Friday, August 26, 2005
Announcement
Rather than miss any more e-mails because I didn't check one account or the other, I'm shifting over to a single e-mail address. From now on, please use gladys_j_cortezNO_SPAM@yahoo.com (except take the NO_SPAM out--I'm just trying to avoid the webcrawlers here) instead of the grungecafe.com address. Thanks!
A Dilemma, of Sorts
Anonymous blogging has been the salvation of my existence, really, and I'm not quite exaggerating when I say that. Under my nom de blog, I've been able to write about my family, my relationships, and my former job with impunity, and to talk freely about things which I would never be able to say under my real name. It's been, at times, the only voice I've had, a sorely-needed safety valve during some pretty sour moments.
Along the way a funny thing has happened; Gladys the blogger has developed a distinct personality of her own. She's been described as "feisty", which is not an adjective that would ever be applied to my real-life persona. In real life I'm shy, non-assertive, opinionated as hell, but only when no one can hear me; I back off from confrontations and avoid uncomfortable interactions--which is to say, all of them. Gladys is...well, feisty. Gladys is the person I always imagine myself to be when I'm behind the wheel of my car, which, since I've been old enough to drive, has always been the time I've felt most powerful. Gladys is an echo of the woman I was when I was with JP, strong and capable and unafraid.
No one in my real life, except Firefly, knows of Gladys's existence. LJ is oblivious, which is fine with me, I guess; I wouldn't want him reading this, but I wish he cared enough to be nosy. There was a close call with one of my new co-workers; I found his name in the comment section of one of the posts at Eric Zorn's blog the day after EZ quoted my post about Aria's death--and I'd left work the day before telling everyone I had a sick cat!! He didn't make the connection, though, and as of today he's no longer a co-worker. (That's another story, probably another post.) But other than that, my real life and Gladys's electronic life only intersect in one place: me.
I am tempted, however, to change that very slightly.
The Brit was away on vacation for a week, and Monday when he returned he told me that while they were on vacation, he'd proposed to his longtime girlfriend and she'd accepted. I swallowed the chunks of my broken heart long enough to congratulate him (sincerely--he seems mostly happy with her, and that's the important thing) and then we went back to our usual chatter and subversion. I still flirt a little, of course, but that's what I do with most of my male friends; it's just playful, mixed in with all the real conversation. Mostly now we talk about current events, my old workplace, politics and philosophy--same as always, really.
Every month, Eric Zorn (from the Tribune) does a month-in-review piece in his blog, Change of Subject. The bloggers he recruits as contributors have traditionally been more the news-oriented or political bloggers. But apparently he's trying to expand that somewhat, because this past week I was invited to contribute for the month-in-review at the end of September. And of course, I'm going to seize the opportunity; despite the largely-personal tone of this blog, I'm really a huge news nerd.
Which brings me to my dilemma. I would love love love for the Brit to know about this. I would love for him to be able to read my musings on the news and politics in a forum more prestigious than our little e-mail correspondence. (Yeah, I'm vain. I never said I wasn't.) But to make that possible, I'd have to tell him about Gladys. And if he knows about Gladys, he'll be able to find this blog; and if he finds this blog, he'll know about my huge unrequited crush.
I don't think it matters, exactly; after all, he's officially engaged now and that's a big hands-off, in my way of thinking; "dating" is one thing, but "engaged"...well, that's like "we really mean it!" And now that it's officially impossible, I'd be less embarrassed about having my crush revealed. But the point of this type of pseudonymous writing is that NOBODY knows who you are; I was conflicted enough about letting ONE person know the existence of my blog. (Not because I don't trust Firefly--she knows all my gory details anyway, up to and including an unfortunate wardrobe moment back in college involving dark-colored striped underwear and light-colored polka-dot shorts, and if she hasn't ever blackmailed me with THAT story, she's worthy of my eternal trust.) But just because I want to be free to write about EVERYTHING...which is why I'm hesitant to bring the Brit into the little nest I've built here. After all--what if I one day decide I'm NOT over it? Or what if my continued carnivorous ways bring him to the end of his patience and he spitefully reveals my true identity shortly after we end our friendship in a hail of accusations and invective? (Okay, that would never actually happen--he's not an evangelical vegan, though he has tried to persuade me of the error of my ways--but you see what I mean. The more people know who Gladys is, the less control I have of my anonymity.)
