$780 per month. One bedroom.
I’m going to break this housing contract, whether Loyola likes it or not. Deal with it

She haunts your waking moments, your dreams, your nightmares. You wish she was there to soothe them, even though it’s her face you see in your eyes as you are thrown awake by the cold sweat dripping off your face, down your neck, pooling somewhere beneath you. You see her in every woman you pass on the train. Her hair, shining just down the platform; her legs, walking briskly, dancing through the streets; her eyes, behind you in the mirror. Her back, so lovely, in line at the deli. She is the ghost of everything you every wanted in life. She is perfection.

Now if only you could get her, keep her and make her yours. You see her, wearing one of those pretty sundresses, standing at a front door, watching the children play in the yard. You see her cooking, your hands sliding around her waist by way of greeting. You see her pretty, pregnant with your child and glowing. You watch your lives meld together, backward, from growing old to growing close. You watch from the steps of the nursing home, as she is wheeled toward you, arms outstretched. You watch as you sit uncomfortably on a picnic blanket in the middle of that park she loves because you’ve let her rest her head in your lap for a sunny afternoon nap. As you imagine, you hear her laugh, and it brings you back. Instead you see her every now and then, and pray she glances your way. You wish so desperately to hold her, to have her next to you, but instead she’s always too far away. She’s laughing, you know, becuase you’re watching. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are closed, her mouth open in a wide smile.

You hate her for being so damn happy, don’t you?You’ve never said anything, have you?You sit and wait, debating what words should pass through your lips and become sweet music in the air before they hit her hears and astound her. You practice, you have done it a million times, you have the witty banter planned out in your head.But she walks past, her concentration buried somewhere else, and you’ve lost your chance.Now what?

One day it’s too late. Your eyes are gleaming with gentle anticipation, your mind fresh with imagined conversation. You smell good, you know it. You look good, you hope. You match, at least. And as she walks her normal route, suddenly she does not walk alone. Her fingers are twisted with another’s. She’s laughing, having the conversation you wish you’d have started months ago. She’s smiling; her head is thrown back in delight. She sees you, finally, catches your eye, and smiles.

And that’s all you get. Somehow, it’s enough to keep her alive in your mind.

****
Apartment hunting began today. We will be able to get a two bedroom (possibly with utilities included for less than $1000 per month.) I have a friend who lives in Wrigleyville, and he pays $755 for a studio no bigger than my dorm room now. Three friends who live in Andersonville pay $750 per person per month to live in an awesome three bedroom, but we wouldn’t expect anything that nice. Rogers Park is a relatively lower-priced area.
Lord & Taylor is closing on Michigan Ave. I got a velvet dress, and a cotton one for $20 total. (They were 80% off the lowest ticketed price.) And…we bought a giant Armani ad and a Polo ad for $10 each to put in our apartment/dorm/living space next year.

The evening wore on,
after a day of frenzied cleaning,
games, movies, conversation,
drifted on and on.
A knock at the door,
people coming in.
Shaking hands, smiling.
Taking slow sips of drinks we’d conjured
out of freezers and imaginations,
we slowly moved toward madness,
the kind of fire and spirit.
Bottles of all sorts cluttered around
the deck of cards spread out on the table,
and I reached for something,
knocking liquid onto them.
“That’s the end of the game,”
the soggy cards cried.
We chatted, chatted, shared, compared, our own lives,
and the states we live in.
They share a different perspective.
Art school.
We smile; we shook hands.
We watched the movie we chose for a game.
Blood, swords, a fierce heroine
seeking revenge.
After a long walk, they left,
and I reached for my phone to call for company.
I drifted off to sleep,
wishing for the sound of his voice,
knowing it couldn’t happen.
I woke as the covers were lifted
off of my tired body,
and his voice was suddenly in my ear,
his hands pushed my body
over to the other side.
Nestled into a place neither of us belonged,
I opened my eyes, finally realizing it was him,
after moments of confusion.
He smiled, and I shook myself awake.
I ran out with a question, shaking her awake.
Explicit moments later,
I awoke, as light begged entrace
to our cave.
The cat was curled up at my side,
snuggled into me, as I was him.
We made quite a scene, I thought,
as my body begged
my brain for water and relief.
I realized he had drifted off,
with my blankets over his tired body.
I pulled, waking him,
and he pulled me back toward him.
He tasted of the morning,
but soon of me,
and my own morning
breath drawn in sharply,
my eyes closed for a moment,
feeling softness, warmth, comforted.
I was elected to run
out for breakfast,
bringing food back into the house
that keeps us willing prisoners
day after day.
Movies flashed on the screen,
I slept alone that afternoon,
tired and thinking,
half watching the bowling
championships on tv.
It was comfortable
time spent wasted.
Drawn out were the hours
that seemed as though they had
or could
become days.
But they won’t. Shame.

