More stories

I observed/experienced some rather strange things today on the 7:58 Purple Line to the Loop. Most mornings I am only too happy to get on the train. I'm already listening to either Justin Timberlake or the London Philharmonic Orchestra (no joke), so I typically feel good about settling down to people-watch, eat my yogurt, and listen to music. Today I was tired though. I barely got through the train doors before they closed, stumbled over to my seat, flopped down quite noisily, and began to quiet myself down again. The morning is often punctuated by intense periods of stress, followed by stretches of boredom. I was just drifting off to sleep when a man on the train came up behind me and hit me in the head with his paper. OK. I guess that's hyperbole. He brushed me with his paper, but he very obviously awoke me. I wanted to be all like "Don't be brushin' me wit yo newspaper at 8 o'clock in the mornin'. Ain't you got no sense?" (He was white, so I felt that this might have taken him aback.) Fortunately, I was able to let it go and fall back asleep.

At Fullerton, however, I was roused once again, this time by the sound of yelling. The train was packed already, and the large crowd waiting on the platform at that stop didn't help matters. I guess a man and woman from said crowd were both attempting to claim the same tiny, one-person space left in the front of my car. The man made it, and the woman didn't. I don't exactly know what happened to make it so. The woman wasn't giving up, however. Passengers could hear the train doors trying to close, over and over, as the woman yelled at the man, accusing him of pushing her out of the way. Instead of being gracious, the man took an attitude and tone of superiority, refused to allow her into the train, and yelled, "Hey look, call the police. Don't make accusations." Other passengers exonerated him once the doors closed and the train moved on. All the white people unite together to defend the man's right to speak to the loud black woman in such a way. But the people seated around me were quiet; from my perspective, the tensions were racially charged, both the woman against the man, and vice versa. I doubt either of them intended them to be so, or even realized it, but I'm surmising that the woman was feeling a sense of oppression, and the man, a realization of power, superiority over, as if they were tapping into parts and lines that have been written for them previously in our country's long and complex history of racial tensions. But I'm going much too far in my narrative. I was only intending to describe the encounter. Onto something a bit lighter:

Because I wasn't really able to sleep after the commotion, I pulled out of copy of StreetWise from my bag and began perusing it. As I looked up, I saw a young guy looking at me from across the train. And then, he winked at me. I became rather embarrassed and immediately became fixated on my paper. How rude, I thought. How awkward, I thought. What is the point of doing that? I wondered. A few minutes later, I looked again, only to discover that said winking man actually had some kind of facial tic that looked like a genuine wink. I almost burst out laughing, wished that he was close enough so that I could share the joke. "Tsk, tsk" to my own vanity, I say.

untitled

I have determined that this post will be the locale for very brief revelations/observations/events from my everday life. Enjoy/Loathe:

-After a particularly shitty day, a little bit of gospel music goes a long way.

-I now feel comfortable labeling myself as a writer, a pianist, and a singer. This is a relatively new development. Prior to two or three months ago I would say, "I sing sometimes," or "I like writing things down," or "I used to take piano lessons and I still enjoy sitting down to the instrument." Label it as negligible semantics, but I feel that this transition is significant.

-Although I rarely crossed words with boys, other than male professors, in college, and almost NEVER in the library, two men have now given me their numbers in two different libraries. I might as well keep a running tally.

-Last week I started keeping lists of places I want to visit in the city--these are mostly restaurants, clubs, and boutiques, but I'm open to suggestions for museums, etc. Top on my list right now: Kingston Mines and Fifty/50. There aren't enough weekends in the year.

-I sang two songs from Les Miserables at a piano bar this past weekend. I'm quite shy about singing, but I actually had a good time doing it.

-Between contacting CSO donors and observing on the train, I'm beginning to mentally chart the progression from college boy to committed professional man. It starts with the clothes, the large watch, continues with the adoption of an assuming air, self-assured voice, and concludes with a month long pass on the Metra and frightening hoarding of time, typically expressed by gesture, facial expression, or verbal protest, "I'm a very busy man. I'm always very busy." If a man is so unfortunate as to reach this last level, all around him, indeed, even his family, feel guilty for stealing even five minutes of his golden, precious time. As much as I don't mind men with style, I wish I could tell some of them to return the Italian leather shoes, wrist bling, and Jack Spade bags...give it to charity and learn to waste your time.

poetry training

While walking around at Looptopia, I told my friend Brian that I no longer write poetry, as evidenced by the absence of the proliferation of any lines of verse from my brain for at least a year. It's funny how things come back to you when you don't seek them out. I hope that truth applies to other areas of life.

