Long Summer Day 2021

It always surprises me when days start getting longer in January, February. Such a wind-up for summer so far away. The evenings my stomach grumbles and I think it can't be right because it's still light out, only to find it's suddenly 7.

The summer solstice is special to me. I remember a night hike when I was 17, thinking about how every day can be so full. For the most part I take every drop to extreme heart. But especially on the namesake.

Yesterday morning I woke up anxious and sad, as has been a recent trend. It's like I had one to three worries for a year and a half and now I have dozens. It's too many and worse there are too many options for solution. I'm out of practice making choices.

Nevertheless I journaled, I penned a little something, I read this novel with the blue cover. I texted my dad for the holiday. I decided on a 20 minute Peleton cardio--the toughest kind of exercise I do. Maybe that'd amp me up. There was also cookie dough tea. Showered to Aqua and got dressed in a crop top and laid in bed for a while all clean in the sheets. I planned to avoid social media this weekend and for some reason went on in the late morning, regrettable. Had my veggie bacon and coffee on the nightstand, decided to keep the desk closed this once. Upkept my artist journal and my organizational notebook and my planner and my spreadsheet of progresses. It's a lot of on top of it I do every Sunday, but it somehow feels empty and the urge to produce something was great. Trying to honor my day off, I meditated instead. On the ground with the square pillow and seashell towel. I thought about the pool but decided no, and was happy I'd swum yesterday instead. The Suns won.

At 3ish began getting ready for an engagement party at the park. Puhg and I arrived near 4, eerie and bright merry-go-round music welcoming us. Heaps of families having picnics and a cotton candy man I eyed. We wished our friend congrats and heard his stories. Two others showed up and we chatted and laughed and pet their dogs. We played a lawn game and I kept breaking the pieces. This is fun, I clearly thought. Then what a treat so missed and rarely possible--it was getting later, so we said, "we might go get dinner, wanna join?" And they did and we went to the same diner Puhg and I had coincidentally gone yesterday. It was so cool in the patio shade and I was so aware of the yellow shine on the mural across the street. Lower and lower.

The hippy sandwich was a delight. The sun slipped below the post office wall. I checked the time, set in just a few minutes. We all discussed the summer camps we'd been to. Stood up and walked out onto the sidewalk corner, took a photo, back to the car, inside toward home. Ophelia by the Lumineers was on the radio as the glow faded. Fed the hamster seeds, searched for a movie, found a strange creepy one, started it, but felt dizzy. Had four Thin Mints who had been frozen for months, put in a sound bath headphone, fell asleep at 10 o'clock.

And it will suddenly be so dark. Some day in November. Clocking out of work before the brightness even had her chance. And it will feel long, like how does one fill all the midnight space. But we will only have to wait until December for the magic to reverse.

First Sunday February

I made a big fuss about no alarm clocks, but I rose at seven. I did the good morning writes and sits and reads on the couch. In HIIT I did the most burpees in the class. I did box jumps like a true beast fueled by the previous night's gig in Indiana and the oatmeal creme pie I ate on the way home. I was so spent I couldn't imagine eating yet. I texted Puhg and we walked through the snow to the grocery store. Everyone was buying chips and dips. We passed a pop-up brunch at our favorite veg cafe. Cruelty-free chicken & waffles. I don't remember what we talked about. I responded to a promising email. I organized my sweaters and laid down. Lesson plans over two eps of Big Love. A little watching the guy play Until Dawn. My bus didn't come, so I met my girl on the train platform. We were both late for our own meeting. I saw three other comedians standing at the Red Line. Sometimes Chicago is the smallest. The bar we walked to was closed, so we sat in the balcony of Whole Foods with serious faces and then outlining our new project. Oh, it's good. I can tell. I walked across the street to i_. My Harold team goes on every week, but there's a jubilance when we arrive to the same green room. I cherish the night and play an overbearing marketer. Our coach says, "I'm glad you worked through the Winnebago scene" and if that's not priceless improv garbage, what is? I couldn't interact any more, so I sat next to two people riding home, not speaking. The bus would take five minutes. I was cooked. I stood looking out for it. It arrived, empty save a man sleeping on it with a six pack next to his head. The driver got up and shook him. The man took his sweet time debarking. It was fine. There but for the grace of God. I forgot my keys and had to call up. I wasn't just ready for bed. Reddit posts until the blanket of tired tucked around me.

