was able to conclude -- if not shakily -- that he was talking about TV news. I think.

I try to stay away from TV news, besides the occasional 60 Minutes, mostly because I agree with Gore. It is very focused on entertainment. The teasers make the stories seem more interesting and important than they actually are, and when it comes down to it the short short stories don't actually say anything. TV news doesn't have the time or the interest to report on Iraq or Israel everyday, so they focus on the local, on the zany, or the different. Generally the stuff that doesn't matter. So it's the entertainment value over the actual investigation, money over matter. But would anyone watch it if it was meaningful? Would any of the approximate 50 percent of Americans watch the news "regularly" if was about exposing politicians rather than Paris Hilton? How heavy do people really want the subject matter when they get home from a long day at work? And really, there are only so many watchdogtype pieces that can come up at any given time. Maybe it's not that TV news is in league with the government and the capitalist economy, as Gore suggested, but that they don't think that anyone really cares. They probably don't. Apathetic, I think, is the word i'm looking for.

Don't newspapers do all that? Newspapers have the same annoying headlines, leads and nuts trying to get people to read it, they also have issues of ownership and advertising income, but they also have more meat. It would take a newscaster 30 minutes to read the feature I wrote earlier this year, but in print people can read it, look at the picture of the penis drawn into the grass, and take from it what interests them. Newspapers have broken some brilliant stories in the past few years, and many many journalists have been jailed and tried for not revealing their sources. Isn't that evidence enough that some reporters, at least, are trying?

Maybe the invasion of the Internet is just what we need. Newspapers (and local news stations) are focusing more and more on the local local issues, the things the people who actually read the papers care about. The local scandals, the local heroes. There are countless places the public can read about Iraq, there's only one place they can read about the city council meeting. That's the trend, anyway.

Either way, people are going to blame the Media. I don't know what, exactly, the Media is, but it's the cause of all the problems in the world.

rescheduling

Today is Sunday. It is past two o'clock and i'm marvelling at how the sun shines through my dirt-streaked windows at this time of day and how the clouds are still just visible, covering the sky with a whitish film. For the majority of Sundays since October 2005 -- when I first began my editor duties at the Daily Nexus -- I have been smooshed into the editor-in-chief's office with my clipboard, yellow pad, and pen, discussing news and half dreading a week's worth of story assigning, editing, and late nights. Today i'm eating carrots, listening to music, and I have a vague idea of what i'm going to do for the rest of the day.

Perhaps i'll start to feel more nostalgic about the end of my editing duties come Thursday, when I have spent a whole week making dinner, going to Wednesday karaoke night, finishing my assignments, and going to bed at a reasonable hour. Maybe my freedom will become more apparent tomorrow, around midday, when I haven't received a call from a single reporter, assistant, or photographer. Or later in the week when I hear a siren on campus and don't feel the familiar flutter of "I hope that's not a story." It's been a good year, it's been intellectually stimulating, i've spent countless hours laughing, problem-solving, arguing with some co-workers who have become very good friends, i've learned more than I ever needed to know about the inner workings of UCSB and how to re-word sentences. I've left a legacy of organization, competence, and a couple memorable stories. But I think four years of meager pay and four quarters of Sundays and five o'clock on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays was enough.

Well it's certainly strange this relative absence of stress, now that i've completed the hardest part of the quarter juggling a full-time job, an internship, and three classes, and purchased a one-way plane ticket to my immediate future. And i'm looking forward to it staying that way, through finals, through the packing and the plane ride and the first month or two of finding a place, adjusting, and building a life. But I will make sure to treasure my two o'clocks and five o'clocks, hesitantly at first, then more confidently up until I take them for granted. I have earned this time.

here's to hoping this is true

If I may make a terrible comparison that only I will understand, decision making is a lot like editing. A lot of things are like editing done right, but right now i'm feeling the decision-making parallel.

When I first read a horribly written and organized article (at least by Nexus standards), I feel overwhelmed, I do not know what it's trying to say, I have no idea which details matter, and I have a million questions buzzing around my fingertips. If it's especially confusing, i'll sit down with the writer and ask him or her to summarize the issue. If it's workable, i'll go through cutting and pasting, organizing by topic and spacing paragraphs to keep myself organized. Then i'll start from the top. Formulate a lead that grabs the reader, gets them hooked on the most interesting aspect of the story. Then i'll write the second paragraph, the nut. This usually takes the longest, summarizing the article and pertinent background into four to five sentences. It's also usually accompanied by a feeling that the article will never, ever make sense, nor did it make sense to begin with. Nevertheless, the remaining paragraphs usually organize themselves, pending the insertion of a really good quote, some good transitions, interesting lead-ins, and sentence variety. It's a bell curve, really, in terms of difficulty, and a diagonal in terms of improvement.