Written on the train across from a man with a guitar and a black parole anklet

Underneath our sundry and subconscious
efforts at suppression--
the clean, pressed clothes over lithe body--
the soft, relaxed mouth and brow--
the familiar laugh offered freely in conversation--
underneath these resigned--but focused, even friendly--efforts,
there is the omnipresent kernel of loneliness,
the seed that showers, overwhelms the body
and the soul with its spores
at moments when we...when I, least expect.

As I look out the window, cross the street, say goodbye
to the neighbor children, I suddenly see
my cool confidence for what it is--a non-chalant--
breezy--excusing--but ever desperate attempt to paper over
what lurks beneath--a suspicion, an ache, a metaphysical
knowledge that this has all been done before,
that something is missing--a striking clue,
a lovingly constructed piece, a simple and sweet experience
that would allow a rich, soothing wholeness, like red
wine drenching the throat, and heart, and brain.

Even though I sit on the train alone,
I see young women like myself
whose arms are caressed, and ears kissed
with devoted professions by the kind man
beside them. And even then (always even, but, yet),
behind the eyes, there is a lack, an undefinable, still apparent
gap between the moment and what I imagine completeness to be.

How shall I strip away such oblivion, both for myself
and others...if I were to uncover this sad solitude,
expose it always for what it is, would it go
away, or only proliferate with silent, square-jawed vengeance?
And yet--and yet--if I smooth earth over its jagged seed, forget
its presence altogether, I am afraid that,
on an unforeseen and ordinary day, some brown tendril of vine
will thread its way up my ankle until I am overtaken,
rendered powerless to it, forced to surrender myself
to its constant, obvious, and painful presence.

Or shall I place it in a jar by the door, with proper homage
paid to Lennon's Ms. Rigby, and give it air
and light on occasion, turn it over in my hand,
examine its miniscule crests and crevices
until I feel that I know it thoroughly--
until I feel that I can put away
the furrowing, stinging pit--nauseous--when I choose.

library adventures

Life is becoming increasingly hectic, which requires me to up my intentionality in regard to blogging. I cannot simply allow it to happen when it will. I schedule it, place it upon my list, and log onto public library computers fo an hour with the express purpose of hammering something out. In case you need an extra hint, the latter item on that list of three happens to be the activity of which I am currently partaking. Here is the issue, however: I generally prefer themed, semi-focused writing, so I cannot simply slap all my thoughts down. So I'm selecting the topics that will produce the most volume of writing first, then moving onto the others second. Coming soon: experiences at Looptopia, thoughts on Chicago, an exposition on my personal development, and maybe even some thoughts on love, a topic upon which I am sorely underqualified to discuss. But discuss it, I shall. For today though, I will only venture to extend my commiserations on my ever-deepening relationships with libraries. My iPod is playing Enya, I am focused, I am coffeed, and I am ready to go.