The Last Warm Day

Wake up late (8:15) cursing the headache from last night. I read S & H on the couch and hit the gym. I'm slogging through Ghost Story on the elliptical. I wear shorts. My sidewalk is covered in little yellow leaves. Puhg wants brunch. I wear a purple lip and my bat necklace. We think we miss the bus, start walking, and then grab it on the next block. It starts to rain as we arrive. A warm rain. It's summer but all the storefronts on Clark have fake cobwebs in the windows. The specials are all maple-y. I eat two veggie sausages. I forget what we talked about. We walk the mile home, in shorts, enjoying our neighborhood. I feel a special kind of Lakeview pride on Sundays. I can sense the visitors, but this is my home. We stop twice--once for the Target bathroom and again so I can buy artisanal popcorn. It's perfect out. Women walk to church in maroon dresses. I put Arcade Fire on and fold sweaters. The windows are open, maybe for the last week of the year. In the rain, we snuggle under blankets and watch the end of Something Wicked This Way Comes. I work on a screenplay, I grade two papers, I make a lesson plan, we watch the 6th Paranormal Activity. It's my mom's birthday. I think about next August. I do not think about December. I am not ready. I will drink a pumpkin coffee tomorrow. I will administer a mid-term. There is something unlike anything else I know in me. I try to name it and can't. Last night in my dream I was teaching a class and someone else started lecturing. I complained to the department chair. I threw a fit, really. I do not wince at the week ahead. I love the week ahead. I can't believe it's been fifteen years since fall meant putting on a little Express suit and delivering speeches in high school classrooms. I felt the same something stirring then. I try to sluff the guilt off. I know how good I have it and how Puerto Rico doesn't have power. I donated $20 and called Congress. I vow to call and write five times this week. We go to CVS. I get a bag of Reese's shaped like ghosts, filled with orange stuff.

Two Reasons to Love Bisque

1. On Sunday we went out for farewell coffee with his sister Fizz. Bisque asked for a macchiato, and I got a biscotti. When the barista chirped "MACCHIATO" I did a double take. At Starbucks a macchiato is basically a latte. At this trendy place where I always get terrible service, but there are very nice love seats and a giant open window, a macchiato is about a thimble of caffeine. I brought the "beverage" over to my guy. He looked at it, I believe on the cusp of playing it cool and being disappointed. He said, "This is not what I was expecting, but I'll try it." And I really liked that. I think a lot of times we pretend like, "Oh yeah, I knew that." But it's just so much better not to. Being honest about the smallest, most frivolous things is how we build muscle to be honest about the big swampy messes--how we learn to have open minds to admit we were wrong about a political candidate or professional mistakes.

2. He said to me last night, "If you're too focused on your dream, you might miss a dream."

Bro and sis post-pizza.

A dream is a wish your heart makes.

Gum It Up

I am trying viciously to write this play. No one is making me write this play. I get no money from this play. I have no standing offers for production of this play. I am blocked writing this play, yet I keep whacking away at this play. This is what they talk about when they talk about the hard times before the good times? In hindsight, will I be happy I spent the last 6-8 hours of my life researching court cases for the development of this play? I am under my own deadlines, and I don't want to fail myself. I need to do this, I think. Why do we do what we do do?

I woke up at 6:45 and read a Stephen King essay on writing on the back patio. The newly damp wood smell promised a hearty Sunday. I ran 2.5 miles and read an article on creativity. I wrote. I wrote. I tried to write. My sister and I had a tiny cafe birthday brunch before I blitzed off to a two-hour music improv workshop. And then it was back to my typing paper full of squiggles and doodles and lines I want in this stupid thing. I ate popcorn and watched my Redbox-rented Wild. Then I had some candy. Then I ate only cookies and candies for the rest of the day. Tomorrow the dump truck of work crushes me. I'm trying to reserve my weekends for errands, movies, dates, and writing. I need this time. I need it. Tomorrow is coming.

Politically Correct Comedy

Last night my comedy cohort had a show. We all go there an hour early to watch the cohort behind us perform. Ah, there's nothing like shoddy little Sunday night improv sets. It was a goofy time. There are good scenes, there are far more mediocre scenes, and there are rare stupid stupid stupid scenes that are honestly more enjoyable than a fully-perfected Pulitzer stage play.

So this scene was happening on stage with an American man and a thick-accented German woman. She was explaining how her parents are "retarded now" (audience went "eee" like one might do upon opening a moldy tub of Cool Whip). Then she went on to explain, "They just hang around and need entertainment." Oh. Okay. She's playing a character whose English is a little off and confused retired with retarded. Okay. Unbelievable because German people are language-learning robots, but okay. We all let out sighs of relief...until two other people on this gal's team show up PORTRAYING RETARDED PARENTS. The missed the subtext. "No," I audibly whispered. But it was too late. Two improvisers were impersonating senior citizen retarded Germans. Lord save us all.

