Snapped this with the camera phone on my way home tonight. Across the street at the AT&T store was a line that wrapped around the building.
It’s the last thing in the world I need, but oh how I want one!
* * *
current book: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
current music: Still stuck The Shins, actually.
current socks: It was actually cold today—mid 60s—so I wore socks with sneakers. Black socks with brightly colored cats on them. Merow!
I was trying to describe the ennui that follows the completion of a good book to Advisor, who responded by loaning me Hélène Cixous’ Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing. Behold:
Not everyone carries out the act of reading in the same way, but there is a manner of reading comparable to the act of writing—it’s an act that suppresses the world. We annihilate the world with a book. You take the book you have opened, either knowingly or unknowingly, but often with an intimation that this book may be an instrument of separation. As soon as you open the book as a door, you enter another world, you close the door on this world. Reading is escaping in broad daylight, it’s the rejection of the other; most of the time it’s a solitary act, exactly like writing. We don’t always think of this because we no longer read; we used to read when we were children and knew how violent reading could be. The book strikes a blow, but you, with your book, strike the outside world with an equal blow.
Yes. Exactly.
Thus begins another cycle of rereading Harry Potter, which I fear I’ve begun too early. Every time a new Harry Potter book comes out, I reread all the previous ones, but I never time it quite right. And so again I’ll frantically reread bits and pieces of the first six books over and over as I wait for book seven. The final book.
You know the feeling you get when you’ve finished a book that you’ve been completely absorbed by? There must be a word for this feeling, the feeling of being jerked rudely from a paper-and-ink world and slammed back into reality. I fear for it—I can only assume this time, when the series ends, the feeling will be many times magnified—come the third week of July, when Harry Potter finishes his last year at Hogwarts. And then what, Ms. Rowling? Now that you’ve got the world dancing on a pin, and we’re all aswirl in mixed-up emotions? Will you leave us with any promise of more Harry to come?
I think the last time I so dreaded and anticipated a book was when The Amber Spyglass was released, the third book in Philip Pullman’s brilliant His Dark Materials trilogy. But although Pullman’s books are more substantial than Rowling’s, and although Lyra and Will’s world is just as absorbing as Harry’s, the fact that there were only three books lessened the blow of finishing them.
And so I’m terrified to keep reading. It’s not just about what might happen to our beloved characters, it’s that their paper-and-ink world will soon be closed.
* * *
current book: Finishing The Sorcerer’s Stone and starting The Chamber of Secrets. How quickly it is already moving…
current music: The Shins’ Wincing the Night Away.
current run: Ten miles last Saturday, which felt much better in the cool, rainy weather. I just bought new running shoes tonight… sadly, they are lavender. Which is entirely too close to pink for my tastes. Why can’t they make running shoes like cars, where you can pick your model and color separately?
I was on the 63 bus late last night (yes, I know it’s unsafe), and a few blocks east of the Red Line, a young man ran up to the bus. The bus driver saw him coming and kept the doors open for him. He jumped on the bus and slapped the palms of his hands against his pants pockets as though he’d just realized he’d left his fare card at home. He loped down the center aisle of the bus and began talking. I at first assumed he was asking for change for the bus fare. Nope—he just wanted to bum a cigarette. A guy sitting behind me gave him one, and he loped back off the bus and disappeared into the ‘hood.
Everybody in the bus burst out laughing—this guy had actually stopped a bus just to bum a cigarette.
* * *
current book: Nearly done with On Beauty. I’m going to have to think about this one for awhile. It’s pretty remarkable. I love when authors can turn seeming ordinariness—the lives of families in an academic community near Boston, in this case—into something compelling and beautiful.
current music: I was on the 63 bus so late last night because I’d gone to see ESW, jaq’s boyfriend’s band. I’d only seen them once before, and that was at their second show ever. They were really great, and I was quite impressed with the number of weird noises Josh is able to make on his saxomaphone.
current socks: Dark blue with lavender polka dots.
Upon entering the Green Mill last night:
Bouncer: Did you already show your ID to the other guy?
Me: No. You wanna see my ID?
Bouncer makes a comment to the effect that I must be of legal age if I’m that excited to show him my ID.
Bouncer looks at my driver’s license: Wow. You are old.
I called my dad this morning to wish him a happy Father’s Day, and we had a nice little chat. I asked how his cat was doing—poor kitty got declawed recently, left bloody footprints all over my mom’s white carpet, and was grounded in the basement for several days.
Dad: Well, he’s got his piss n’ vinegar back now.
Me: Aww. Does he still snuggle?
Dad: Yup. Snuggles up next to me pretty near every night. I think he’s queer.
I laugh.
Dad: Your mom gets mad when I say that.
Me: Queer is actually an acceptable word these days.
Dad: That’s not why she gets mad.
Me: Because there could possibly be a homosexual cat in her house?
Dad: Exactly.
Me: Well, don’t tell her I’m going to Gay Pride next weekend.
Dad: Why’re you doin’ that?
Me: In support of all my gay friends?
