November 13, 2017

Sunny afternoon. I'm standing on the corner of Dearborn and Superior, looking up at the Poetry Foundation building I have just --accidentally-- come across with, a map in my hand. A guy comes up to me and makes conversation: am I having trouble getting around? Am I visiting? I tell him that I'm doing fine when his eyes suddenly tense up, fixed on me, nervous around my face and hands. Do I have two dollars he can have, or anything else on me...? I don't remember how much I gave him (not the full two dollars, though), nor anything else that he said. That was in the summer of 2012. Reading Sedaris' diaries, I was able to recall this. I was just going to the beach that day. It rained.


It's rare these days that I am reminded that Chicago is far more than the homely bungalows I tend to remember, the weird layout of my last bedroom there, the street across the quiet courtyard through the window, my eyes looking out longingly, for God knows what, through snow and heat.

I wonder if I'll ever set foot on Dearborn and Superior again. It would have been nice to actually visit the PF building that day.

It's been a while since I've been in real contact, in touch, with my memories and dreams.

Don't mind me -- I'm just thinking out loud right now.