This past winter, I was walking around in the snow one night by myself, wandering aimlessly. The sky was orange as usual, and the ground had a blanket of slush on it. I had just left a colleague's house after watching "Singing in the Rain" on a projector screen with a few others. I decided to take a detour on the way home, as Palmer Square has a gravity to it that pulls you in when you circle around it. I continued to wander and eventually, I didn't really know where I was going. I think I was walking back home. At this time of the year, the sun was going down around 4 o'clock and there wasn't much to do but sleep and drink all day. Well, there were other things to do, but that's pretty much how I spent my days in the winter...
As I was walking, a strange feeling quickly sunk in and I became even more lost. My breathing picked up quickly, and I could feel the alcohol making me go mad. It was as if I had stepped on a rusty nail, and a hypochondriac frenzy immediately set it. It was the orange night sky, the white blanket across the ground, the dry unforgiving air that was like razors against your knuckles and needles in your lungs - the emptiness of night time in Chicago on a cold February night. It started getting to me, as it always does. Every year. I didn't think that I was going to keep it together before I got home. And as I crossed the street, I found a vine of fake flowers. I picked them up and brushed the snow off. They were very nice flowers, as they seemed to have more life than myself at the time. They somehow quickly neutralized me as I began to wonder where they came from and who they may have once belonged to. I made a little place on my desk for them to always remind me of that night.
A couple of months ago, I was walking around downtown and saw a tour bus full of war veterans. They were on an open air trolley, and none of them were taking pictures. Most of them were nodding off as the vehicle made its way around the landmarks. They were all wearing their hats, with decorations labeling which battalion or battleship they had served on. I imagine there were probably a few who were having a hard time keeping it together.
Before I went to go see one of my favorite bands a couple of weeks ago, I had to withdraw some money so that I could buy my ticket off of someone. There were no banks near by or ATMs. I did pass a Chinese carry out joint that had that distinctive green neon A T M sign in the window and pulled off my bike. As I locked it up and quickly walked to the door, I couldn't help but to notice all of the blood on the ground. There was a lot. The man at the counter looked at me with a blank stare. I asked what had happened, if someone got stabbed. He said, "Yes, yes. You use ATM machine?" And I asked if it would be ok. He said that it was ok, so I walked through the puddle of thick blood to use the machine and walked out. I noticed that I left a couple of footprints behind. The man at the counter didn't mind, he had no problem keeping it together.
I saw a homeless man one time laying in the grass, rolling around. It looked like he may have been dying - not that anyone would have cared. He had white pants on, with a brown stain going all the way down his pant leg. He was clearly having a hard time keeping it together.
I once crossed paths with an opossum on the sidewalk one night. I made an awkward noise and jumped. It didn't even notice me.
And so now, I find myself in yet another basement. It's in a different place clearly, but yet the lingering feeling of persistent purgatory has followed. I've met some nice people, they tell me that I don't look like I'm from here. I've learned to take it as a compliment.
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