Wow.
What a week.
I was sick all week, finally ending up in Urgent Care on Thursday afternoon. They told me what I already knew, a nasty stomach virus that’s going around. The doctor was wonderful and told me not to do anything but rest and that there was no way I was to be around small children.
So, I had to call the lady that I babysit for every Friday and cancel. I felt terrible; I still do. It was a big day that she had been clearing with me for probably three weeks, but seriously, stomach flu-like viruses don’t seem to be something that should be messed with.
So I lay on the couch for most of the week, alternating between feeling incredibly ill and attempting to eat. Safe to say, after a long night of rest last night, I feel much better. Not all the way, but closer than I’ve felt since Sunday.
Emily and I were taking out the trash today when I noticed our pigeon friend, Shirley, lying dead underneath some pipes. The pigeons have been missing lately and we hadn’t figured out what had happened to them. Well, when one pigeon dies in a certain place, it seems that no pigeon returns. And so, Shirley lies dead down the back steps and Laverne has flown the coop. Immense sadness was felt by Emily and myself, and Hunter only made pigeon jokes.
“Surely, Laverne must be around.” “Are you “sure” she’s dead?” He fought a battle with terrible pigeons that must not be related to Laverne and Shirley at all last year at his apartment on the South Side.
Hunter may be moving back to Wisconsin for a few months in the fall and for that, I am stunned and saddened. While his motives are purely for necessary financial gain, I will miss him. The conversation happened while I was sick and therefore more prone to crying than usual, so we all know how that ended: me crying while Hunter tried to calm me down.
I looked at him later that night and asked him what will happen if he still loves me when he moves to California (which he is hoping to do at some point in the next couple of years). He told me that we’d cross that bridge when we came to it but that we’d find a way to make it work.
It was comforting to hear.
Ugh. Watch out for Spyware Protect 2009 popping up on your computer. I have spent an afternoon getting rid of this stupid ad that wouldn’t leave my desktop. Apparently, it is an attempt to steal credit card information and other information. I don’t know. It was rather annoying.

Anyway, I’m going to see a movie tonight with Hunter while Emily is at a cast party for the show that she’s doing costumes for this spring. It should be nice.

Have a lovely afternoon/evening.

Well, the weekend was nice. Emily’s friend Randy was in town from St. Louis, so they spent a lot of time together. Hunter and I spent a good part of the weekend editing video that he shot.
Sunday night, I fell really ill and am just now beginning to recover. Stomach flu or food poisoning, whatever it was, it’s been intense. Emily sat with me for part of the first night, when I couldn’t stop crying and then yesterday Hunter came over after class and brought me crackers and Gatorade and sat with me until night.
I called my doctor in Denver and the Wellness Center here at Loyola and they both told me the same thing: You’ll live, just eat bananas, rice, applesauce and toast. Okay.
The abdominal cramps live on, however, as does a massive headache, making today too long of a day already and it’s only 10:00 am.
Tomorrow I have to babysit at 8:30, class at 1:00, filming from 4:30-??
I’ve got homework piling up and I’m starting to get stressed out.
I missed a big assignment yesterday and now my teacher is upset with me, but I really don’t care all that much. I just don’t want her to take the tone that her emails have been taking with me lately. I’m happy to lose that part of my grade, perfectly happy. I didn’t understand the assignment from the get-go, and didnt’ get it done in time. My bad.
Ah, well, here’s to the late beginning of a hectic week. Hopefully by the time the weekend comes, I’ll be able to breathe.

Thorndale “El” Stop

Seconds, minutes, hours, the streets lose count. Days, months, weeks, years. There’s a pothole in the middle of the intersection; it hasn’t been touched in a long while. Cars traveling down Broadway, southbound, avoid the pothole nimbly, jumping left or right around it and continue into traffic, slipping away to other places.

Above, the “El” slides to a jerky stop, passengers departing from the silver beast to swarm the street below. The go left and right too, just like the cars avoiding the pothole. They follow a slow line, crossing the street, blending into the foot-traffic already present at this busy intersection. The passengers who are left waiting for the other train become antsy, anxious. They’ve seen the train lights coming, they’ve felt the slight hope that comes with every train signal, every blast of the horn, every warning. They shift their weight, back and forth, on the platform as they sit there, stand there, either under the heat or out in the brisk wind.

The “El” is the life-giver to this intersection. It provides a stream of people, one constant moving body, yet individuals among them. It is the pumping heart, the engine, everything pulsing and throbbing, feeding the storefronts, the shops and the small diner at the corner.

