Sucker
On love, relationships, and bullshit
On bullshit
On the cyclical patterns in history
On existential angst
On the way you post things on your Facebook to make me notice
Or on the way I post things on Facebook to make you notice
On being noticed
On strangers gluing together suddenly and clinging like crabs
Today I walked to the coffee shop. In remembering yesterday, I catalogued your facial expressions and matched them with your postures, from indolent sprawl of legs wide open to the grinning tips of socks propped on desk. Your words were lovely and round, but your meanings pointed, heavy, sincere.
I like furrowed eyebrows, they lend a subtle drama to any situation at hand.
As for that guy, how easy to please. Intimate encounters of a fourth kind; tacos were delicious, the lengua- cow’s tongue- sweet, tender… Too sweet. To think of all the wonderful things to be uttered by a cow years before it’s ripped from it’s throat to feed the drunk, the thoughtlessly hungry, the casual, faceless pedestrian… The sweetness was overwhelming. How many tongues do we wag uselessly? You had wonderful eyes and a boy’s smile. Ours was a strange stumble of chance pushed by your persistence… I felt like I was 19.
To my dear friend, you fought yourself to make conscious decisions to appear as the girls who share their life stories to crowds of companions wide eyed and dreamy, where infamy is borne from adventure and casual flips of the hair flirtatiously announcing mystery, sensuality, the hidden desires that are trimmed hastily by a self conscious social anxiety. Your are sweet, kind; know that it was, in the bigger picture, a silly, hysterical hiccup of circumstance filled with cigarette breaks… “How fortunate we are to have each other, despite any stretch of time and distance”, was my own conclusion. The walk back to east Wacker was a glad, happy one.
Chicago is a beautiful city
Chicago is a collection of art
Of buildings with secrets, with personality, with quiet stairwells and smiling window molds, of wide streets and the canopy of pale, blue sky hanging over the tips of towers. As you crank your neck upwards, the gradient of windows shrink into a marvelously tight grid.
There is wind, sure, but just as any city finds its streets walled into literal Lego blocks and made into wind tunnels as cars, busses, trucks weave like ants between the stuttering stop and go of traffic lights.
I love the city. Perhaps I am not an introvert in the least: I leave the window open at night to fall asleep to boats honking on the river and the groan of busses grinding up ramps, the murmur of pedestrians and drivers, of the movement of life and orbiting universes of existence sending me off into a comfortable sleep.
I realized last night that perhaps the key to falling in love is not the projection of perfection in seeking love, but rather, finding it like treasure among those whom you least suspect. Although I’m not entirely sure of my belief in this fantastic myth of love, it sure makes for good poetry:
” … And Claude Barron says, ‘I went into the desert to forget about you. But the sand was the color of your hair. The desert sky was the color of your eyes. There was nowhere I could go that wouldn’t be you.’ and then he dies.” – pg. 189 “Middlesex” by Jeffery Eugenides.
