Battle Wounds

There's a killer bruise on my right thigh, right on top. If this were shorts season, it would probably appear when I sat down. I got it Sunday night, trying to exit the Damen stop with a rolling suitcase, a duffel bag, and a messenger bag. I'm just terrible at schlepping things, and in my effort to push through the turnstile while managing all the bags, I misfired and nailed my thigh.

It's one of those bruises that I secretly love. It started forming immediately, and has changed colors each day. Yesterday, at its start, it showed all the colors: yellow, blue, purple, grey. Today it's a stormy blue-grey, to match the weather. I think I'm drawn to the colors of bruises, and to the instant gratification. Yes, I got hurt, and here is the proof, the mangled colors of muscle and blood and fat and whatever other tissue. I can feel the way my leg has changed, hardened, in that spot.

I registered yesterday for the last classes I need to complete my Master's. In June, I will be done with school and out of excuses for not working full-time. My diploma will be a bruise, a display that my brain muscles have changed, molded in spots. My student loans will be the proof that it hurt.

Beth's Favorite Things of 2008, though they may not have come out that year:

Bon Iver's For Emma
Blitzen Trapper, Furr
Shearwater, Rook (mostly the concert, but the album too)
Gilead by Marilynne Robinson (seeing her read too)
David Sedaris reading in January at the Steppenwolf, and his personalized book inscription
Cloud Cult, show at Schuba's in the spring and the "Meaning of 8" album
Hand-me-down coats, new down coats, and sales coats from Belmont Army
Brock O'Laughlin
Speed dating and all ensuing stories
The pink sandals I bought for $10 and wore all summer
Our housewarming party in Sept
Marrying off some of my besties
Dressing up as the Village People to go see Hercules and Love Affair
August vacations to Denver and the ever alluring Lake of the Ozarks
Visits from the fam
Every moment of the summer
Tall boots
Cooking and baking
The reinstatement of fried chicken and champagne
The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith
Freaks and Geeks

Winter Blues

Sike! I'm not actually that blue this winter. Busy replaces blue most days, truth be told, though yesterday's bitter, bitter cold was enough to make anyone want to give up.

Nope, I wanted to write about winter because I wanted to sing the praises of one Bon Iver. Being the lucky girl that I am, the main dilemma of my week is whether or not to attend the Bon Iver show this coming Thursday - do I cram one more thing into an already busy pre-Christmas week?

To help me decide, I listened to "For Emma, Forever Ago" twice today while working on some freelance writing at a coffee shop. (Yeah, I just name-dropped freelancing - what up.) From my extensive musical reading, I feel fairly confident in reporting that "For Emma" was recorded in lonely Wisconsin hunting cabin one winter. I don't know why it took me until the snow falling at Thanksgiving to realize that "For Emma" is the perfect accompaniment to everyone's least favorite season. Well, everyone except my weird dad and brothers. I still think they're lying about loving the cold.

The album, as far as I can tell, was written for Emma. Though maybe not forever ago. (haha, sorry I had to.) This lucky Emma, whoever she is, had the good fortune to break our Justin Vernon's heart (even Bon Iver has an alter ego). I think Vernon's biggest success is the fact that this chronically lyric-obssesed listener doesn't know, and worse yet, doesn't care about not knowing, half the lyrics on the album. (Though I must say that the lyrics that do strike me hit HOME.) This album is about the way Vernon's broken heart sounds in a lonely hunting cabin, surrounded by snow and self-doubt. It's hard for me to describe. There's a lot of slight, slight distortions and strummy guitar. Voices lay softly on top of each other and create a minor howl at times. It's awesome.

Last spring, I had heard snippets of the album, and decided to buy it. The next day, my friend was lucky enough to score us two tickets to one of Bon Iver's sold out shows at this tiny venue called the Lakeshore Theater. We're talking high school auditorium tiny. Really, she wasn't lucky. She just showed up a few hours before the show and bullied someone into selling her the tickets. She's awesome like that.

Anyway, it rained that night and I had to make the best of really wet feet and a frizzy head. After an obligatory two vodkas (I had to pay my friend back for the ticket, and I couldn't let her drink alone), she and I found seats in the tiny auditorium. Now, the Lakeshore Theater is primarily a venue for live comedy - stand up, revues, what have you. I had never been in before, and was fairly surprised to see that there was no standing area. It was just seats. After a funny little opener, Bon Iver took the stage.

