When I read Nabokov or Keruoac or Baudelaire or Fitzgerald, the reality they portray is entirely anchored in the objective reality we feel in the norm. The Normal, the Un-Other, the less-than-extraordinary is conveyed to us as a story of extraordinary events. Sequences of narratives, emotions, etc. (flying across the forsaken lands between the east and west coasts, falling in love with the freedom of unrequited love, the filth of living and our visceral existences climaxing then rotting) are journeys in which the reader may watch through sentences unscrambled with meaning… they remain distant tales, Disney characters who we will never make love to, or could barely feel anything for but customary twinges of sympathy (even then, these spasms cease at the ring of a dinner bell).

Yet when I read Murakami, I find an altogether astonishing surreal truth of existence.
Within the very mundane is the magic of hypersensitive detail… The fabric of how I feel in my very environment is stretched and ripped. The bowels of what normal reality I once felt as a numb being are spilled out, pulsing, gleaming, semi functioning but slowly, surely, twitching in the death of the chaos I have recently found myself in. What consistent reality I once trusted has committed a delicious seppuku. I feel a crippling childlike uncertainty, the suspension in any belief hanging my conviction by tenterhooks wound up on a high, cold ceiling in an cavernous warehouse.

These are melodramatic observations, perhaps encouraged by the sheer volume of pages I have voraciously consumed these past two weeks. But I feel the same threads of fate in my life this year that Murakami has so eloquently and keenly committed to his millions of copies of books… The eerie swells of conflicting selves. Of dreams birthing dangerous premonitions that have spilled into my waking reality, even going so far as to affect my relationships in subtle but significant ways.

I’ve always been wary of the vivid nature of my dreams, careful not to trust each whimsical event as evidence for viable desires, wishes, or fears. But emotions are emotions, whether or not your eyes are awake to differentiate the reality in sunlight or the dark night. I have always experienced a heavy, affective residue after my vivid dreams. I cannot ignore them because the grow stronger.

This last one had the power of returning me to life before I met you, when things were emptier, lighter, more free. When I awoke in the morning, I felt less for you. But I also felt less of myself. The retrospectively serious nature of what happened in my dream may directly lend significance to these feelings, but I remember a strange, shallow joy in the experience.

Ironically (? Depending at how you look at it) this makes it easier.

Granted, I’m not the most experienced of woman in this strange world of dating.

I’ve learned how easy things can be up to the point of realization that there exists deeper feelings for a person. But how wonderful this painful struggle is in itself! The heaviness brings you a melodramatic romance of significance. Of consequences, of change and growth within oneself. The pain of existence as proof of existence.

My strategy thus far has been to treasure friendships as they are instead of framing them into potential “dateable” candidates. As a sucker for variety, I am also not looking for “types” of people outside of physical traits I appreciate. What’s most charming? Being surprised at how endearing certain characteristics are in certain people.

This goes for everyone I meet, though. Stereotyping or judgements are naturally automated social behaviors, but you can choose to appreciate or depreciate the people you meet, whether or not they “fit” with your sociology economic or cultural class.

This can still be difficult to remember when they’re boring you to tears, or dancing in a way that makes you want to cry silently.

I want to be better, I want to be the best–

In Seattle we’re sunless but there’s never less water than a lake and a sound; in Chicago it’s endless… land, and Michigan stretches to the Arctic or nameless lands beyond the paleness of the water touching the sky in all its blueness–

As I weave through happy pedestrians, of mommys pushing strollers trailing packs of kids waving sticky hands and sweating sweetly their mouths are sprouting pink “blahblahblahblahs!” of questions, exclamations, experimental sounds forming the foundation of the words they will use for the rest of their lives (Chicagoans stretching their a’s as far as they can go)– how will they experience meaning and its forms, of symbols and metaphors creeping into their imagination or leaking through their ears like a constantly dripping rusty pipe, drip drip dripping, dropping their words like careless pennies tossed into the cracks of sidewalks or baking in the sun (hot little buttons waiting for a superstitious savior to scoop them up into the hospitably warm darkness of a jean pocket)

These images are fluid. They flow into each other.  Morphing in form and consistency as natural as watery sand, or pillowy thighs, or strawberry lips. Once I read a viking romance novel that described  nipples as raspberries; I read that passage aloud and laughed heartily.

Love is mythical; it is a story already told, like the American Dream or Cinderella, where you compare yours to what supposedly Should Be; most base it on the good, when like anything on this green earth it should include the darkness, the darkness of Love which can morph into hate quite naturally as the stars burn for centuries until the mass is so condensed their is only blackness, confusion, a hole of despair (as far as the rules of physics go). Love is light as is can be heavy. When you love someone you love all of them; finding fault leads to finding more faults, until the disgust and contempt takes over and the monster you’ve made your friend out to be stands next to you and smiles sweetly from the shadows of memories (i.e. “who they used to be” and “the person you ‘fell in love with’”). Why no, I do not love you anymore: goodbye. You walk away steadily, as if a star in a fashion show, as if Marc Jacobs were clapping behind you with his tan, oily skin and bright, smiling eyes, twinkling with his diamond studded (and also tan) earlobes, as if you had donned Swarovski crystals as lingerie because “you’re a million dollars, baby”. Even if you aren’t, convincing yourself of that lie is just as good as the dream of love.