It’s in the diner that you’ll find the regulars. These people chat with the waitress at the U-shaped bar in the center of the first room. They drink their coffee as she fills the bottles of ketchup and A1, smiling as a new set of patrons walk in. They seat themselves. In the middle of a swarming metropolis, a small town feel radiates from inside this small place.

“The Little Corner Restaurant” is a gathering place for a small amount of the people who pass around the corner and down the streets of this place. The waitress who seems to act as the hostess too went to Northwestern, long enough, but not too long ago. She tells me how she came to be here, and I find the story informal and sweet.

“My friend lived right over there,” she says, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder out the southwest window of the diner. “Over there,” must mean Edgewater, an eclectic neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. “We used to come over here to do our homework.”

I laugh; we talk about the fact that Northwestern students never had U-Passes and her attention is caught by the man seated closest to the kitchen. He’s smiling and waving his coffee cup.

The waitress, another one, not so young anymore, a mother, a grandmother, a quick-witted lady, refills our drinks. She tells the boys seated around me not to cause me any trouble, because she has three boys herself. She beams as she tells us that she is expecting another grandchild sometime in April.

I smile and I’m excited for her. It’s one of those times when genuine emotions spill from somewhere you weren’t sure you were hoarding them. She turns away, slender wrinkled hands picking up an empty place on their way away.

After breakfast, I pay at the cash register. It’s a large metal instrument, a relic from some other time. There are no digital number gracing it’s front, nothing except an odd clang as the waitress, sometimes hostess, punches in the total of my bill. It’s probably sat on that counter for more than 50 years, I ask, and she doesn’t even know.

“A long time,” is her only answer, followed by a smile. Her medium brown hair hardly moves as she hands me my change and tells me to have a nice day.

I open the doors and step out into the bright light of the day. I walk across the street, cutting through the traffic waiting at the red light. They wait to go, push past the white bars of crosswalks and burst free into the world.

I dodge an oncoming taxi, its horn blaring at me, shoving my still full self into a quick sprint across the two lanes. Safely on the sidewalk, I move to the right of the intersection, past a parking lot filled with cars. They sit there, patiently, waiting for their owners to return.

Across an alley, a small strip mall sits, crumbling under the “El.” The small parking lot is littered with taxis, empty and waiting for a fare. “VideoTown” is a business leftover from the 90’s when VHS tapes ruled the face of media. There are rows of crudely constructed shelves containing empty boxes. An indifferent teen mans the counter at the back, talking on his cell phone.

“We don’t have this one,” seems to be the most oft uttered phrase. He types neon words into a computer, spitting out neon numbers. It is a rudimentary database. Clientele from the Laundromat next door filter through, wandering aimlessly. I ask one of the men what he hopes to find, and he answers, “Shit, anything good.”

VHS tapes are still for sale, three rows, long shelves, tall enough to touch the ceiling. They sell for two dollars, says a sign quickly taped to one of the shelves. Old titles, new titles, random titles fill the shelves and line the walls.

The Laundromat seems to be a hub of activity. A middle-aged Asian man stands guard over his space. He stands by the window, watching. College students, families and the like gather there to do the necessary laundry for their lives. The last wash is at 8, doors close at 10.

The liquor store across the street is filling up. During the day, beer suppliers can be seen loading their wares. They sit stacked on the sidewalk. Passerby stare at them, perhaps longingly, perhaps in disgust. They walk by, looking back. I stand in the alley adjacent, watching.

There is a bakery with a red awning. No one goes in or out and I begin to wonder who would go in. It seems to sit silent and untouched. “Bunz” advertises cookies and other delightful backed goods. I’m not tempted. It seems no one is.

Pulses of people pour from the doors of the “El.” That’s what this corner is, a station full of hope for trains. People come and go, spend time killing time to see the train slide in on those infinite metal rails. Homeless men beg for spare change as a businessman picks up a newspaper and begins to read. It’s the way things are here, ever moving, ever changing, every day is another commute, another march up an avenue and down a street.

The Thorndale “El” stop is a colorful corner filled a vast amount of diverse people, but it is never stagnant. The block is shaped by its constant motion, its constant influx of people. At night, groups of kids will loiter here, cops will drive by slowly, lights on bright, and people will walk a little faster out of the doors of the station. The next day, the sun will dawn and the hours will tick by, the people will flow through and all will be the same.

This is my assignment for “One Block” an essay describing, well, one block.

It’s for the class that I hate, the one where I continuously lock horns (believe me, she has them) with the teacher, excuse me, professor. or doctor, or whatever she prefers to be called.

