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.

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.

embarrassing entertainment

One of my aunt's good friends is a board member of a small theater here in Chicago, which, for some reason, I'm going to leave unnamed, although the quality of its productions is unassailable. This kind lady decided to procure, unsolicited, two tickets to 9, their most recent musical endeavor and gave them to my aunt. My aunt asked me to come along, and I gladly agreed. However, when the day rolled around a few weeks ago, Becky was feeling tired and rather disinterested in a theatrical performance. She told me this a little before church, only a few hours before we were to be on our way towards the stage. It was my job to find someone, and quickly. My first thought was my friend Laura, but then I recalled she had some family thing going on--birthday, mom, something or other. I wasn't quite sure who else I could ask from my church. Quite honestly, I'm a bit nervous about inviting people from my new church to partake of modern media or culture. I don't know what they enjoy, what they consider frivolous, or scandalous. While mentally debating with myself, I thought, what the heck, I'll just mention it to Laura and see what she says. Little did I know how glad I would be when she said she would come along; her mom's birthday was going to be celebrated in the late evening.
We traversed to a particular yuppie neighborhood in downtown Chicago and enjoyed exploring its streets before the play because we were there pretty early. Unfortunately, we walked too far and had to book it back to the theater to get there on time--I took off my shoes and ran/walked real fast on the sidewalk. Laura and I slipped into our seats just as the director stepped on stage to begin introducing the play. I should have known something was up when I looked around and only saw one child--a girl of about 12 who was sitting with her mother.
The play is about a writer/director/actor/philanderer who finds himself in the midst of personal and professional crisis. Not only can he not commit to his wife because of the 8 other women lurking around the corner, he can't seem to pull together a movie for a writing/directing/acting contract that he signed without any ideas for said film. Yes, there are 9 women dressed in black whose presence is constant in nearly all scenes. After the first song, these women pulled away the white sheet covering a large object on stage to reveal a rather graphic painting of a completely naked woman. This painting remained on stage for the remainder of the play. But it gets worse.
A few songs into it, one of the 9, reclining in only her underclothing, is rolled on stage in an antique bathtub. She is on the phone with our hero, saying lots of--ahem--suggestive things. At one point in her monologue, a few of the other women came up and poured water all over her. It was ridiculous. Laura and I were rather embarrassed, evidenced by the fact that we kept laughing, hiding our eyes, and exchanging shocked looks. I can't imagine my reaction if I was with someone from my church, or, may God help us all, a boy. I probably would have covered my face the whole time, or his, and apologize profusely the entire time.
Fortunately, the play didn't sexually escalate from there. The tub scene was as bad as it got. The thing even had some therapeutic and moral conclusion. Good for it. Good for our morally degenerate hero.
The food afterwards helped to repair some of the mental scarring. Apparently Laura and I were two of the very few citizen patrons that day. It was the press opening, with over 100 newspapers, online journals, etc. represented there. We greedily partook of the black bean dip and little sandwiches.
Even better was meeting the musical director of the play, and seeing the actor who portrayed the object of the 9 women's affection. The latter was surprisingly shy and unslimy in real life. Ah well. It takes all kinds.
With the naked painted woman at our backs, and food goodies in our hands, Laura and I left this theater, graciously thanked my aunt's friend, and wondered at our luck, both in the opportunity to see the play, and also in attending with the right person.

Traveling thoughts

Today, while riding on the CTA, I wrote the following two first drafts of potential essays. It seems to be a somewhat metaphysically tinged day:

Getting ready for the day

Not unlike a machine of familiar kitchen necessity, I seem to only have two settings: clean or off. If I wake up in the morning and decide to present myself fresh and gleaming to the world, I do all that is possible to clear away the sleep, sweat, and imperfection from the day and night before. I scrub, moisturize, powder, and apply meticulous eyeliner. After these ablutions, I select clothing that suggests both non-chalance and polish. There is no turning back at this point. I must carefully pluck off lint, a stray eyelash on the cheek, and other unacceptable foreign objects.

As I stand at the drizzily train station, I firmly draw the top of each leather shoe against the back of alternate pant legs, sloughing off unwelcome rain water and flecks of gravel from the streets.

I fight the law of entropy, hoping that, in a few hours, I will win and look as clean as I do now. I may very well succeed, I determine, silently assessing the potential progress of the situation from my interview, to the CTA commute, to dinner at Wicker Park with my friend Laura.

I secretly hate that I care that, once prepared, I cannot allow myself to become rumpled. I am not like the sky blue plates in my kitchen, which come out of the dishwasher, are checked for remnants from previous use, and placed in dark cupboards. I venture to meet the world, one which leaves its indelible mark on you, no matter your pristine efforts.

On board with Keats

Nearly every literary personage who is worth his or her salt has recognized the reality of suffering in human existence, regardless of time, place, or economic circumstance. However, not all pay homage to the heightened pleasure of joy that is experienced after a particularly menacing bout of blackness. While I am no author, I join with the doomed Romantic poet, Keats, when his eternal pen scrawled the following lines:

"But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine..."

-"Ode to Melancholy" by John Keats

Once one has experienced the swirling, all-consuming, confusing black hole that is depression, the light at the end of the tunnel shines all the brighter. Perhaps that is why some who struggle with the stigmatized illness become manic for a few weeks in between the descending curtain of mental darkness. Damn. Who wouldn't stay awake for weeks, painting, singing, working in the garage to salvage and hoard bits of life before they are plunged back into self-hatred, listlessness, and acceptance of a dusky lens upon the outer world of normalcy?

I have been so fortunate as to not know the threat of unending cycles of sadness. One round was enough for me. The emotional intensity of those few weeks mimicked electroshock therapy to my brain. It has now been trained to vomit back all absurd feelings of worthlessness. I no longer allow them to penetrate past the first door in the long and twisting hall of my psyche. Quite honestly, I have known enough of depression to not care if the thought of having nothing to offer is true. I would rather delude my neurons with past successes and memories rife with overly inflated self-esteem.

The sheer joy prompted by such mental gymnastics transforms my vision until, may Ezra Pound rest in peace, I don't merely see "petals on a wet, black bough" in a rainy train station. It is as if I flick back an opaque second eyelid, similar to an amphibious reptile, like a frog or crocodile, and see the world for both its beauty and ugliness. I see other passengers on the journey we all must take, waiting to get somewhere, see someone, and savor the sweet aloneness of a slow trip along the rails. The rain that falls steadily today is intended to drip through the dirty floorboards of the platform and quench the thirst of the soil beneath the bare trees on the street, the solid wooden beings whose limbs burgeon spring leaves, flowers, and the promise of home to small birds returning after their escape from the harsh, frigid Chicago winters.