I made it to Chicago relatively unscathed. The only casualties were a picture frame housing Carrie Fischer's autograph and a soup bowl. Not a bad body count for a fifteen hour trip of all my belongings (except the bed - it was either the bed or the books) crunched in the back of my stepfather's pick-up. So, I'm here perched on my inflatable bed looking out at fire escapes dimly lit and listening to the faint sounds of traffic further north.
My studio is twelve by fifteen, but I somehow seem to have nothing but space- like a shoebox that encompasses most of a lifetime. I walk up five flights of stairs and can see the lights of downtown, smell Lake Michigan, and repeatedly fall in love with the endless visage of opportunity. It seems that I have always been here in some metaphorical form or other. Maybe it's that sparrow my grandfather always talked about; and she finally flitted back to the big city with a powerful beak burgeoning with some strange new song.
It's rather lonely here on my second floor. Still. And I can hear everything all the way back home. It resonates on the breeze sifting through the windows. A music I've never been able to hear before. I suppose it's to be expected. A repose and chorus of memory that circulates through this small space. But it's still warm and I know I'll have trouble falling asleep.
People often write to remember, unearth what is hidden in lost caverns of the psyche, and then to forget. At least I do. But sitting here in Lincoln Park, I'm writing to discover. I haven't the slightest what I'm trying to find, but I'm almost certain there is something waiting, sparkling and pulsing, for me to uncover in these words.
My studio is twelve by fifteen, but I somehow seem to have nothing but space- like a shoebox that encompasses most of a lifetime. I walk up five flights of stairs and can see the lights of downtown, smell Lake Michigan, and repeatedly fall in love with the endless visage of opportunity. It seems that I have always been here in some metaphorical form or other. Maybe it's that sparrow my grandfather always talked about; and she finally flitted back to the big city with a powerful beak burgeoning with some strange new song.
It's rather lonely here on my second floor. Still. And I can hear everything all the way back home. It resonates on the breeze sifting through the windows. A music I've never been able to hear before. I suppose it's to be expected. A repose and chorus of memory that circulates through this small space. But it's still warm and I know I'll have trouble falling asleep.
People often write to remember, unearth what is hidden in lost caverns of the psyche, and then to forget. At least I do. But sitting here in Lincoln Park, I'm writing to discover. I haven't the slightest what I'm trying to find, but I'm almost certain there is something waiting, sparkling and pulsing, for me to uncover in these words.
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