this blog post is inspired by johns music blog's public listening series, where he goes to a place/event, describes what is happening, and what music they are playing.
once again i have underestimated the amount of time in which i can stand to be with my own thoughts without writing them out. i bought a small hand bound notebook with animal teeth printed on it. i think its my fourth or fifth of the year. chicago is nice. it’s hot and dresses like a european, except you can buy a hotdog and the art museum is really loud. logan square reminds me of london, a city im not sure if i like. i took the blue line there holding a loaned iphone, i feel like a kid on a field trip let out on a long leash. once in logan square, i find the usual suspects of a hipster neighborhood: the co-op is having a free feminist-punk-zine event. vintage store. overpriced dog groomer. cats in backpacks. record store. cafe mustache. an out of place mcdonalds (?). across the street, i keep walking.
with my new journal i take a seat in ‘the brewed’ coffee shop, which is connected to a record store, because of course it is.
gluten free brownie, $8 coffee. i feel like a tourist. i sit like a tourist. my ankles wrapped around the legs of the chair like i'm afraid of it being pulled out from under me. crossing my purse strap under my arm, gripping my camera for dear life. i understand the pull of chicago on those from neighboring cities, on people from madison. the black and white checkered tile is nauseating. my back hurts. i've been walking so slow. i’m staying in town with a friend, her parents' house is really nice. earlier today, i ditched my friends for the late day adult general admission ticket at the art institute. i got lost in the contemporary wing looking for the exit. i’ve got the picture of dorian grey in my purse and an empty bottle of advil. And now, a gluten free brownie and $8 coffee. i finally start writing.
upwards and onwards - orange juice we start off strong with a little known scottish punk song from '82. nothing about this place says '82. everything about it is mod-revival, vinyl-gripping, retro-addicted, in a new millenium way. bobble-heads and all. the cafe closes in an hour and a half, the baristas have already begun to pack up- they are wiping all the tables down, stacking some chairs in the corner. its really nice outside, so i can't blame them for being eager
numb - lost balloons theres a corgi in a red vest pawing at the door, a no dogs sign hangs above its head. i brainstorm a jerry seinfeld bit, this city has opened my third eye to a tight-five. everything i see and hear feels new and notable. lost ballons are signed to a milwaukee record label, dirt nap records. this song is really good.
the thing about madison, wisconsin is that the culture itself mimics the isthmus shape. madison often feels so small, that if i were to lay down, my head pointing towards the capital, my feet towards campus, i could reach my hands out and my fingers could trace the outlines of the lakes lining the city. maybe you try and get up, get outta dodge, and you find yourself with no where to go. one lake leads to another, one road back to the same bike lane snaking the main part of town, and every conversation leads to the same conclusion sung with raised eyebrows- small world! maybe i'm sick of a small world. of my hands doing laps in the shallow end. my backs getting sore with state street underneath me, and im starting to get claustrophobic. lying on a 2x4 waiting for the wind to blow some sense out of me.
ouija board ouija board - morrisey was not expecting morrisey to follow such a feel-good hit. this song sucks.
suedehead - morrisey someone please take the aux chord away from the morrisey obsessed barista.
hairdresser on fire - morrisey well this is one way to clear the store a few minutes before you close up shop. i pack up my purse with every i've bought, and a long list of to-dos and what-ifs and where-tos. if i keep writing i fear this will become a love letter to anyone but home, so i'll stop before i get enough energy to run.
ive been listening to imy3 alot. i tried to burn a CD, but forgot how many hoops you have to jump through. i never went to the library. i never finished the book. i dont know if i will; oscar wilde isn't doing it for me like i thought he would. i left my laundry in the broken dryer for 4 hours today and it was so hot by the time i took it out, it burnt my palms. im watching house. im doing my school project way too late. reading an internet uploaded jd salinger novel off my computer to try and fall asleep. its hot in wisconsin again. i turn down plans. i read the short story again. im lonely. i eat buttered bread and push off the feeling. cold shower, new words. my eyebrow piercing will have to come out soon.