But I really really really would love for him to know about my Zorn contribution, when it happens; I'm just really proud to have been asked. And it's just the sort of thing he and I discuss all the time, so I think he'd be impressed.
I suppose I could tell him about it and exact a promise that he won't click on any links or do any Googling or try to investigate anything else about it; he's an honorable guy, and I'm sure if he promised, he'd follow through.
Still, it seems risky. Fortunately, I've got a month or so to think about it. Opinions, anyone?
Along the way a funny thing has happened; Gladys the blogger has developed a distinct personality of her own. She's been described as "feisty", which is not an adjective that would ever be applied to my real-life persona. In real life I'm shy, non-assertive, opinionated as hell, but only when no one can hear me; I back off from confrontations and avoid uncomfortable interactions--which is to say, all of them. Gladys is...well, feisty. Gladys is the person I always imagine myself to be when I'm behind the wheel of my car, which, since I've been old enough to drive, has always been the time I've felt most powerful. Gladys is an echo of the woman I was when I was with JP, strong and capable and unafraid.
No one in my real life, except Firefly, knows of Gladys's existence. LJ is oblivious, which is fine with me, I guess; I wouldn't want him reading this, but I wish he cared enough to be nosy. There was a close call with one of my new co-workers; I found his name in the comment section of one of the posts at Eric Zorn's blog the day after EZ quoted my post about Aria's death--and I'd left work the day before telling everyone I had a sick cat!! He didn't make the connection, though, and as of today he's no longer a co-worker. (That's another story, probably another post.) But other than that, my real life and Gladys's electronic life only intersect in one place: me.
I am tempted, however, to change that very slightly.
The Brit was away on vacation for a week, and Monday when he returned he told me that while they were on vacation, he'd proposed to his longtime girlfriend and she'd accepted. I swallowed the chunks of my broken heart long enough to congratulate him (sincerely--he seems mostly happy with her, and that's the important thing) and then we went back to our usual chatter and subversion. I still flirt a little, of course, but that's what I do with most of my male friends; it's just playful, mixed in with all the real conversation. Mostly now we talk about current events, my old workplace, politics and philosophy--same as always, really.
Every month, Eric Zorn (from the Tribune) does a month-in-review piece in his blog, Change of Subject. The bloggers he recruits as contributors have traditionally been more the news-oriented or political bloggers. But apparently he's trying to expand that somewhat, because this past week I was invited to contribute for the month-in-review at the end of September. And of course, I'm going to seize the opportunity; despite the largely-personal tone of this blog, I'm really a huge news nerd.
Which brings me to my dilemma. I would love love love for the Brit to know about this. I would love for him to be able to read my musings on the news and politics in a forum more prestigious than our little e-mail correspondence. (Yeah, I'm vain. I never said I wasn't.) But to make that possible, I'd have to tell him about Gladys. And if he knows about Gladys, he'll be able to find this blog; and if he finds this blog, he'll know about my huge unrequited crush.
I don't think it matters, exactly; after all, he's officially engaged now and that's a big hands-off, in my way of thinking; "dating" is one thing, but "engaged"...well, that's like "we really mean it!" And now that it's officially impossible, I'd be less embarrassed about having my crush revealed. But the point of this type of pseudonymous writing is that NOBODY knows who you are; I was conflicted enough about letting ONE person know the existence of my blog. (Not because I don't trust Firefly--she knows all my gory details anyway, up to and including an unfortunate wardrobe moment back in college involving dark-colored striped underwear and light-colored polka-dot shorts, and if she hasn't ever blackmailed me with THAT story, she's worthy of my eternal trust.) But just because I want to be free to write about EVERYTHING...which is why I'm hesitant to bring the Brit into the little nest I've built here. After all--what if I one day decide I'm NOT over it? Or what if my continued carnivorous ways bring him to the end of his patience and he spitefully reveals my true identity shortly after we end our friendship in a hail of accusations and invective? (Okay, that would never actually happen--he's not an evangelical vegan, though he has tried to persuade me of the error of my ways--but you see what I mean. The more people know who Gladys is, the less control I have of my anonymity.)
