michigan avenue

A few weeks ago, I managed to procure a small, faux leather writing notebook. I plan to occasionally transfer writings from it to this little blog, although, granted, what I pen in a writing notebook may be a tad more personal than what I have been posting. However, have no fear: I do not plan to become one of those blathering bloggers who uses the internet as a tool to express angst, insecurity, or other sentiments that they would never express to other people. I consider my blog readers, few though they may be, to be on approximately a "middle friend" basis. This means that those who read what I write here will be privy to thoughts that I would not share with an acquaintance; however, do not assume that I reach the same depth in my ramblings here that I would while out to dinner with a close friend. It just won't happen. If it does, I need to be checked, maybe even clotheslined.
I wrote the following while chilling at the Caribou Coffee on Michigan Avenue.


I have been walking too far today. Getting lost in the crowds on Michigan Avenue on a spring day, rediscovering warmth with the thousands who now eagerly rush to meet the day--it is good for the soul, but as with any activity pursued too long, it can overwhelm and exhaust. This is mostly why I am sitting here with book, notebook, and pen, not speaking to the person who is sitting across from me. The raw, inarticulate emotion of the afternoon accumulates in me until I must take moments to refine it, carve out phrases, and smooth the rough surfaces of experience and memory. That's why I have to write something down.
I have been reading Garcia Marquez' brilliant novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude. The first time I read it, I was something like 13 or 14. Thematically, stylistically, and symbolically, I probably understood less than fifty percent of it then. That is why I brought it to the check-out counter at the library early this week. I want to experience it again and gather what I can.
As I read, I was overtaken with the simple, sweet contentment that only a good book can provide. I leaned forward in my seat, parallel to the large window next to me, as if to more physically know the words of Marquez that caress the pages with the enchanting and fantastical objectivity of magic realism. And while leaning over my book, I happened to glance out of the window. In an unanticipated moment of revelation, I looked outside and I saw spring flower before me with all of the immediacy of a Narnian melt. It was as if I hadn't noticed before. I saw the tulips extend their petals above the ugliness of the concrete and the delicate white cherry blossoms curtain the trees in the park across the street. It all makes me draw in my breath with both rapidity and gentleness.
I wish that someone would look at me in the way I look at the fresh beauty of spring. Although I am generally content as I am, there are times when I wish it was different. Sometimes feeling both beautiful and alone is positively bittersweet. If no one hears the tree fall, it makes no sound. And if no one sees me as I walk along the sidewalk with both my scarf and hair softly brushed by the wind, then I am not beautiful, and effort is a waste.