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.