But I really really really would love for him to know about my Zorn contribution, when it happens; I'm just really proud to have been asked. And it's just the sort of thing he and I discuss all the time, so I think he'd be impressed.
I suppose I could tell him about it and exact a promise that he won't click on any links or do any Googling or try to investigate anything else about it; he's an honorable guy, and I'm sure if he promised, he'd follow through.
Still, it seems risky. Fortunately, I've got a month or so to think about it. Opinions, anyone?
I've Been Tagged!
Well, thanks to Ka, I have been hit with a flying meme. This is the "5-songs-you're-currently-digging" meme, and I am warning you all that it's not gonna be pretty.
The challenge: List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.
"Remedy"--Seether: Because it ROCKS MY LAME ASS, that's why.
"Golddigger"--Kanye West
"And Then What"--Young Jeezy
"Sidewayz"--Paul Wall:
I'm lumping these three together as one choice because their explanations are all the same, and it's an extensive rationale.
First: this is what I hear at home.
Second: The current state of rock makes me want to weep hysterically and beg for someone who Gets It to come and save it. Rap at least has something VAGUELY authentic about it still.
Third: Most of my exposure to music right now comes in the car on the way to and from work. On the way to work, of course, there is nothing but morning-show crap on the radio.
(Warning: big tangent approaching!)
I have six presets on my radio. There's WXRT, which plays music but is yuppie-intensive. Not that I have anything against Rachel Yamagata or the White Stripes, but enough is enough sometimes. There's WZZN, which is the local rock station. They play SOME music in the morning but they also have Sludge and Brian, who routinely cause me to despair of the male half of the species with their constant humorless misogyny, largely directed at fat and/or ugly girls. Being fat AND ugly, I take this personally. Preset number three is Q101, which I love during most of the day but which is completely out of the question during morning drive thanks to Manc0w, who I loathe more than at least one of my ex-husbands. Preset number 6 is The Mix, an "adult rock" station which is barely tolerable during regular hours, but which is occupied in the early by "Eric 'n' Kathy", morning-drive pap of the most wretched sort. This leaves me presets number 4 and 5: Power 92 and WGCI. These are the "urban" stations. Power92 is the harder one, more rap, less R&B, and they have Boolu Master, possibly the best mix DJ I've ever heard in my life. WGCI is a little softer--more R. Kelly, more Usher, more slow jams. Both stations have some degree of goofy morning crap, but it's nowhere near as offensive to me as the Sludge and Brian or Manc0w stuff. There's no putdowns, or not as harsh; they're not as vulgar. (Not that I have anything against vulgarity, but I'm dead-set against incivil generalizations and mindless stripper jokes.) And this is the music they play. I like the Kanye song because no matter how evil it is, it's also true: there are people like that. The Paul Wall song is just fun, and Young Jeezy, besides having the best logo EVER, has also (intentionally or otherwise) copped the beat from Queen's "We Are The Champions". What's not to love? Besides the rampant drug-dealing references and lots of cussin', that is. (Oh, wait--that IS what I love.)
"Stay As You Are"--Span: I have never actually heard this whole song, and chances are good I never will; it's by a band from Norway with no deal in the States. But it's featured in a car commercial--until I went and looked it up, I wouldn't have remembered the brand of car, but it's apparently a Nissan XTerra. Anyway, I liked the sound of the song, and liked it even more when I read the lyrics.