Vernon had two other people on stage with him. One, the bass player, I recognized because one of the guys on All Songs Considered had said "The bass player looks like he's 16." Vernon apparently had met this kid because he taught him guitar. The other kid, a drummer, looked barely old enough to buy me a third vodka. Vernon looked like a man who'd spent a winter in a hunting cabin, writing songs that speak to my innermost heart. He was wearing a flannel shirt and a beard a few days (weeks?) old. Good enough to eat.

Then, he started playing. I think I realized I was holding my breath about three songs in. Four songs in, I realized that everyone else was holding their breath, too. The happy truth is, Vernon sounds as good live as he does on disc. His voice is amazing. I haven't been to a concert that made me feel like that since I saw Wilco in 2005, and I don't know that I've ever been to a concert with the same rapt intensity from the audience. It was like we all thought that Vernon thought that he was alone in a room, singing, and we didn't want to burst in on his privacy and break the spell. So we kept still.

I can't believe how lucky we were to get those last minute tickets. I saw Bon Iver again in July, at the Pitchfork Music Festival. He managed to cast his net over that crowd too, but it certainly wasn't the same as that churchly still Lakeshore Theater performance, on one of his first touring go-rounds. So I think I'll sit this week out. It's snowy, it's cold, and I have a house full of cookies. I can listen to the album in my warm bed, humidifier at hand like a true nerd.

Is This Desire? (To Bring You My Love)

There are days when I remember and rekindle my love of PJ Harvey. Today is one of those for a few reasons:

1. It is grey. It is cold. The wind is back and reminding me that I am an idiot for not locating my gloves yet. And above all, it is full-on dark at 5.45pm. Has been for nearly an hour.

2. I am in the library. I approach the library with mixed feelings, and debate giving this its own post. Right now, I am in my own private cubby, sitting on my feet of course and propped up enough to glimpse lights out the window next to this cubby. On my immediate right, the stacks. I look at these stacks and feel oddly comforted. On the other hand, behind me, two boys are debating the correct way to break down 3 x 4/3(pi). Even as I am thrust back to the comfort of my undergrad experience by the stacks, I am relieved by my exemption from it, from a world of boys who talk loudly in the library.

3. I am researching revision. If there were no PJ Harvey, I would be sleeping right now. Seriously, forcibly put to sleep by journals like "College English" and "Computers and Composition."

PJ Harvey is a little dark, a little soothing and a little scary all at the same time. She is pissed off and also condescending. She is, above all, in total control. So here I am, surrounded by too much work and not enough desire or time to finish it all. But it doesn't matter. Does PJ Harvey ever get the guy? Does he ever send his love to her? Probably not. But who cares?

Brush with Fame/Destiny/Bliss

Last Friday began, bright and sunny, to an alarm at an early hour. My days have lately taken on a routine: wake to alarm, ready self for work, call the temp agency, hear that they have no last-minute appointments, then wait for them to call back with that last-minute work that will help me pay the gas bill AND still be able to go out to dinner. Though Friday was no exception to this pattern, ending with no call, a part of me was secretly thrilled.

You see, on Friday, I had an alternate plan. My friend, a nanny, had charge of one baby instead of two. This meant she could move about town freely, and I could join her. We both found ourselves in the sad state of never having seen our beautiful city by boat, so an architectural boat tour it must be! After a few hours of reading and an episode of the Daily Show online, I dressed to meet my friend downtown. For some reason I felt festive, and dressed to the nines. I bounced out of the house and enjoyed every minute of my walk to the El, ipod and all.

I waited on the Damen platform in the sun, basking in the fall that was due to us through all of September's heat. A train came shortly, and I made my way to a standing perch halfway down an aisle.

I soon began the business of observing people and trying to avoid being observed doing this. The fellow in the seat in front of me, dressed in fatigues, was my first subject, on account of his terrible gum smacking. Ugh. Next I scanned the ads on the slopes of the car's ceiling, then looked down the aisle at the lucky few who had scored standing room in the coveted spots by the doors. A guy with a large backpack, a very hipster looking girl, and... the bassist from Wilco.