Also, I was in film class yesterday when my professor told me that he enjoyed my poetry that I wrote for the short film on youtube and that he’d like to see me in his screenwriting class next year. I was thrilled. So I will be attempting to learn screenplay writing and that’s actually quite beneficial to me because I’ve been getting more involved in the boys’ work, which does indeed involve the need of those programs such as Final Draft, Final Cut, etc.

Last night we watched the first forty five minutes of Hunter’s movie “Westin.”
He wrote it over two years ago, filmed it two years ago this May, and is finally seeing some results. The current editor is his fourth, so the post-production has been plagued by random issues. Some of the actors and some of us gathered in the living room to watch it. (It’s a horror movie, by the way). The amount of film edited takes us up to the first kill scene. The editor has sort of assembled the first kill scene and I’m not sure about it, but on the whole, the film looks beautiful.
I am so proud of Hunter. The shots were all beautiful and scenic, dramatic enough to hold attention. The script was what a horror film will need. It set everything up the right way.
I was quite pleased with the whole thing.

Well, my little film project is complete:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKvm2fNi2Q4

Check it out!
It’s about winter in Chicago.

Monday, Monday. 

I’m up at 8:40 on a Saturday.
And there may be very little hope of going back to sleep.
Ha, I will sleep.

Midterm grades are back:
Broadcast A
Intro to Film Production: A
Ethics: B
Advertising: B-
Literary Journalism with Connie Fletcher, the most evil woman to ever set foot on the face of the Earth, no worse, the most terrifying soul that has ever entered a life form: Oh, I don’t know. No idea. Somewhere between a C and an A. Maybe if I’m lucky a B, but if she’s cackling over her grade book as I know she is, probably a C.

I’m not sure if you remember the Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle books? On Thursday morning, Hunter, Kyle, Coupe and I went to see a children’s play directed by Hunter’s teacher based on Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.
Surprisingly, we were all more than moderately entertained.

I do love Emily and things are back on track as far as our relationship.
Hunter and I have been together for 5 months tomorrow and even that is going well.
Things may be hectic, but they’re looking up.

Spring, please come soon!!!

Love,
Katie

Here I am, the first week back from a very uneventful spring break, exhausted. I am tired.
There’s nothing to be done about it.
I need winter to end. I need to push through until the end of the semester. And then, who knows?
Ugh. So much uncertainty and so many questions. The future is looming in front of me and I’m terrified.

Emily and I have been watching “Friends” all night and it’s been nice.

The short horror film that Hunter acted in during the fall is hitting the festival circuit. It’s for sure going to be shown at the British Film Festival in L.A. in early May. Even though it’s only a 2o minute film, this is wonderful news.

The romance novel is stagnant. Apparently, you have to be awake to write. Who knew?

I hope that spring is settling in wherever you are.

Hunter’s doberman Otto on the way back from Wisconsin.

Chicago in the rain.

Chicago in the rain.

Lakefront property. Dusk

Bonfire. Crivitz, Wisconsin

Sarah and I

Hunter and I

Emily and I and our peace cheesecake on Inauguration Day.

Hunter and I at the prom party.

Melly and I

Hunter and I

Emily, Sarah, and I

Emily, Me, Little Emily, Megan

Me and Hunter, who was officially my prom date

Hunter’s roommate Coupe and I dancing
Coupe and I
Hunter and I under the balloon archway.
Part of the crew: from left, Trif, Hunter, Kyle and me

I had more fun at a prom party than I ever did at prom the first time, although the entire time, I mourned my dress. I wore my Easter dress, but things went wonderfully. I even made punch, prom-style, which was a huge hit at the party. Cheese puffs, cheap chips and dollar popcorn rounded out the list of prom refreshments. We blew up balloons and the boys made an arch of them for photo-ops.
Of course, as the night wore on, the balloons began to disappear. POP! you’d hear. POP! POP!
Dancing was minimal but definitely happened. It was really nice to see people.

When I come home for spring break, I will have minimally horrendous hair. I always cut Kyle’s hair, which he enjoys. I have no idea what I’m doing, but for some reason, he’s always thrilled with the results. Last night after the Oscars, Hunter and a pair of scissors had a date with my hair. I lost two inches. He kept jumping around, telling me he was giving me the choppy, spiky look, and my face was scrunched up in absolute terror. The jury’s still out on whether or not I like the look. But it was hilarious and so totally worth it either way. I also decided to grow my hair all the way out, so for the next while, there won’t be any short hair, which may be a good thing.

After midterms, we are going to Hunter’s cabin in Wisconsin, and I’ll be there through the weekend.
I’ll be home next Monday through next Saturday. So I hope to see everyone!