You’re married. You’re married. You’re married. GOOD ONE

the night sky is tinged with orange from the street lamps. As it lightens, I see a purple penumbra kissing the edges of my vision with an lurking, purple glow.

In my dreams I experience an existential calmness. I am one with myself, a shallow experience where I have been taken along for a ride.

His eyes are brown and comfortable to look at

She looked at the ergonomic office chair. It glared back through the shine of its lofty armrests, the netted ‘breathable’ stripes stretched taut to form the back on an unsightly curvy frame. The stub of its readjustment bar smiled sarcastically. She threw her laptop at it and screamed. “F*CK YOUUUU!”

Wouldn’t it be better to say “Some things weren’t meant to be questions” rather than “Some questions weren’t meant to be answered”? I would say so; it’s much more precise. Furthermore, questions are questions only because they beg answers. Otherwise, it’s a fact. Or there would have been an Unsolved Mysteries episode on it. Do you remember the printed “purple lightening” backdrop?

His eyes were blue and his eyebrows, expressive. He reminds me of Tintin. Or an Egon Schiele portrait.

Max Ernst

Yesterday, a small series of strange events occurred between a space of thirty to sixty seconds.

My friend and I are walking down the sidewalk; Monroe towards the water. We pass  the paved lot where Taste of Chicago hosted swarming hoards of the hungry, lip-smacking crowds, tourists and locals alike; suburbanites with wide eyes and sparkly stares rubbing shoulders with businessmen orbited by screaming children secretly smacking each other and pulling pigtails. Plumes of smoke off the black charred metal bowels of grills screened the blue sky above… a stretch of sidewalk before us, fenced on one side, a busy street on the other.

The sidewalks of Chicago are wide; the size of an alley-street in Rome

Luxuriously large, uniform squares of cement dotted and pimpled with black gum spots–

On the sidewalk, in the shade of a tree on the other side of the fence, stands a small, blonde boy. He has tall white socks drawn to his knees; a red pullover with a blue collar, a red baseball cap, and blue shorts. Something is wrong; as we encroach, I see how strangely dirty and forlorn he seems. His face is abruptly tense and fearful, his lip curled under into a wrinkled chin, his green eyes flashing as he stares directly across us to our left. We notice the strange blemishes of scabs on his smooth, tan cheeks. Following his gaze, we watch as a fireman’s vehicle pulls up onto the sidewalk and parks. The stretcher in the back is empty. There are two policemen sitting with the empty stretcher, but they dismount quickly as the vehicle stops.

The empty stretcher is propped up but ignored; the men stand poised near the entrance of the small cab of the vehicle.

As we watch, the scabby orphan-like boy is forgotten. As we watch, a large, obesely overweight black woman gingerly crawls out of the front of the vehicle. Her face is concentrated; tense; belabored– we watch as fat legs emerge from under the fleshy, khaki-covered paunch of her pelvis and step out onto the bright sidewalk. She is carrying something– a fat, barbecued turkey leg in a nest of crinkled, shiny foil. She looks down at it lovingly. The turkey leg is covered and glittering with sauce. We continue walking and look up to the lake and the tall sails of ships.

And we’re not sure what just happened, but it feels profound, like a scene from Paul Haggis’s Crash.

The timing of the sequence of events was incredible

I don’t feel like I did it justice–

In the second of a sneeze, ultimate bliss is reached when your mind is clear and you think about nothing. You become pure existence in a millisecond; you are all about bodily function. There are no goals, there are no regrets, self-loathing is kept at bay in the corner of your mind as your lungs stretch to accommodate this itch in the tender caverns of your sinuses and the spasm of muscles exhale; some people utter a small scream; others, a guffaw; more people, a stifled squeak.

It is within these strange, fleeting moments we are but bodies: and what a freeing state of mind. A comparable (and more enjoyable) state might be an orgasm, but I feel as if plenty of those might be swamped with guilt. And a dash of self-loathing.

In any case: picture your twisted face, your gaping jaw, your eyes rolled back– no, I’m not talking about the orgasm, I’m back on the sneeze– the sneeze releases at one hundred and twenty miles per hour, and microbes fly, crashing with spittle onto hard surfaces like windows, a tabletop, the general air/floor/space, or muffled straight into the crook of a slightly sweaty elbow. How long does a sneeze last? In these infinitesimal fleeting moments, who do we think we are?

We don’t. Think, that is. Why can we not apply this excellent moment to other parts of our lives? To accept what happens or doesn’t happen; to exist without the agendas and biases that haunt our actions with our without our conscious permission; for morals are politics, you understand. What is fair becomes what benefits you– as an individual, or an individual in a community, or even just someone who looks behind their shoulder to watch others who might be watching them.

How very Fight Club of me; but let me continue. Tyler Durden said that the objects we own end up owning us; I find this irrevocably true. To claim ownership is to claim responsibility (an exception being bad pet owners… and parents… and Weinergate phase 1)– the nicer the shoes, the more fearful I am of soiling their fine Brazilian soles on the damp grass; suede especially fails in Seattle rain. A shame to wear them, a shame not to wear them. What a silly decision to struggle through as we survive.

