el-low

it's about that time that i thrust myself back into the game of uncertainty and discomfort.  it's all about burning bridges and blazing new trails.  forge a new path for new beginnings and pioneer a future for myself.  no job.  no band.  no school.  all i've got is this little hope burning inside me that has to carry me on to bigger and better things...  and this pair of hazel eyes burned into my mind that maybe someday will look back into mine.  it's time to set things right.

soleá

so i packed a bag, hopped a few planes and trains, and saw another part of the world.

shared some beautiful moments with a beautiful lady.

what a life.

check it out.

(dreaming of) meat is murder.

i dreamt of eating veal cutlets last night. what a bummer.

chicago seemed tired last night

lot's of work lately. keeping my mind and body busy so as not to let them wander and get into shitty situations. i've been thinking about the future in very different terms than i ever have before. there seems to be an unnatural split from my usual pessimism. bob laughed at me and told me i'm still entirely too pessimistic when i told him this, but i feel it's more of a brightly centered and focused realism than an blanket pessimism. there's no way to ignore or deny all of the negativity and let down that goes on in daily life, but i've learned to accept these all and focus on the passing moments of beauty where humanity shines through. it's given me this electric feeling that, no matter what, everything is going to be okay. there will always be good tunes, there will always be good films. the libraries are full and nothing's going to change that. and then, there's always the muse; that single image of fleeting beauty that keeps the fire alive. sunshine creeping through the window after a sleepless night that hit's the hair just right and sets the whole room ablaze with a piercing glow. it's time for travel.

cafe lula

two twenty-something young women seated across from one another, each one not looking at the other, talking on their cellphones and staring out the window.

office space.

i'm getting to the point where i have nightmares about my job every single night. something has to change.

friday night el ride.

friday night, about two in the morning. drunkenly ambling down division with a half-empty case of pabst tucked under one arm, the other draped around mike, telling some story too loudly and laughing while crossing in the middle of the street, forgetting to look both ways. we make our way down the stairwell into the blue line station, hoping that the attendant won't be there and we can hop the turnstile. alas, the attendant diligently mans his post. mike and steve have no cash, so i spring for their fares. even after eleven hours spent on my feet that day, waiting tables to the pseudo-bourgeois ranks suburbanites who like to treat those who serve them like members of an untouchable caste, money still just seems like paper to me. at this moment, lincoln and washington looking up at me from my raw hand forget the middle aged women that sat there on table eighteen for hours, sucking down one iced tea after another, splitting an entree, haggling for a free dessert, and ultimately leaving a sorry excuse for a tip--almost as if, in my eyes, they saw those of all the men that averted their gaze, never retuned a coy smile, and drove them to this: two middle aged hens pushing at the elastic of their waste-bands and drowning their sorrows in the finest unsweetened china black that the world had to offer. but lincoln and washington, they don't remember. they don't begrudge. they're just there to get me home. farecard in, farecard out. six dollars and three clicks of the turnstyle later, we're down in the tube.

it appears we've come at a good time. the station attendant tried to tell me that i couldn't bring the beer down into the train, but i bullshit something or other about the box not being an open container, merely a vessel for a collection of closed containers. either i was extremely witty and clever, or his fatigue and indifference for a job that overworked and underpaid him prevailed, so we made our way down the stairs with nothing more than a heavy sigh and i "well, i ain't seen shit, but don't say i ain't told y'all if the po-lice come on after you," from him. we make it down as a crowd nervously shuffles back and forth, waiting in partial silence for the next train to come. faces all point southbound, eyes transfixed on the tunnel. the tracks follow and vanish into darkness. ears strain to hear the rumble and roar of the oncoming train. toes tap, we're all just waiting. i look around and see faces; a dichotomy of those who have chosen to be out on this brisk night and those who just wish that they were home already. something about a man in soiled work clothes catches me off guard. cloth plastered to his body with dirt and the echoes of hard manual labor seems to droop towards the ground, bringing all of his limbs down in an eerily undead stance. however unwilling his body is to fight gravity, his eyes still maintain a steady, unwavering gaze. watching, waiting for that train. waiting to get home, quietly remove his boots, make sure not to close the door too loudly. maybe he has three children, their makeshift mattresses set up haphazardly about an apartment too small for two. fingers reaching out for their sleeping foreheads, fingers that curl back into the palm. he sheds his skin and washes in the sink. a shower would be too loud, would wake the mother, passed out in a bathrobe and a negligee with a bottle of gordon's keeping vigil over her on the nightstand. he sits in his recliner, the right side sunken in, the foot rest no longer lifts. he sleeps upright, head slightly craned down and to the right, arms rigid at his side.

the train finally comes. we all get on together, but it doesn't feel like it did on the street. all i can think about is those poor kids and that man and his gaze and i don't want to laugh anymore and i don't feel right carrying this case of beer and i can't believe i'm going to fall asleep drunk and happy in a warm bed surrounded by all the fruits of my youthful selfishness. there's nothing i can do. i crack another beer and laugh as steve does a drunken dance, a few passengers laughing, the other weary eyes cast towards the ground.