(no subject)
As of today, I have been living in Chicago for five months. It is strange that I haven't set foot anywhere outside of Illinois in that long. I've barely even left the city limits, and still, there is so much I haven't seen, done, or tried.
Most of the time I really do love it here. Sometimes I wish it was smaller, or less expensive, but I'm doing well and saving money and meeting new people. Most of them are three or four years old, but they're people too. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss adult contact so much, though. I miss conversations. Not that Kate or our roommate Mark don't do a great job of keeping me sane, getting me drunk, or watching films or talking about the news, I just miss so many people in general. Normalcy. I miss Von, and Becca, Jordan, and Chris a lot. New York, Italy, Amsterdam and Paris, is where they all are. So glamorous. Geez. I still think Chicago is a diamond ring.
Our place is perfect. It's not too big or small, and we get copious amounts of light in the living room. I have a million plants around. It's usually pretty neat, but not so neat that it is creepy. I love watching our cat, Ira, run and slide across the hall on the wood floors, hind legs all in a scuffle tripping underneath his belly. I crack up every time. The records and books stacked up keep us occupied, and even though I have less time than ever, I write in my journal more than ever. I think I remember someone telling me this summer that when you start working for someone else instead of yourself, you suddenly have more energy than ever imaginable. I think that is probably true.
The best part about living here is the book club I'm in. A bunch of futurist thinking, left wing ladies in a warm, cozy third floor apartment in Logan Square talk about books and feminist theory for a couple hours every other Sunday or so. Somebody always cooks something good. I felt so happy at the first meeting I cried on the way home. How many times do we cry because we are actually happy? What a small, silly thing- seven or eight or nine girls sitting on low end recycled furniture talking, making my life. How many times in your life does anything actually feel right? Without question?
This morning I woke up and got the paper. I did the dishes and made coffee. Simple, little life. Everyone works so hard, and for what? Conviction gets lost in the mix so quickly sometimes. Can we ever thank our mothers for what they've done for us? I want to see everyone that I love at once, and somehow still not feel overwhelmed, just overjoyed.
Most of the time I really do love it here. Sometimes I wish it was smaller, or less expensive, but I'm doing well and saving money and meeting new people. Most of them are three or four years old, but they're people too. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss adult contact so much, though. I miss conversations. Not that Kate or our roommate Mark don't do a great job of keeping me sane, getting me drunk, or watching films or talking about the news, I just miss so many people in general. Normalcy. I miss Von, and Becca, Jordan, and Chris a lot. New York, Italy, Amsterdam and Paris, is where they all are. So glamorous. Geez. I still think Chicago is a diamond ring.
Our place is perfect. It's not too big or small, and we get copious amounts of light in the living room. I have a million plants around. It's usually pretty neat, but not so neat that it is creepy. I love watching our cat, Ira, run and slide across the hall on the wood floors, hind legs all in a scuffle tripping underneath his belly. I crack up every time. The records and books stacked up keep us occupied, and even though I have less time than ever, I write in my journal more than ever. I think I remember someone telling me this summer that when you start working for someone else instead of yourself, you suddenly have more energy than ever imaginable. I think that is probably true.
The best part about living here is the book club I'm in. A bunch of futurist thinking, left wing ladies in a warm, cozy third floor apartment in Logan Square talk about books and feminist theory for a couple hours every other Sunday or so. Somebody always cooks something good. I felt so happy at the first meeting I cried on the way home. How many times do we cry because we are actually happy? What a small, silly thing- seven or eight or nine girls sitting on low end recycled furniture talking, making my life. How many times in your life does anything actually feel right? Without question?
This morning I woke up and got the paper. I did the dishes and made coffee. Simple, little life. Everyone works so hard, and for what? Conviction gets lost in the mix so quickly sometimes. Can we ever thank our mothers for what they've done for us? I want to see everyone that I love at once, and somehow still not feel overwhelmed, just overjoyed.