He tapdanced on a flattened cardboard box, that's what I remember. A skinny black man in a Santa hat, on the sidewalk of the Magnificent Mile. His boom box played carols with an electric beat and the crowd, too, was electric--expensive shopping bags in their hands, smiling for Christmas. A light snow was falling, and the big flakes and the lights
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Such beauty and optimism in this whole opening paragraph!
When, the night I set myself on fire, there was no-one to call, no-one I knew well enough to know their number.
Oh, how bleak and tragic this becomes. I worry that the first part is literal, and am pained that it ever got this bad.
I can love Chicago. I can leave Chicago.
Ouch. It must be really hard to go back, with all of these memories and some of the aspects of the city that haven't changed for you.
The three years I lived in Peoria, Chicago was a haven and I would happily have moved there. The cold in Illinois, though... I don't ever want to live in a climate like that again. Or in the Midwestern culture, which was its own kind of "cold" for an independent, feminist woman.
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I grew up in Florida, so the physical cold was what I noticed the most - now I want to read something from you about the other kind of cold. That's so interesting, and I'm glad you're out of it!
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At least two people I know have described Chicago as being "a party town". I suppose it can be, if you have the time and the money to spend on a party.
Then again, I am not now (nor have I ever been) a party animal. Which is probably why despite my saying on several occasions that I absolutely *MUST* visit Chicago some day, I probably never will...
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