"Hangin' By A Moment"--Lifehouse: Yeah, yeah, I know. Even I am occasionally susceptible to schmaltz.
"Pump It Up"--Elvis Costello: C'mon. It just rules. And it's a WAY better song-about-masturbation than that overrated "Turning Japanese".
And breaking with my streak of being Where Memes Go To Die, these are the five people I'm gonna tag:
Spinsterwitch dagnabbit, Swiss Toni got there first. :::sigh:::
Firefly
eatmisery
Brandon
YGWIN
Sugarcane
Good luck, have fun, etcetera.
The challenge: List five songs that you are currently digging - it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and the five songs (with artist) in your blog. Then tag five people to see what they're listening to.
"Remedy"--Seether: Because it ROCKS MY LAME ASS, that's why.
"Golddigger"--Kanye West
"And Then What"--Young Jeezy
"Sidewayz"--Paul Wall:
I'm lumping these three together as one choice because their explanations are all the same, and it's an extensive rationale.
First: this is what I hear at home.
Second: The current state of rock makes me want to weep hysterically and beg for someone who Gets It to come and save it. Rap at least has something VAGUELY authentic about it still.
Third: Most of my exposure to music right now comes in the car on the way to and from work. On the way to work, of course, there is nothing but morning-show crap on the radio.
(Warning: big tangent approaching!)
I have six presets on my radio. There's WXRT, which plays music but is yuppie-intensive. Not that I have anything against Rachel Yamagata or the White Stripes, but enough is enough sometimes. There's WZZN, which is the local rock station. They play SOME music in the morning but they also have Sludge and Brian, who routinely cause me to despair of the male half of the species with their constant humorless misogyny, largely directed at fat and/or ugly girls. Being fat AND ugly, I take this personally. Preset number three is Q101, which I love during most of the day but which is completely out of the question during morning drive thanks to Manc0w, who I loathe more than at least one of my ex-husbands. Preset number 6 is The Mix, an "adult rock" station which is barely tolerable during regular hours, but which is occupied in the early by "Eric 'n' Kathy", morning-drive pap of the most wretched sort. This leaves me presets number 4 and 5: Power 92 and WGCI. These are the "urban" stations. Power92 is the harder one, more rap, less R&B, and they have Boolu Master, possibly the best mix DJ I've ever heard in my life. WGCI is a little softer--more R. Kelly, more Usher, more slow jams. Both stations have some degree of goofy morning crap, but it's nowhere near as offensive to me as the Sludge and Brian or Manc0w stuff. There's no putdowns, or not as harsh; they're not as vulgar. (Not that I have anything against vulgarity, but I'm dead-set against incivil generalizations and mindless stripper jokes.) And this is the music they play. I like the Kanye song because no matter how evil it is, it's also true: there are people like that. The Paul Wall song is just fun, and Young Jeezy, besides having the best logo EVER, has also (intentionally or otherwise) copped the beat from Queen's "We Are The Champions". What's not to love? Besides the rampant drug-dealing references and lots of cussin', that is. (Oh, wait--that IS what I love.)
"Stay As You Are"--Span: I have never actually heard this whole song, and chances are good I never will; it's by a band from Norway with no deal in the States. But it's featured in a car commercial--until I went and looked it up, I wouldn't have remembered the brand of car, but it's apparently a Nissan XTerra. Anyway, I liked the sound of the song, and liked it even more when I read the lyrics.
"Hangin' By A Moment"--Lifehouse: Yeah, yeah, I know. Even I am occasionally susceptible to schmaltz.
"Pump It Up"--Elvis Costello: C'mon. It just rules. And it's a WAY better song-about-masturbation than that overrated "Turning Japanese".
And breaking with my streak of being Where Memes Go To Die, these are the five people I'm gonna tag:
Firefly
eatmisery
Brandon
YGWIN
Sugarcane
Good luck, have fun, etcetera.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
:::low growl:::::
(Pardon the caps...)