So, it was our turn. Our teach corralled us backstage. Several people were horrified by the audacity of the previous team. Others got it was a big misunderstanding. We were clumped in the greenroom. I said, "Let's make a pact right here, right now, as a group, to never impersonate retarded people onstage." We all put our hands in the middle of the circle." But Wolf shook his head. "I can't make that promise," he said. "You never know."Then Pinker recoiled in agreement, "I mean, what if the scene calls for it?" Another guy: "Honestly, I think I'd play a really good retarded character if the scene called for it." The scene will never necessitate mocking the mentally handicapped! I shouted. "Okay, hands in." Pinker sighed. Then quickly he yelped, "Always play retarded people on three! One, two, th--" and luckily our coach came back in the room and started a warm-up exercise.

Rainy Day Mantra

Work hard!
























Love harder!

Sunday in the City

Breezy and clear, soft sunshine. Too dim for sweat. I planned my lesson on compound sentences at the Picasso statue. Children ran up the sloped based and slid down on their butts. A tour guide next to me explained about the courthouse nearby to a small group of tourists and said the statue is said to be a woman although I have always seen an ape. A Chinese guy kept accidentally/on purpose getting in the way of my photos. Finally he sat next to me and explained he didn't know how to get to Van Buren. I looked up his train stop and showed him the map on my iPhone.

One of my adult students designed sound for a play at the fringe festival way up there in Jefferson Park. I've never been. "People on the red line can't be friends with people on the blue line. It's just too hard," Belle joked this morning. We were on the corner of the Chicago River. It's sort of true. You'll have to take at least one randito bus. But I was downtown so no worries. I waited in the belly of the stop. The train was late and ran express all the way up there. I don't see these parts of the city. The 20s homes and cars on not packed side-streets.

It was such a nice stroll. A Thomas J in bronze. The play was 50 minutes, which is good on a Sunday afternoon. It was in a church basement and the two-weekend run was ending, so everyone was happy as peaches in cream. It's a huge city here and there are a lot of smiles. I stopped at the CVS to buy 99 cent Halloween cards with my coupon and on the bus ride home I read the novel with bowler cap on the front and thought about Communism.

Man Crush Sunday

Shortly after PixieGate 2014.

This was a sunny Sunday in February. I came home from my weekend girl's getaway with Bex. My hair did not. "I'm already used to it," he said. We hopped on our bikes and pedaled downhill to the student-run theatre. The show was luke warm, but we sat in the back row tittering much like those judgey eagles in the Muppets.

"I have so much homework to do," I said, "but I also want Taco Bell." And so we pedaled down the lazy streets of AZ for crunchwraps. We laughed our nachos off, especially after a homeless man asked to borrow my cell phone and then wiped the screen, like I'm the scumbag. I mean.

We traveled through the windy suburbia-oasis. Stopped at the cross section of our homes. Kissed goodbye thirty-seven times. Took this photo. I sang home alone, papers waiting. At my front door I looked at my phone. It was a photo of the sunset and excitement for a new day together.

Post-Victory Breakfast in Two Parts

Famed Donuts

Jamin & Dizz with swanky coffee. Please note my homemade pb&j poptart.

"This is a dense scone."--Dizz

Leaves in the River (A Sunday Tribute to Fall)

Kyoto. September 2008.

Some Sunday things: Brown's Chicken, looking out the back window of Chevy Nova, Mentos, improv rehearsals, hymns
Some fall things: pumpkin pastries and hot drinks, Japan, Halloween, candy bars, nighttime, leaves, Speech season

I met a girl on Halloween
when she was lost, and I was drunk.
And it was dark and cold out when we left.

And as we walked the rain started.
The leaves softened with every step,
and all around us people slept alone with their dreams

The wind came down from up the planes,
and blew the leaves all through the streets.
I wondered how far leaves could really fly.

Would they rest in suburb yards
or make it to the city?
Or would they end up in the river just to float away?

She pointed to a small brick house
and said it was where she grew up.
The lights were out-- she asked if we could stop for awhile.

Her hair was still just getting wet.
The water running down her neck
collecting in the handprint in cement beneath her feet.

Apparently there'd been a death,
someone close and nothing left
because she hadn't left him in the end.

I saw her blush when I asked
if she always talked like that.
She said it only happened when she drank.

And later on I felt her hand
slipping into my cold fist.
She promised me a kiss as soon as we got home.

Her costume had begun to tear.
She ran ahead and turned to me.
Her laughter echoed through the empty streets.