I Took This Picture At…

I took this picture at 3:16pm CST, on February 2nd, 2012.

I was on the NW corner of State and Adams in downtown Chicago, facing south.

I had just met with my accountant with regards to filing my 2011 income taxes, and had given him my financial documents for the year.

I was angry at my ex-wife for countless terrible things she did to me, and continued to do to me. I looked forward to a day when I wouldn’t be affected by her, or at least affected by her significantly less.

I was mad at my lawyer for doing a horrid job of representing me in the divorce. I was still paying her back for the hours she spent doing an awful job.

I was mad at the lawyer of my ex, who, despite knowingly participating in our “collaborative” divorce, did everything in her power to act as a combative litigation attorney. (A side note, our case was the last collaborative divorce case she handled).

I wished there was something I could do to make things better.

I was so angry and mad at everything. I was mad at how little money I had.

But it was sunny out. There was a breeze. That made me happy.

And, I had just gotten off the phone with my fiancé. I felt lots of love for her. We talked about the weekend. She was very busy at work that day. I felt for her and wanted to make her feel better.

I didn’t take a picture because what I was seeing down State Street was particularly interesting or beautiful.

I wanted to remember this moment for some reason.

I was there.


I want to write again. I don’t know if I have the momentum.

I dearly love people I have met on Twitter, and that’s what occupies most of any “creative”-type time I spend online.

But all that stuff funnels straight down the garbage chute. I thought blogs were ephemeral, but Twitter is ephemeral on ephemeroids.

And, believe it or not, I *do* get tired of desperately trying to please people, something I inevitably fall into when tweeting. Okay, I don’t get tired so much as wearied by it. (P.S. LOVE ME. LOVE MEEEEEEEEEE!) I get my feelings hurt more than I care to admit. Hm. Okay, I just admitted it. Okay, so now, I get my feelings hurt as much as I care to admit. Exactly equivalent to that.

This blog has always been nice for me. And it’s still here, even though I rarely tend to it. It’s a robot pet that just needs its batteries swapped when I want to play.

Here, another metaphor. My blog is an island. It’s mine. You can comment on my island, but I can shoot your comment with a fucking gun. There, I just killed your fucking comment. How does it feel, comment-leaver? Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But I like having SPACE here, on the Interwebs. I even like having a little CONTROL.

On Twitter I’m just an account name and an avatar. My personality does percolate through, but I’m a dot bouncing around in something larger, anonymous and potentially unfriendly.

Hey, I *like* typing things that are longer than 140 characters. I like the idea of wasting page real estate.









boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy boggedy!

That felt good. So good.

I like existing in space and time. I like leaving a trail. I like blogging.

There’s nothing expected of me here, I know. I could post this and never say another word. But that’s so sad. I want to have a pulse at this blog.

What am I gonna write about? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll make up a robot sister. Maybe I’ll write about my goddamned feelings. But I’d like to have a pulse, to not be confused with something dead.

beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep, etc.

Two Months!

I have been away a long time! Holy moley.

I don’t know that I will regularly post again, but I logged onto Blogger just now and saw a sprinkling of very nice comments on my blog (I set Moderation on old posts after constantly having to clean-up after hineseCay pammersSay).

I love you all. You’re good eggs. Much, much, much, much love.

You’re Not Gonna Die

The commuter train I ride to work has two levels. In the morning I generally ride on the lower level.

A woman in her early 50’s sat next to me today. She is often in the same car as me. Generally she sits up one seat with some friends of hers, where two sets of seats face each other, but her particular spot happened to be already taken.

Still, she was gabbing with her friends on the ride in, if a little more awkwardly. I had started the book Devil In The White City that morning, but got tired of reading, put away my book and just stared at nothing particular.

I was startled by a loud noise. A travel mug from the top section of the train had crashed to the floor next to our seat. As it made contact with the floor, coffee erupted out of it, spraying the woman next to me, and to a lesser extent some other women sitting nearby.

The rest of the ride was tense. Well, not for me — for the women involved. The owner of the travel mug was a woman around the same age as my seat buddy. The mug was handed up to her.

My seat buddy began wiping a napkin over her bleached blond hair repeatedly. She kept on saying, “It fell on my head.” It seemed like she was implying the mug fell on her head, which wasn’t the case. I don’t doubt that some coffee got in her hair, on her clothes, etc. I couldn’t see the degree of coffee damage done from my vantage point, but I imagine it was significant.

She wasn’t incredibly loud or obnoxious about it, but my seat buddy continued to talk about the coffee on her person. My eavesdropping isn’t so good, but I *think* she was talking about how coffee can ruin platinum. Also, she kept on glaring up at the coffee dropper as she was talking.

The coffee dropper, apparently tired of hearing about the droppee’s complaints, leaned down and said, “You’re not gonna die.”

This was fuel to the fire of my seat buddy. She repeated the coffee dropper’s words to her friends. This drew the coffee dropper back to speak again to my seat buddy. My seat buddy said, “You didn’t even say ‘sorry’. You said, ‘You’re not gonna die.'”.

The coffee dropper insisted she *had* said sorry already. I didn’t hear the coffee dropper actually say sorry, but I don’t see how she couldn’t have.

My seat buddy recounted the entire story to the conductor as he handed her the napkins, including the “You’re not gonna die” exchange. As she spoke to him he repeatedly told her to not worry about the floor (she must have been looking down at it intently, I guess) — either it would take care of itself, or he would have it cleaned up.

The conductor looked up and asked, “Was that your coffee?” The coffee dropper said, “Yes.” “Try to be more careful,” he replied. Then my seat buddy informed the conductor that after the accident the coffee dropper had returned her mug to the *same* location it had been when it had fallen down in the first place.

The conductor said that if my seat buddy had any cleaning bills for her coffee-stained clothes, please let him know about it.

I don’t know if the coffee dropper removed her mug from the place where it had previously fallen from, but the mug did not fall again.

My seat buddy continued to glare at her.

Finally, we pulled into Union Station. The coffee dropper slipped out of the train well before my seat buddy and I were able to exit. I presume no fight ensued.