Dad: Oh. That’s a pretty nice thing to do.
Me: I’m hoping to find a t-shirt that says “Straight Not Narrow.”
Dad ponders this and then laughs.
Dad: I like that! That’s pretty neat!
Pauses.
Dad: But don’t get me one.
I told him not to worry, but that I planned to wear it the next time I saw his sister, with whom I got in a big fight over homosexuality and pedophilia at Thanksgiving one year (yes, some people I’m related to still think they are the same thing). And if I find a toy dog-sized rainbow t-shirt, I’m totally buying it for their cat.
[I should also note for the sake of fairness, and also on the chance that, God forbid, they stumble across this, that my parents are less homophobic than they seem from this post.]
* * *
current book: Just got back from a poetry slam at the Green Mill. The always-wonderful Billy Lombardo is apparently there every Father’s Day, and he read some great poems about fatherhood. Also notable was a poem (performed by somebody whose name I’ve already forgotten) that brilliantly pulled together—I’m serious—”The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and Sugar Hill. My stomach still hurts from laughing so hard.
current music: Everything in general, nothing in particular. Lame, I know.
current socks run: Since it’s no longer sock weather, can I tell you about my runs? Hopefully by sidelining them like this, I’ll keep this from turning into a running blog. I did 9 miles on Saturday, and to be honest, it kind of sucked. It was the first day it was really hot and humid, and it was sneaky, too—it seemed pleasant at first, but then the humidity just crept up on you. I made it through but I sure hope my body adjusts to the heat soon. My quads are screaming.
The Chicago Botanic Garden has a series of advertisements that feature a large picture of what is presumably the CBG, across which is written “www.ohwow.org.”
They would be entirely more impressive if they weren’t so obviously photoshopped.
Another camera phone picture, so not that great, but maybe you can at least see the unusual depth of the photo as well as the oversaturated emerald greens. I know botanical gardens do in fact tend to be “oh wow” worthy, but please. This looks like a bad attempt at an HDR photo:
I biked to and from work today—WITHOUT CRASHING ONCE, although the Navy Pier Trolley did want a piece of me—and was surprised this morning by a cheery crew on the lake path around 31st Street. A guy in full bike regalia was yelling through a bullhorn for bikers to pull over for free water! free coffee! free vitamin water! And so I did the sensible thing and pulled over.
They were from the Chicago Bike Federation and were celebrating Bike to Work Week. One of the guys struck up a conversation with me, wanting to know how often I biked to work, and he told me a little bit about the bike federation and all the work they’ve done to make Chicago the bike-friendly city that it is. (When I lived in Indy, I biked to work every once in a great while, and feared for my life every second of it. You’d think the drivers had never seen a biker before. I am in awe of my friend Carol who takes her life in her hands several times a week.) As I biked off, a couple bike geeks had collected around the kiosk and were discussing which brand of pedal clips were best. I felt a little out of place; after all, I don’t even have spandex that matches.
But did I mention that I didn’t crash once in twenty-four miles? I think that’s badass enough for me.
* * *
current book: I think the only problem with biking to work is that I lose 40 minutes of reading time each day.
current music: The Shins’ Wincing the Night Away.
current socks: Just boring Smartwool® athletic socks. But they do have a bright orange racing stripe on them.
Taken with my camera phone last night around 8:30pm, shortly before catching part of Magic Slim and the Teardrops at the Chicago Blues Fest. I had planned on going to the Printers Row Book Fair this afternoon, but unfortunately, I didn’t make it. There’s almost too much going on in this city during the summer.
While my friends were in line for the Port-o-Potties at Blues Fest, I made friends with a horse named Night. Night’s police officer told me that all the CPD horses are male because they are “more trainable and docile. Just like us!” Har har, officer.
Today was the second day I biked to work, and also the second day I sustained a bike-related injury. I know that I’m Klutzy McFallsalot, but this is pretty bad luck.
I followed up last Friday’s twisted ankle with some good old fashioned flesh wounds. While trying (also for the second time) to find Company’s parking garage, my bike—I call her Gertrude—got stuck in a railroad track. She stopped; I didn’t. I skidded along the pavement on my right side, resulting in a gritty mess of skinned hands, elbows, and thighs. I don’t think I’ve skinned an elbow since I was nine or 10—it hurts!
Perhaps the lesson to be learned is to stick with nonvehicular exercise. As my friend Carol says, “biking is a full-on contact sport. It’s bike vs. world.” Yeah. World: 2, Gertrude: 0.
(I did finally find the parking garage, but only after three different people gave me the grand tour (because the spill wasn’t embarrassing enough? Now I’m going to go down in Company history as “that girl who couldn’t even find the parking garage!”).)
* * *
current book: On Beauty. Still wonderful.
current music: The sound of my own bitching all day.
current socks: Green sandals; but I was wearing athletic socks and shoes on the ride in the morning, so I can’t blame unstable shoes for my own clumsiness or for Gertrude’s inability to negotiate railroad tracks.