I think i'm beginning the down slope to my decision-making bell curve. I've talked to the necessary people, I've organized, i've reorganized, i've prioritized, i've rationalized, i've toiled, i've made lists, i've thought long and hard... i've written my lead and my nut and I think i'm just leaving that part where my efforts feel hopeless and just starting that part where the story writes itself -- where the decision decides itself. I'm just about to insert the best quote into the story, which generally makes me feel (if it's good enough) like all the stress was worth it.

Well I don't know if I could ever say that. Maybe when hindsight kicks in in a year or so. But the journey back to normal feels so much better when the high point of the bell curve (the vertex, if you will) was just out of my reach.

by the way

I believe that global warming is happening. Perhaps that point was a little muddled by my late-at-night brain. I think that the world’s reliance on cars -- especially the U.S.’ -- and its relative resistance to making them run with anything other than gas is disgusting and I wish I understood how cars work so I could do something to change it. I also hate that America is resistant to sign anything that pledges to lower emissions… though the UCs, for example, are doing well in that area, not everyone has jumped on the bandwagon. At the same time, it seems like nothing anyone does is going to be enough, if global warming is occurring like scientists say. But I suppose a counter to that is somewhat like the arguement for voting: every little bit makes a difference. And it couldn’t hurt to try.

I think most people are aware of it by now, which is probably a result of Al Gore and, at least at UCSB, the drill approach they’ve taken to provide us with speakers and books and discussions on it. It just seems like it’s all going to blow over. Like the Iraq war, perhaps. Next year, the vast majority will wonder if global warming is still around, it’ll be like a distant memory and everyone will be thinking, instead, about the presidential elections, or whatever it is that comes next. I could harangue the media for that, but I will abstain because i'm considering "the media" as a career and I believe in the good of newspapers, at least, at any cost. As long as the people that matter don't forget about it, the ones who sign bills and make cars and get the masses to change their lives and do things in general. Until then... I, personally, will think twice before driving anywhere (now more than ever because, with a broken car, I can't drive anywhere), use low-emissions light bulbs (even if they are blindingly bright), be receptive to new hybrid/electric/whatever car technology, and do whatever else I can think of to reduce my own impact on the environment.

I will not, however, buy credits to offset my carbon emissions. I think that's a strange and counter-productive way to live environmentally. I can use my car as much as I want as long as I pay some company according to how much I drive to invest in sustainable energy sources. Really? I will also probably not spend a year without toilet paper like the family in the New York Times who decided to be zero emissions for an entire year. But I believe in it.

Just the encouragement I need...

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/05/business/05jobs-web.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

sleepwalk

I have stayed up so late the past three nights that I can't see clearly. I stumble through my homework, job applications, readings, preparations with my eyes half closed, my vision blurry through my dry lashes. The yellow light my overhead light gives off makes it seem later anyway... so I pull through that work that just keeps coming, only to awaken before 8 the next morning for more.

I haven't been this busy since this time four years ago. Every day is 20 waking hours long (to steal a phrase from my more articulate friend) and while I don't really mind the things I fill these hours with, it'd be nice to sleep.

I went to see 20/20's John Stossel speak tonight. And while my views are not in line with his libertarian outlook, it was refreshing at least to hear something different. College students are fed a diet of liberal(itarian) in classes, from speakers, and reading the newspaper. I don't realize how tiresome it all gets, this academic, optimistic, but generally worthless tone all college discussions take. So there was a liberal kid or two in Stossel's audience (not including me the fly-on-the-wall journalist), and one of them asked during question and answer how America came to have a 40-hour work week. I think he was getting at labor issues that are big around here this time of year, but Stossel started talking about how Americans have the freedom to choose the length of their work weeks... which could lead me (and led him) into a long discussion of money and the economy. But I guess my point is that it's what i've chosen, this 80-hour work week, and regardless of whether i'm making the economy healthier by my decision to work, it generally occupies me -- makes me happy.

I think, however, that my year on the newspaper staff has taught me one thing that's not necessarily positive: to hate activists. Two years ago this time I went to a protest of the war in Iraq, a protest I now wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. The activists I deal with daily are, for the most part, fairly ignorant and not picky about what they're protesting. So we get this large group of people who lead every rally just for the sake of parading around campus and yelling and who love to spout facts that are almost true at best. And though I love the environment, it's these people who pitch stories to me every week that make me hate the concepts of sustainability, going green, climate neutral, and especially global warming. I haven't yet seen An Inconvenient Truth, but Stossel made a point I found very compelling: years ago, the catchphrase on everyone's tongue was global cooling -- what happened to that? We love to be scared , but mainly, if we can't predict the weather, how can we predict climate change? It's important to look at, important to take steps to curb the harm we're doing to our environment, but it really is a ridiculous fad that's receiving far too much publicity, from my paper included. He also seemed to think the Prius is a waste of time, but then again (as he said) he has the money to pay $10 per gallon for gas (as opposed to the rest of us -- and me, whose car is broken).