Not to be nihilistic. Understand that I do wish to do good; but not because angels will sing my hymn as i ascend and shake St. Peter’s hand (or not. That’s rather presumptuous of me, to say I would get into heaven. I assume by process of elimination that I am the least of God’s worries) as he recounts all my great, selfless deeds. But because it benefits me to be as such. I am a small, tiny girl. To attempt winsome is to survive. To be unpleasant would be unwise.

I might be accused of being amoral; and I’m not sure what that means, exactly. I believe in the effects of karma simply because if one is open to politeness, niceness, and consideration to others it is much more likely to be returned. If someone calls that shallow and cold, they must live in another world than I. From what I see, relationships are built to last longer because of the benefits. The pleasure of one’s company is a benefit I enjoy with several people. Friendship is there, but like all things, it might wear out.

So back to the sneeze. Enjoy that tiny molecule of time where your body releases itself into one beautifully orchestrated function. The fragmentation of thought, mind, heart, body, soul, etc. after too much ideal romanticizing of this-and-that; of what “should” be, of what is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ can be quite stressful. How can we presume to control our lives if we live in these fantastic delusions based on stories our mothers told us (or Disney)?

The politics of love and life are exhausting enough; we don’t spend enough time living in our bodies. When I walk, I feel the stretch and pull of muscles; of the balls of my feet pushing against the pavement and the quick snap of toes following momentum. Usually, people don’t remember if they swing their arms when they walk, or remember how their necks can swivel around and show you the sky. What does it feel like when you breathe?  What does it feel like to sit up straight, or stand without leaning?

Then again, I am acutely aware of the different degrees of worry or anxiety that creeps tension into my belly and raises my shoulders to my ear. I know what kind of pang is induced by insecurity, or loneliness, or the bittersweet. The ache of want. I know the ubiquitous jitter of caffeine. I am familiar with the excitement of conversation; I am well versed in the slack weight of disappointment. The crazed confusion of restlessness.

Try thinking of all of this in that one half a millisecond of a sneeze. When you fail, smile and think of how free you were, even for that tiny piece of time.

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.

I like your writing. You should write more; write to your heart’s content, and damn the future and the past for their skeptical stabs. Or anyone else, for that matter. Good writers never write for the critics; they write what they feel, they write selfishly for themselves– to narcissistically convey rules of their realities and posture it as A Cohesive Yarn of Events. How spatially simple, to think of life as a narrative. It is rather several waves crashing and pulling each other down , only to violently spit up and at once, die under the constant chaos of accidents happening and rehappening….

I’ve been reading Isaac Asimov’s “FOUNDATION”; and I think I wrote about this somewhere on my blog– or I didn’t, and it is one of many, many drafts– but the cyclical nature of time and history is a pattern to be noticed… again and again (HA. get it?) Like a videogame: you die again and again, only to be ‘reborn’ to make the same mistakes. Also much like reincarnation. The stimulation of the future to make a future to make a past. There is no present.
And yet here we are, wiling away our youth to angst for The Beginning Of Our Lives, when we start kissing loved ones on the lips quite regularly until it bores us to tears, or when we know exactly where we’ll have lunch for the next four days (and what).

It becomes interesting when “the space between login and logout” becomes a strange high– an excitement! Most fear this formidable Facebook; technology and Twitter scare them; don’t even mention Foursquare. The internet makes me feel invigorated. It makes me imagine things and worlds and possibilities! It gives an interesting residue on “self identity” and how people portray their “love for food”, their “live love laugh” mantras, their great, peachy, smiling faces shining as if all the natural glory of their lives could flow through the screen and throttle you with joy, or their persistent moans about Mondays make them more so the cynical but stuck in the mud 9-5 office toad.

These “bundled packages of me/yous/yalls” you speak of: why, they’re not a facade. They’re an incredible wealth of social experience. Perhaps because they might be deliberately staged we might get to know one another through a humbling humanity. After all, the ones who care the most– the ones who frantically scan their pictures and untag the ones that haven’t been semi professionally airbrushed or approved under their rigid, personal standards of ‘perfection’… the ones that seem most perfect are frequently the most flawed, and we must forgive and love them for it. Beautiful contradictions lie in the delicate gasp of fragile hesitation– the most powerful emotions may be conveyed by a secret, stolen glance! Who are we to judge others in their moments of weakness? What looks at first to be a great tool to shore up our social esteem is also a back door to strange, subconscious secrets.

And when I said “my motives and agendas are always private, despite any public appearance and behaviors; so are yours”, I meant it. Someone out there can read me like an open book. Some fancy they may do so; or perhaps none at all, and I flatter myself by creating these fans that ‘harass me so’. We may never know; for intentions differ from execution, and words can only stimulate so much experience.

I digress. Slightly. What I mean to say is: write more, and of course we can hang out. There are no misgivings about friendship.You are always welcome to share your thoughts, opinions, musings… I wish my friends would share more of these things as easily as I might borrow their socks or share our food.