Fuck. It's John Stirratt. John Stirratt is on my train. Though I haven't seen Wilco an obsessive number of times, I've seen them a few different places. I also may or may not have seen and loved "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart." Stirratt always sticks out to me, because he looks like a kid I went to college with. Wilco has held a special place in my heart since September 2005, the first time I saw them and the first moment I remember feeling good in my haze of post-graduation depression that summer of 2005.

I feel my eyes grow in circumference and my mouth fall open an inch or so. I quickly look away and immediately begin sweating. I mean, sweating. I think for a second I may faint in this hot train car, which has by now made its way underground en route to downtown. My hand slips and slides its sweaty way down the pole. "Pull it together Beth." I take a big breath and will myself to calm down. It works a little.

I sneak another glance, because maybe it's not him. Oh no, oh yes, it's him. It's definitely him. I inch my way down the aisle, an easy task because for some reason Fatigues Gum Smacker has left his seat and is crowding me all the way down to the area by the doors. I have the distinct feeling he's trying to graze my ass with his hand, with his backpack, with anything at his disposal. I squirm around and find myself not six inches from Stirratt. I put both slippery hands on the pole and try for some subtle observation. He is wearing nice jeans, camel-colored suede shoes that look pretty comfy, and a jean jacket over a tshirt of unremembered color. He looks pretty tan, and up close he is older than I expected, closer to my parents' age than mine.

What to do? My brain runs circles, but the one thing I know is that I will never stop regretting it if I don't say anything. I look at my fellow passengers and wonder a) why the hell they don't recognize this ROCK STAR on our train, and b) how badly I'll be embarrassed if these people hear me geeking out over this unassuming man who is just trying to live his Friday.

I formulate a plan. When we get to my stop, at Clark and Lake streets, there is a likelihood that he'll exit the train. There are always a lot of people who do. I will step off the car slightly behind him, catch up to him, and try to gush without looking like a creepy stalker. I will tell him that I love Wilco, and I love Chicago. But then we come to Clark and Lake, and he makes no sign of leaving the train. I take advantage of our slow approach to dive in before I can overthink it.

"Hi." I smile in my nicest, least creepy way.
"Hi," he smiles back, friendly as all get out, and looks away.
"I'm sorry, but are you...?" I trail off, not wanting to mispronounce his name.
"Oh, yeah. Yes, I'm in Wilco." He sees that he is not going to get away with so little conversation. "How are you?" He smiles again.
"I'm great, how are you?" I'm beaming.
"Good, thanks. Thanks for listening."
"Oh, I just... nice work!" Oh lord. I pause, looking for something, anything, better than 'Nice work.' "So, do you live in the city year-round?"
He is the nicest person alive. "Yes, I'm just up in Logan Square."
"Oh cool! How fun! I just moved to Bucktown." I'm blowing it and I don't even care. We've come to my stop, and I have to jump out before the doors close. "Go Blue Line! Have a good day!" is all I can manage before leaping out the doors, smiling smiling smiling. I walk to the exit, ride the escalator up to street level, smiling smiling.

I'm smiling, even though my head is saying, "Go Blue Line?" (I'm reminded of a time-honored tradition in girl world - "I carried a watermelon?") I reach the street, phone in my shaking hand, and call the friend that I know will appreciate this best in the world. "Beth," he says about two minutes into my mad recounting, "I can't understand a word you're saying." I suppose shrill doesn't translate well to the phone. I meet my girlfriend on the river, dance around her and the stroller, telling and retelling her about my new favorite Chicago moment.

Saint Mary of the Angels

September has, once again, proven to keep me busy. Most of the month's preoccupations have been centered on our new apartment, and most happily. After a few weeks of house-arranging flurry, we finally got ourselves to the good part: a housewarming party. I must say, with all due modesty, that it was quite the event. With three roommates, and our powers combined, we drew a fabulous crowd. A packed house, a lot of booze, and even a love connection or two amongst our guests made us all very pleased with ourselves both during the party and in these days following.