I can see it happening already. If I spend most of my life in journalism, i'm going to come out the other end much more cynical, still hating activists, and quite possibly believing in decreased regulation of government -- like the good conservative I... am?

Dulce locura

I like to complain -- today especially I have really liked complaining about the fact that I didn't start my English midterm paper until the night before it was due, when I was already burnt out by an editing assignment I also completed for tomorrow. But I forget that I really like staying up late. My room gets this wonderful vibe late at night, i've got a soft yellow light wrapped around my shoulders, Spanish music on a little too loud, a candle burning, and the waves intermittently crashing outside during pauses in the music. I'm fairly interested in my topic, excited about how my intro turned out, and just awake enough to finish the other half of it tonight.

numb

I feel paralyzed.

So paralyzed I can't motivate myself to eat my leftovers from lunch for dinner or indeed articulate the point I actually wanted to make with this post.

I am paralyzed firstly because my weekend visitor left and now I don't know what to do with myself. Sit on my stripped bed and procrastinate a writing assignment that's due tomorrow and an article to edit. I will get back into my routine, I guess. But after such a lovely break my day-to-day crazy doesn't sound at all appealing.

But tomorrow, once I have forgotten the wonders of the weekend and how nice it is to be around someone who cares, I will still be paralyzed. It's just this feeling i've been getting lately about my wide-open future. I have a mountain of interests, possibilities, prospects, experience, skills--thank you, college. But what i'd like to have is a path. A plan. A rule. Something that will tell me where to go and what to do and how to do it. I feel like if I don't do something different and exciting now (aka, work at Yellowstone) then I will never get to do it, because i'll be trapped in the professional world for all eternity. But I don't want to do something different and exciting now because i'm so tired of thinking about this fork that I just want to make my decision already and get started on my life in a city that is not located in Southern California.

Okay, so get a job. But I have been rejected so many times that whenever I tailor my cover letter, resume, and clips to fit yet another position, I am doubtful that I will ever actually hear anything. I think of my job application materials like the plague, yet I know there's nothing wrong with them. Okay, then find a city. In that department i'm having trouble with my priorities. Yes, a job will help me attain happiness and the financial ability to live in another city, but the friends that live in these places will ultimately decide how content I actually am. I can make friends, true. I will make friends, but how many of these important people in my life will I be able to live without? Move first, job later? But what if I choose wrong?

I am paralyzed.

I have two months.

think more?

I've gotten into the awful, insincere habit of always saying "Good, how are you?" when someone asks me how I am. It's my automatic answer, and it's so hurried that no one could really believe i'm paying attention when I say it, but I say it anyway.

So someone at work, one of my bosses' bosses--part of the design team, he was wearing a vertically striped button-down shirt in lime green, pink, and blue when I first met him--stuck his head over my cubicle wall and said "Hi, how are you?" And because I had just gotten to work--late--and because I had just sat down at my computer and was trying to take the advice of my calming tea, I answered "Good, how are you?" And he said cheerily, "Simply great." And though he asked me a couple of other questions after that, I was so taken aback by his clean and confident answer that I just stumbled through the rest of the conversation, convinced that I should change my rule. Or think more.

Thomas Gray: Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College

[...]

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today:
Yet see how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand
To seize their prey the murderous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' altered eye,
That mocks the tear if forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan,
The tender for another's pain;
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

what if this were (still) the widespread opinion:

"Nature, then, having placed the stronger mind where she gave the stronger body, and accompanied it with a more enterprising ambitious spirit, the custom that consigns to the male sex the chief command in society, and all the offices which require the greatest strength and ability, has a better foundation than force, or the prejudices that result from it. The hard, laborious, stern, and coarse duties of the warrior, lawyer, legislator, or physician, require all tender emotions to be frequently repressed. The firmest texture of nerve is required to stand the severity of mental labour, and the greatest abilites are wanted where the duties of society are most difficult. It would be as little in agreement with the nature of things to see the exclusive possession of these taken from the abler sex, to be divided with the weaker, as it is, in the savage condition, to behold severe bodily toil inflicted on the feeble frame of the woman, and the softness of feeling, which nature has provided her with for the tenderest of her offices, that of nurturing the young, outraged by contempt, menaces, and blows."

Catherine Napier, Women's Rights and Duties, 1838.