I AM TIRED OF READING ABOUT EVERYONE ELSE'S HAPPY SEX LIFE.
Thank you.
--GC
I AM TIRED OF READING ABOUT EVERYONE ELSE'S HAPPY SEX LIFE.
Thank you.
--GC
Saturday, August 20, 2005
All of You, Stop It, Right NOW!
I would like to take a moment here to register my extreme pissed-offedness at a class of people who are rapidly joining ex-husbands and spammers in my "Hell's Too Good For 'Em" club:
...the people who are causing some of my favorite bloggers to stop blogging, change identities, move their blogs, or moderate their writing. I'm going to call these disruptive snerts "BlogFuckers".
In the past couple of months:
Firefly's blog got read by her ex, and she stopped blogging for a while, though she's back now and I'm glad she didn't let the asshelmet stop her.
YogaGrl has some real-life jerk making her self-conscious enough to "hold back".
Christine almost shut her blog down for good, thanks to some idiot(s) commenting on HER blog. She came back too, but she had to turn off anonymous comments.
Last week WorkingNobpretty much deactivated his blog, and the blog written by his girlfriend Incndnz and the blog the two of them co-wrote have been completely de-listed, thanks to some jackasses at his job who "stumbled" on Nob's blog and--RATHER than be honest about it--waited for the inevitable day when he mentioned one of them in a post.
And today I went to read Hyde's blog and found a change-of-address, e-mail-me-for-access notice. Dunno what happened there, but I can halfway guess.
I understand that blogs, like all else in this world, are transient, ephemeral things. And I respect the reasons that cause people to quit blogging: outside time constraints, maybe, or boredom with the medium, or any of the other billion things that might suddenly be more interesting or urgent. Sometimes people get too busy living life to write about it anymore--that's great for them!!!
What I can't understand are the people who feel the need to take it upon themselves to curtail another person's expression. I've read all the articles about "blogs can bite"--that was largely the reason I chose to use a pseudonym--but all these people blogged anonymously as well. I've been very careful not to reveal the existence of a blog to anyone who might then take it upon themselves to go looking for it (I told the Brit I had one, and if HE finds it I'm taking it as a sign) or to provide concrete, identifiable details that could reveal my identity to anyone I know who might find it. But I consider this MY space; I say what I want to say here, and sometimes I push the envelope a little. I have written things that I would prefer not to have the subject read (everything about my non-Brit ex-coworkers, for example, and most of the stuff about my family) but if they DID read those things, if they DID get offended by the things I'd written, I have to say I'd frame it as their problem, not so much mine. Not that I wouldn't feel bad for having offended them--I don't want to offend anyone I know personally, though I'm perfectly happy to piss off total strangers--but here's the thing:
If I were reading a blog and suddenly began to suspect that it belonged to someone I knew in real life, I would probably be tempted to read further to see if I was mentioned. That's human nature, I think (although I may just be an incurable narcissist). But if this person was writing under a pseudonym, I think I would also stop myself long enough to wonder if they WANTED me to read it. (After all--if they're not writing under their real name, and they never mentioned it to me directly, maybe it's not something they want to share.) And if, while reading this hypothetical blog, I chose not to err on the side of privacy and I continued reading, and discovered that I was mentioned negatively...I'd be pissed, sure, but I think I'd realize that -I- was in the wrong here, not the writer. (It would be different if the writer was a close friend--I'd wonder then why they hadn't talked to me directly, instead of talking badly about me in a blog. Friends are different from co-workers, casual acquaintances, etc.)
I've said this to more than one of my friends, and it holds true in this situation as well: If you don't want to know the answer, it's best not to ask the question. If you find identifiers of someone you know in a blog you haven't specifically been invited to read, you can stop reading. If you don't stop, you--not the writer!--become responsible for your reactions to what you read.