Hosting parties is something that brings me enormous pleasure, and I've often wondered why. I think probably the combination of the stimulus and the constant attention is a pleasing one for me. I've come to realize that I really do love working a room; bouncing from person to person and feeling that I have something to say to each. When you're hosting, you never get stuck too long in the corner with the person who wants to talk about his rock collection, or the ex-boyfriend that she is just better off without. There's always the next guest you have to greet, the music crisis to be solved, the corkscrew that only you can find. It's a big cocoon of people who came to see you and talk to you and have fun with you. Loud, alcohol-soaked fun.

The fun does wear off a little when it's 4am and you're pushing that last group of dudes, friends of a friend's friend, out the door. But then there are stories to be told, cans to be picked up, and all of Saturday to sleep and loll around and repeat all the funny stories over and over again. My college roommate came to visit this weekend, and she woke up exclaiming about how fun Chicago is. Even Saturday's trip to the super-hip dance club felt a little anti-climatic after all of Friday's hullaballoo.

But today is Sunday. The house is mostly clean, the fridge almost devoid of beer, and homework waits to my left. Friday's Indian Summer heat finally left and we didn't break 70 today. It's fall - it smells like leaves and everything feels cozier. The guests are gone, and KC and I had a nice "reading time" (read: nap time) on the couch before an impromptu beer in the hood.

Our new neighborhood, in addition to having several most interesting bars, is home to a gorgeous old church. I have walked past it a few times, and ascertained that it is indeed Catholic. So tonight, after the fortifying beer, I walked up the somewhat imposing stairs and found a seat for the 7:15 Mass. The church proved as beautiful on the inside as on the outside, though not as quiet.

I wish I could say something about connecting with Mass, but the service was overly traditional for my tastes. I can say, though, that the hour was not a wasted one. After all these years of neglect, there's still something comforting for me in a Catholic Mass. Though I usually don't get much out of the actual content, the ritual of the thing is familiar, and in putting me on autopilot it lets me get some good thinking done. An interesting cap to a standout weekend, if nothing else. After all the performing, all the talking, and laughing and dancing, it was certainly a relief to sit anonymously, with no one to please but myself. I guess they can't all be parties.

This time of year

I generally keep track of time by summers. This was the summer I went to that place, the other the summer I turned 21, the next the one where I dated that friend of this guy.

I'm packing for a trip today, which involves quite a feat of precision. In scanning my tank tops, I saw one I remembered buying before a particular summer trip to the left coast. The shirt and the memories immediately threw me back to that trip, but I won't bore the reader with those emotional details. Instead, the shirt brings another kind of revelation - so many summers have passed in a certain adult/pre-adult period of my life that I cannot keep them separate.

Let me explain. The trip from which the shirt originated took place in Summer 2006. In packing for my trip now, Summer 2008, it took several steps to uncover the right date for this fated shirt's trip. It feels like too many people overlap, like I spent too many summers with too many of the same thoughts, and now they've grown to a blur.

I've been out of college for over three years. (This is another handy measure of my time - how long has it been since the safe haven of college?) When that gap was only two, it was easy to pick tiny details from their appropriate year. Now the years are three, and it still seems I spent them loving the same person, taking the same trip in two variations, waiting in the same sweltering months for the same visits over and over.

Likewise, the years in college take on more of a graininess. Instead of taking that trip to NY the summer after my junior year, it simply becomes a trip I took one summer in college. Lake trips are virtually indistinguishable, and trying to place the night I saw Wilco or Regina Spektor or (hehehe) Tom Petty in the sweltering heat becomes a certain impossibility.

I read a short story last night in which a character has a total recall that makes every "memory" a part of her very real present. Here's a bit from author Deborah Eisenberg:

"No act of mind or the psyche was needed for Sharon to reclaim anything, because nothing in her brain ever sifted down out of precedence. The passage of time failed to distance, blur, or diminish her experiences. The nacreous layers that formed around the events in one's history to smoothe, distinguish, and beautify them never materialized around Sharon's; her history skittered here and there in its original sharp grains on a depthless plane that resembled neither calendar nor clock."

First of all, this is gorgeous, and I'm realizing now that it must have stuck with me and catalyzed this train of thought without my recognizing it til halfway through. I'm finding a lot of comfort from this passage, and its ability to paint this recall as sharp and painful. At the same time, it's a punch in the stomach. How does our brain decide that it's time to smooth, to beautify, to forget? Why does summer ever have to end?