My facebook status currently reads: "Elizabeth Tatum now owns three library cards...absolute perfection." I thought of typing "absolut perfection" instead to draw parallels between the drowsy loveliness of drinking some form of alcohol and the pleasure of libraries. But that is an unnecessary segue. And no, to answer your burning question, my status does not lie. I have a card for a library in Pennsylvania, one for a great branch in a northern suburb of Chicago, and, as of today, a white and green beauty which allows me access into any library in the Chicago Public system. The only response to this new development is a slow closing of the eyes and a contented sigh. How am I, Elizabeth Tatum, so fortunate as to be bestowed with the freedom to explore, rifle through, watch, and check out literally millions of media items of all kind? This, I cannot answer.
A friend of mine, whose penchant to party is about a 9 of 10 on a penchant to party scale, wrote to me, informing me that owning three library cards screams, "Mz. Frizzle is my role model." I wrote back reminding him of the fact that, only two weeks earlier, I was dancing in a club to hip-hop music after consuming one, and only one, alcoholic beverage. I didn't even need the drink. I can break it down any ol' time I want. I responded to his wall post with the following comment: "I am no Mz. Frizzle. And if I am, I am the freaky Mz. Frizzle." I only relate this interaction to you to quell the fears that are no doubt welling up in you over my frighteningly close resemblance to all librarian stereotypes. Whatever.
I discovered the library in which I am now enjoying part-time residence because of a stop on the train. Yes, that's right. There is a stop on the CTA called "Library." Sometime I will get a picture next to it. This is not a front, people. I really like libraries. It is an absolutely impeccable boyfriend, or even friend, substitute. It is impossible to feel alone while at a library. Not only are there other patrons about you at all times, but there are spades of words, and pages, and volumes that communicate human wisdom, and stupidity, through the ages. Ah. But I continue to digress instead of actually communicating what I intended to:
About a week ago I alighted from the train at said Library stop, and made my way into the Harold Washington Library at State and VanBuren. It may not be architecturally astounding on the inside, but my mind and mouth were hushed by its nine levels, unending hallways of marble, and floors dedicated to literature and the performing arts. I didn't ask for any map. That is something the old Elizabeth would have done. Now I wander at random, not caring for time, or structure, or getting lost. After I discovered floor 7, home to literature and literary studies, I was about to descend to the ground floor, when I noticed that the 8th floor featured visual and performing arts. I found that not only do they have every piece of sheet music imaginable, they also house piano practice rooms and a chamber music room. The former are open at all times, and the latter has to be reserved with four people 24 hours in advance. I went into room B with an upright Baldwin and spent a good hour and a half singing along to my iPod, favorite Broadway ballads, and rediscovering some of my favorite works: a Waltz by Chopin, an Invention by Bach, a modern piece with an impressive sounding (but easy) cadenza, and a Sonata by Beethoven. As I walked out of the room, I was so happy I could hardly stand it. Does this ever happen to anyone else? The feeling that you should go run a marathon, without doing any training whatsoever? Perhaps I need to take some medication to calm down.
Actually though, I was sobered up by a few things on the way out of the library. While walking through one of the long marble hallways, I came across a clear bottle lying on the floor. I picked it up and saw the name of a famous vodka maker. If I was a lush, I would have opened it up to extract the last 0.5 ounces of liquid from it. As my general drink to time ratio is about a pint of beer to two hours, I didn't feel comfortable taking a swig, all hygenic objections aside. Also, as I emerged from the bathroom on the 8th floor, I saw a sign which made me laugh, and just as suddenly, feel rather strange as to the original cause of it. It said something like this: "Occupancy is limited to one person per stall. Violators will be fined." I get excited about libraries, but not that kind of excitement, people. Apparently having sex in library bathrooms is on the rise. Those of us who see it as abhorrent may be part of a shrinking minority.
But my stories are not even finished. Further proof of the library's status as a relational hotspot revealed itself as I sat by myself at a four person table, continuing my slow and painful reading of Shake Hands with the Devil, an account of the Rwandan genocide. Correct me if I'm wrong, but typically people enjoy being alone at libraries. Sitting by yourself at a table implies the desire to be undisturbed. However, some poor guy was blind to such obvious social cues and tried to pick me up. That's right. No guy has ever offered me his number, or asked for mine, until one day at the library. How depressing. He came over to me, slid me a piece of paper and said, "Here. I'd like to give you my number." I hardly looked up from my book and mumbled, "Um. OK." He curved his body down to look at my face and said, "What's your name?" I told him, again avoiding eye contact. He said, "Well, it doesn't really seem like you're interested." My response: "No, not really. Thanks anyway." To give the kid credit though, he had guts, and he even spoke with a library appropriate voice. Too bad. Too sad. I felt bad about my response to him about thirty seconds later and wanted to run after him to make reparations. But he would have taken any further interaction as positive feedback, which I did not want. I should have at least lauded Suitor x for being gutsy though. Oh well.
Now, this doesn't mean that I'm opposed to meeting boys in a library. I would probably just want to orchestrate it differently.
These library adventures may continue, I think. Currently, while writing this blog, I am fending off a crazy who has been following me around. So far this week, I have gotten attention from two drunk, mid-thirtyish construction workers on the train, and a crazy man at the library. Save me from myself. Maybe it has to do with the damn library. Maybe it has to do with a new phenomenon that involves scary men pursuing weird women who like hanging out at libraries. Well, if it does, I guess I'll just have to start carrying mace or beef up my arms or learn really intimidating sounding expletives...because I'm not giving it up.