Independent Movement

The first time I stepped out onto the Sheridan Drive, truly by myself, was amazing. If you've never smelled Chicago in the fall you are missing out. Chicago is a city made of brick and it absorbs the energy of the city. The smell makes you feel like a native and that you are part of something special. That walk from Pratt to the Loyola redline stop would be my home stretch for years to come. I never felt such confidence in myself and optimism about my future as I did then. I remember the sun shining brightly, reflecting off sidewalk, me making eye contact with everyone I passed and giving them a sincere smile. Confidence like that is contagious you know. It makes you infectious.

As confident as I was I was still an outsider. Awkward and young. I remember my brother taking me to Michigan Ave when I was 16 and me being mesmerized by the beautiful women in sleek coats and Burberry scarves, smoking and walking. They were so poised and moved quickly. I loved being jostled on the street. At 16, I decided to wear heels on this walking tour of Chicago as that's what you did when you were trying to act sophisticated. This was an obvious mistake not only did it start raining but I had a hard enough time keeping up with my 6'1" brother as it was. My feet have never been the same. At 17, I purchased my very own sleek coat. It was Kenneth Cole and there were tags sewn onto one of the sleeves. Being naive I left them on there and when my brother took me to a high end consignment shop in Wicker Park I was mortified when one of the girls very nicely asked me if she could cut them off for me.

This time would be different though, I was 20 now. I had been on my own! I moved around the country like a vagabond. I was now an expert on packing all my belongings into my 1997 Mitsubishi Mirage and could read maps and navigate this country with ease. I was still awkward but this time I was armed with boldness.

Into the Void

I will admit that I am a master procrastinator. Call it an unhealthy fear of failure. A fear of emotional intimacy which is also the reason I have not shared this blog with close friends that may actually get a bit of a kick out of it. They only get to see my live performances which can be amended later where this just makes me feel naked.

I hate the Midwest. It is a living stereotype of everything that I thought I wanted. It's really just a nightmare. People 'shop the ads', clip coupons and consider themselves swing voters. People are very complacent and happy which is disastrous for someone who's personality is solely based upon sarcasm and self deprecation. It's not like I didn't know what I was getting myself in to; before I left my friend Erin said, "You'll find away to make it work. You'll put painted wooden scarecrows on your porch but I can imagine them all looking very sardonic."

I lived in Utah previously which people may think and even I thought was just as awful and backward as a small Midwestern town, but it's not. While there are plenty of Mormon stereotypes and they do have strong political influence it is easy to create a niche in Utah being some sort of anti-thesis to the 'accepted culture'.

There is still some hope. Growing up one of my favorite books was Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. It's about a woman that marries a small town country doctor and despite her best efforts cannot make a go of Gopher Prairie, MN. She leaves to the city for awhile but eventually returns. Maybe, I really haven't learned to appreciate West Bend, WI for what it is. As, I sit here complaining I realize that because I let my fear get the best of me I am no Caroline Kennicott.

Goodbye To A Friend

There are so many things that will always remind me of you. You were one of those people. The kind of person that stated their likes and dislikes all the time; taking possession of the tangible and intangible so your memory will be forever intertwined with them.

I will never look at sunny days on the patio, the St. Louis Rams, tomatoes, smushy pillows or polar bears the same way because I was one of the people that was chosen to be blessed with knowing you. While those things are trivial, I guess the one thing I will always look at differently from knowing you is myself.

When we met I was 17, desperate to be older and you 30, amused by my naiveté. I sat in your chair complaining about boys and the latest fights with my girlfriends; always, of course trying to make myself sound more mature than I was. You would listen and nod and always made me feel legitimate. At the end of our 3 hours (enough time for a cut, shampoo and highlights) I would feel beautiful inside and out.

I always thought we shared a kinship immediately and this was reciprocated when I was finally 21 and after many discussions on NFL stats between you talking me out of not bleaching my hair blonde for the millionth time; we decided to watch football together at a local sports bar.

Through our years of friendship we were roommates, had fights and watched each other fall in love and supported each other when it all crashed and burned. I stayed with you during your first knee surgery and you gave me a place that felt like home.

The last time I saw you was the day before I moved to Wisconsin. You looked defeated. You cried. You had so much on your plate. I tried to comfort you and you told me I didn't understand. After all our years of friendship I didn't understand but I wanted to.

When I got the call I knew before anything was said. I thought at first you were finally at peace; as I write this I can only think of myself and how much I will miss you.