goddamn it. im talking to myself again. maybe it's excusable, considering my state. an empty bottle hitting the rim of the bathroom garbage can, laying on the tile floor. bent over and spilled out. whatevers left is unusable, inexcessible. im banging it against the side of the shower wall to get the last of the shampoo out. smells like lavendar with nothing to show for it. there are like three restaurants open late in the city. this one plays nothing out of its speaker system. im contemplaiting the reality of the security camera. i should be thinking about things more; but i can't look him in the face without my mind going blank. when im alone, i don't think of him, i think of nothing. i get a soy iced latte and read the new yorker. leaning over the magazine i really soak up the fiction section, its the only thing i can stomach. i finally found the disc to the movie i checked out of the library six months ago, i think today i'll finally return it. if it's not one thing it's another. i take the garbage out. im getting sick of the three flights of stairs up and down to the dumpster, to the apartment. the can still smells rotted even with nothing in it, i push it out onto the balcony. i've got tv on in the background, i know its bad for me. i can't write anything interesting today, but that won't stop me.
"i think the problem with your generation is you think about yourselves too much. it's bound to drive you crazy." i order take out again, pushing off the grocery list, the laundry day, the parents visit. i'm reading oscar wilde and convincing myself i understand what love is and that i am able to discern a faithful adaptation. i hate every character.
"the two greatest causes of suffering in a persons life are love and death." is there (apart of) life without suffering, even if it's instantaneous? an experience loses its momentum, its purpose, if it is simply split up into little tiny segments. if the present is an instantaneous moment, one is bound to speak only of the past, or to lie about the future. i eat egg fried rice and remember that all of freshman year of college i ate the dining hall eggs without salt because i didn't know they stored it by the silverware.
this one might be a long one, but only if i'm lucky. last year on the fourth of july, i was dating a guy who hosted a barbeque at his house. i ate potato salad and drank a matcha lemonade that i brought over from work. i had worked a full shift before. i remember living my life like that. bringing only my favorite small purse out and about, then to his house, after what ever i was doing. I remember being ready to be unprepared and yet completely willing to spend the night. to fall asleep on the couch watching tv. to wake up unwashed and unbrushed and confused, to put on the clothes wrinkeled on the floor, the same socks i'd worn to work the day before. i just remember that feeling, being completely willing.
while no longer completely willing, i do still miss the summer before this one. playing cup-pong with people i'll never see again, holding hands in an over-airconditioned room, and eating gluten free pizza. being called the wrong name, and still being completely willing. jello-shots and hot-dogs and secret fireworks and skinny dipping and those busch lite cans with the corn kernels on them. learning guitar, cowboy chords, jazz vinyls flipping to the right side, to rhythm-a-ning, and awkward conversations over french dinners.
despite how much i do it, i don't love reminiscing. nastolgia is a sharp pain in my lower back that's kept me in bed all week. i wonder if i'll ever escape my deep hunger for the summer before. it's not special. i felt it last summer too– something unmoveable. memories like mountains, looming purple in the background. feeling so small, and calling an hour-drive short, turning 19 in a cowboy hat. i'll never play a worse game of pool in my life. i've never known so few people in a place i was so willing to call home.
a few more fourth of july's before this one, i'd like to think i had my first kiss. i'm not sure if that's true, but it doesn't really need to be. ontop of the ferris wheel as i remember. or maybe a friend had told me. or maybe i'd read it in a magazine, or a novel, or a song. either way i miss that summer before too. sparklers and big buckets of water on either end of the sidewalk to dunk them in when they burned close to our thumbs. my dog trying to eat a firework and burning his whiskers off. angel-food cake, whipped cream, and strawberries. blue icees and movie theater popcorn. skinned knees and sunburnt shoulders. sitting close together, far from our parents, at the park. thinking i was grown up in bermuda denim shorts and a tight tank top with the bra built in. i'm sure i had lost something that day, as i often do. i'm sure i wasn't worried about it.
on this fourth of july, i'm in bed with pain shooting down my back. my friends are playing pool down the street. some people light off fireworks in the parking lot across from my building, but only last a few minutes before the cops start yelling. i'm getting tired and i watch a movie in the dark. i'm thinking about the summer before and being completely willing. my back hurts. i'm happy with where i am.