She lays on the couch in an apartment that doesn’t belong to her, and she wonders what she’ll do. She left her own a week ago, disillusioned by high hopes of living alone in the city, she’s decided to pay a friend to sublet a couch for awhile.
She slides out the front door before anyone is awake; she doesn’t want to disturb any sleep with her senseless leaving. The sky is gray, overcast with the threat of rain, yet she walks wearing only her pale sundress and sandals. She shivers, feeling rain hit her hair and shoulders. Her hair hangs down her back, stringy and dull, and as she walks she pushes it back with her hand.
A dog sits in the yard that she left, puzzled by her sudden exit, but all too soon he has forgotten her for the scent of another.
Her walk seems endless; how far was it again? she wonders, picking up the pace. There is a time limit to these things. The day is slipping from her already, the sun threatening to peek out from behind buildings and skyscrapers any minute now.
Back in the darkened apartment, the shades are thrust open and the day is welcomed. The inhabitants move about their routines as if they knew nothing else but the motions. Their eyes are dull.
She noticed that last night, as they were sitting around. Coffee cups lay scattered on the coffee table, among packs of cigarettes and an ashtray or two. Her eyes never left his face, but he didn’t notice. He watched the girl in the corner; he watched her every move. And she noticed, feeling her heart fill up with tears that would never come. They sipped hot drinks and made cool conversation, the motions of any social gathering set. As night drifted off, the guests made their exit. They were the last to go. He slipped his hand up to hold her back, finding the natural curve and moving in. She felt her spirit crack, then, and she busied herself in the clean up that she did not want to do.
She lay there, tucked away for the night, and imagined his face. And hers was suddenly wet with hot tears, blown cool by the air. She saw the girl: blond hair falling on a perfect pink cheek, blue eyes bright with laughter, small hands clasping the coffee cups and cookies. She swore she saw the girl’s finger extended in some sort of class-traversing motion. She thought of the girl’s sweet nature, the way the girl had told her it was “nice to meet you” before stealing him away out the door, the way the girl had thanked her for a lovely evening.
She lay there and she cried until she was clean enough to take the world again, and then she left.
They found the note later, too late, as it always goes. It was written hastily, a scribble on the back of a paper for an old college class.
And as they are reading it, clutching the note in their worried hands, she is running toward her goal. She vaults off the rocks beautifully, opening her arms to her fate. The cold spray hits her face, stinging her eyes, but she keeps them open, watching the gulls and the fish twist together as the waves overtake her fragile body. She floats as though sleeping on air, hair out behind her, dress billowing in the water. They never figured out why, nor how, she did it. They never found her. Still, she floats like the fish she always wanted to be, swimming aimlessly from place to place in her own little sea.

Record setting temperatures. 73 degrees on Tuesday. We spent the day at the beach, walking and sitting on the pier-ish thing that leads to the small lighthouse-esque place. I got my midterms back: 96 in Sociology, 94 in Poetry, 95 in Women in Religion. The only test I may have possibly bombed was Communication Processes, so we’ll see. I have a paper due for Communication Practices in a little under two hours, and I’m about two paragraphs in.
We went shopping yesterday. I tried to get a giant pot to cook corned beef and cabbage in, but I was unsuccessful. I bought a pair of pink pumps for $8. They’re used and dirty, but they’re gorgeous. Emily and I had dinner at Clarke’s on Belmont and then took a cab (due to sudden onset of illness) to Ryan’s house, where we watched a movie and spent the night. Again. Three in a row, which is fine with me. A little after one, I heard Becky’s voice calling down the hall. There was a giant bug in her room, which I proceeded to smash with a Kleenex box while screaming. Since we were both perched on the edge of the bed, it tipped up, sending us sliding down toward the floor (and the bug) and once it was over, we laughed as we found a scratch on the wall from the bed tipping up toward heaven.
This morning, since I am CTA pass-less, I tried to get through the train station with cards that probably have no money on them. The station man heard us talking about Honors Biology, so when I couldn’t get through, he held them up and told me we were going to have check them. He peppered his language with made up biology terms, and he absolutely made my day. He found the problem: it was the calcination of the magnetic strip. Ha. And then he let me through.
Settling back into routine. I don’t want it to snow, which it will Thursday.

Colorado: Sunday on the way to the Airport

Sunny day in Chicago 3-13-07

There’s nothing to say, not right now.

Things are falling apart,

while others are coming together.

Who knows what this year will bring?

I don’t.

They all love another,

instead of the one they should.

I still have a job when I come home, hopefully with a raise included. The only downside to this is that I am being transplanted from Colorado Blvd to the store in Highland’s Ranch. But, I’ll be second in command behind Heidi at that store.
Ah, summer work. I will be able to get 30-4o hours per week, and if I’m making nine or ten dollars, I may end up with a nice amount of money for school next year.