Now He's Miles Away and Casting Stones

Watching Me Fall

Uptown

You Are Safe

Sunday is full of empty rituals, but now, as a single woman living alone in the big city, mine include drinking cups of coffee and succumbing to exhausting bouts of soul searching while fulfilling a variety of standard domestic activities. I’ll do some laundry and wash some dishes and sit in the silence of my third floor apartment and feel no shame. There’s no one to watch over me or out for me. There’s no one to tell me that I’m wrong, that they know better, that I’ve made my choices and now I have to sit with them and wait until everything feels better and different.

When I was younger, my dad always said he had eyes in the back of his head. And I reluctantly believed him. Just like I believed that shaking a gallon of milk before pouring it made it taste better. Just like I believed that Courtney Love killed Kurt Cobain. Just like I believed that brunettes were more attractive than blondes and that a woman’s long, straight hair was her best asset. Just like I believed that mom was never ever right or any fun at all — she was always five fucking hundred million miles away. My dad would sit in front of the TV on Sunday afternoons and loudly support his losing football team while also knowing, without looking, when Shannon and I were acting recklessly on the front porch behind him. Sitting on the wobbly banister or chipping away at the old paint with our fingernails. Or fraternizing with the boys and girls across the street. He didn’t need to see it to know that we were wrong and he was right. When learning that I had concocted an elaborate lie to tell my second grade teacher in order to avoid lunch-time detention, he scolded me quietly, sitting up in his blue recliner, his sad brown eyes fixed in utter disappointment that his perfect straight-A daughter was, in fact, deceptive — an ornery little sneak, just like him. And despite the hours of scrubbing to erase my clumsy mistake, he loudly berated me when a bottle of my red nail polish spilled over into the cream-colored bath tub at age nine. I should’ve never tried painting my nails in the house because he hated the toxic smell and the idea of me trying to grow up too quickly. He saw behind closed doors and threw tantrums when I started dating boys with long curly rock-and-roll hair. He hated when I wore dark blue eyeshadow and looked so utterly depressive, whoreish, teenage, typical. He hated when I stopped eating meat, and when I cut my long hair shorter and shorter and totally abandoned my best asset. He fumed and fussed when I wanted to drive his old car to school for an ounce more of independence. He hated how I stole his old CDs and tucked them away, not so secretly, into my own collection, like an ornery little sneak. He didn’t listen to them anymore and he had too many CDs. He hated that, as I grew older, I always had to be right and fought him to the bloody and bitter end to prove the pettiest points — because he was always right. And he had eyes in the back of his head.

Spirit of the Rising Sun Lift Me Up

I've lived on the lake (well, two blocks away and alongside) for two years, but this past Saturday, for the first time, I made my way slightly south to the water (flat tire + sleepy eyes and all) to see the sunrise. Seems appropriate for a lot of reasons, but I'll let the photos speak this time.

We All Feel Better in the Dark

Summer's Gone

Salonica

The Medici

For Sunday brunch, I had a tomato, spinach, and feta cheese omelette with fried potatoes and cinnamon toast with white raisins. If you're in Hyde Park, I highly recommend dining at this lovely two-story restaurant/bakery. I love discovering beautiful places in my neighborhood.

Leaves That Are Green

I was 21 years when I wrote this song
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with love of a girl
I held her close, but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither with the wind
And they crumble in your hand
- Paul Simon

Been Around the Front, Been Around the Back

It's comforting to step outside your door and find a photograph (and your best friend) there waiting for you.

Running to Stand Still

I went for a walk yesterday. It was the first time I had been outdoors in over 48 hours.

I have been a bit of a hermit, much to my dismay. It makes me angry with myself. I am disappointed with my lack of energy, but I've been terribly lonely. I suppose I should allow myself to feel that loneliness without scolding myself for it. I hate the guilt that comes with taking time out for yourself... time to melt into the covers of your bed to shut out the sights and sounds of the world. But it does feel nice when you come out on the other side. That isn't to say that my loneliness has dissipated completely, but it is hard to feel alone sitting along Lake Michigan, watching the hustle and bustle of the happy waves... and there is some benevolent force... just this feeling of relief from the universe... like everything is okay.

Like there aren't enough silly little pictures to illustrate what I really see.

Lines of Influence

Another week down in the Chi, residing in the building pictured first. I've battled loneliness, boredom, heat, hunger, exhaustion, frustration, insomnia, and paranoia. All in low to moderate doses. Resulting in a draw toward images like the last. Last week was my slump, but I seem to have come out of it.

That is, despite discovering that I accidentally overwrote portfolio and personal work from fall and winter of this past school year. Poof. Gone from my external hard drive. Gone forever. I tried, for the past twenty-four hours, to recover the lost goods, but to no avail. I might have spent $99 doing so. What a waste. Such things always make my heart heavy. But I suppose there's nothing to do but move on, and keep moving, and keep moving...

Today was sort of a "pivotal" day in my petty young life three years ago. I always stop for a moment to respectively pay homage to the past. I could give you more of an elaboration, but, instead, I'll maintain my allure by avoiding specifics. I will say that I often refer to Oasis's "Champagne Supernova" when revisiting memories of former fondness. "How many special people change, how many lives are living strange?"

Maybe those words are more about me than they are about anyone from my past.