The Long Walk Home

I got up this morning and went to the Post Office to pick up a couple of packages and to mail a pressie to brilliant, single, studly DanH. Big excitement, as a woman at the counter was having a FIT! She was angry about some imagined slight at the hands of one of the postal workers. The woman was yelling, unintelligibly because she didn't speak English well. Of African origin and clad in a tie-dyed hijab, she started yelling about how this country kills Muslims and wants to kill Allah. The lady next to her was like, "Calm down! You are totally overreacting." From what I could piece together...this woman was mad because she thought the postal worker was ignoring her but she was actually waiting on another customer who was ahead of her. The tie-dyed lady tore up a packing envelope (which she hadn't yet paid for!) and got louder and louder saying mostly unintelligible things but she sure was mad...

When I got my bidness handled and left, the tie-dyed lady was outside talking to two women (one was the one next to her) who were trying to assure her that she was not being discriminated against. I felt a tinge of pity for her...and then reflected that it probably felt to her the same way it did to lots of people of different ethnicities coming over here and trying to make a life in a place that did not want them, to some extent or another.

The weather was lovely today so I walked east down Devon to look at the furniture stores and knick-knack shops on the street. I ended up at Pollicia's Quality Resale. There is something about resale shops that I just can't resist. There is nothing that I really need in them but, as I grew up loving garage sales and the like...I can't keep myself from going in to see what they have. One man's trash really is another man's treasure. The book section is my weakness. Books and albums. Books I don't need, may never read even if I bought it, and yet... I must have seen at least 20 I wanted to buy. Some titles were classics: I'm Okay - You're Okay, Centennial. Some books were trash: Poison Pen: The Unauthorized Biography of Kitty Kelley. There was Don't Bet On The Prince, a compilation of feminist fairy tales from the 70's. Unique cookbooks, a box of comics (nothing good ;)), a couple of volumes from a set of encyclopedias (but not the whole set...whassupwitdat?) and loads of other stuff. Some textbooks, beat up romance novels...a treasure trove of kitsch. I managed to escape only 75 cents poorer with Blue Highways in paperback, a story about a road trip. It will be winging its way to DanH at some point, I'm sure...

I did see a few furniture pieces that I was interested in. There was a WAY cool wooden bench thing that was $25. But I don't know how I would have gotten it to my place. It wouldn't fit in my car, which I don't have in town anyway. I don't know how they can sell the movies they have for sale. They are just movies on regular videotapes. I started laughing when I saw the movie rack, with a big sign MOVIES ON SALE TODAY ONLY! BARGINS! <--(spelled just like that). Like someone sat there and taped off cable onto blank tapes. I'm sure they don't have screeners and I would not be surprised if not a few of them are actually blank. ;) As I was buying my book, this guy that walked in was trying to sell the owner (a lady wearing a long, burgundy wig, and speaking with a Caribbean accent...) a dress. "It's a hot mama dress! Go try it on. They sell these at those boutiques in the Loop. You can exchange it if it's not your size." Free market at it's best. God Bless Capitalism.

To Live And Die In Chicago

On Saturday, September 18th, I got up early to drive to St. Louis for my show at Y98. I stopped at the post office to pick up a present sent by my dear boy. A long awaited book, Something Rotten, the latest in the Thursday Next, Literary Detective series. After gleefully skipping out of the post office and piling into my car for the 4.5-hour drive south, I drove down a few side streets to get to Western and hit I-90/94. I don’t remember what the streets were (I knew I should have written it down immediately…) but somehow before I got to Western, I saw something that has haunted me ever since. [NOTE 10/9/04: I took Granville to Western]

It was about 8:15; very early for a Saturday if you don’t have someplace you HAVE to be. I crossed an intersection and to my left: there was a man standing at a grave in a cemetery. His hands together in prayer; not clasped, just together. I don’t remember if his head was bowed, or if he was looking up or if it was at an angle at all. I was driving and I had to look at the road but that image was just so arresting, unexpectedly out of nowhere that I almost hit something in shock. Not because it was out of the ordinary (though it’s not something I see every day) or weird. Just because it was a snapshot of someone else’s life. SO intimate and private, I felt badly for even being there. I felt like an intruder, and I was just driving by.

It was not a fresh grave so, whoever he was paying respects to had to have been there for some time. Who was it? What did the deceased mean to that man? Why was he there so early? Was it a birthday or anniversary? How often does he go? Why does he go? How long has the missed person been gone? Does he grieve and hurt still, or does he feel better when he visits the grave? Does it give him a sense of closeness to the deceased?

I have so many questions about that scene. Was the man at the gravesite feeling guilty? Was he somehow responsible (or feel responsible) for the deceased no longer being alive? Were there things he wanted to say and never did while that person was living?

I guess the questions I have are really a reflection of what I would feel…

What have I not said that I want to and for whatever reason can’t choke it out? To whom do I need to direct attention now that they are still here? If someone I loved was suddenly taken…what would I wish I had said/done/not said/not done? How can I possibly let the people that I LOVE with everything I am and have, know what they mean to me? How grateful I am for them? For being themselves and allowing me to be part of their lives? I never feel like I can do/give/be enough for those I love. Every day/phone call/letter/message is too short, inadequate to express my love and gratitude. What can I do better? How can I be better? How can I stand at a graveside not filled with regret and unfulfilled wishes?