People who do keep reading, IMHO, forfeit their right to react to what they read--or at least, their right to react to it in a way that compromises the writer's willingness or ability to express their opinions. Picking a fight with them, or creating a "hater" blog, or leaving rude or threatening anonymous comments (these assholes almost ALWAYS hide behind "anonymous", don't they?), or telling details of the writer's real life which they haven't shared on the blog, or expressing their displeasure on their blog in ANY way--well, that right there is the definition of a BlogFucker.
And if you ask me, Hell's too good for 'em.
...the people who are causing some of my favorite bloggers to stop blogging, change identities, move their blogs, or moderate their writing. I'm going to call these disruptive snerts "BlogFuckers".
In the past couple of months:
Firefly's blog got read by her ex, and she stopped blogging for a while, though she's back now and I'm glad she didn't let the asshelmet stop her.
YogaGrl has some real-life jerk making her self-conscious enough to "hold back".
Christine almost shut her blog down for good, thanks to some idiot(s) commenting on HER blog. She came back too, but she had to turn off anonymous comments.
Last week WorkingNob
And today I went to read Hyde's blog and found a change-of-address, e-mail-me-for-access notice. Dunno what happened there, but I can halfway guess.
I understand that blogs, like all else in this world, are transient, ephemeral things. And I respect the reasons that cause people to quit blogging: outside time constraints, maybe, or boredom with the medium, or any of the other billion things that might suddenly be more interesting or urgent. Sometimes people get too busy living life to write about it anymore--that's great for them!!!
What I can't understand are the people who feel the need to take it upon themselves to curtail another person's expression. I've read all the articles about "blogs can bite"--that was largely the reason I chose to use a pseudonym--but all these people blogged anonymously as well. I've been very careful not to reveal the existence of a blog to anyone who might then take it upon themselves to go looking for it (I told the Brit I had one, and if HE finds it I'm taking it as a sign) or to provide concrete, identifiable details that could reveal my identity to anyone I know who might find it. But I consider this MY space; I say what I want to say here, and sometimes I push the envelope a little. I have written things that I would prefer not to have the subject read (everything about my non-Brit ex-coworkers, for example, and most of the stuff about my family) but if they DID read those things, if they DID get offended by the things I'd written, I have to say I'd frame it as their problem, not so much mine. Not that I wouldn't feel bad for having offended them--I don't want to offend anyone I know personally, though I'm perfectly happy to piss off total strangers--but here's the thing:
If I were reading a blog and suddenly began to suspect that it belonged to someone I knew in real life, I would probably be tempted to read further to see if I was mentioned. That's human nature, I think (although I may just be an incurable narcissist). But if this person was writing under a pseudonym, I think I would also stop myself long enough to wonder if they WANTED me to read it. (After all--if they're not writing under their real name, and they never mentioned it to me directly, maybe it's not something they want to share.) And if, while reading this hypothetical blog, I chose not to err on the side of privacy and I continued reading, and discovered that I was mentioned negatively...I'd be pissed, sure, but I think I'd realize that -I- was in the wrong here, not the writer. (It would be different if the writer was a close friend--I'd wonder then why they hadn't talked to me directly, instead of talking badly about me in a blog. Friends are different from co-workers, casual acquaintances, etc.)
I've said this to more than one of my friends, and it holds true in this situation as well: If you don't want to know the answer, it's best not to ask the question. If you find identifiers of someone you know in a blog you haven't specifically been invited to read, you can stop reading. If you don't stop, you--not the writer!--become responsible for your reactions to what you read.
People who do keep reading, IMHO, forfeit their right to react to what they read--or at least, their right to react to it in a way that compromises the writer's willingness or ability to express their opinions. Picking a fight with them, or creating a "hater" blog, or leaving rude or threatening anonymous comments (these assholes almost ALWAYS hide behind "anonymous", don't they?), or telling details of the writer's real life which they haven't shared on the blog, or expressing their displeasure on their blog in ANY way--well, that right there is the definition of a BlogFucker.
And if you ask me, Hell's too good for 'em.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Visitors
So, as I half-suspected, the past few days worth of despair has been brought to me by the letters P, M, and S. What fun. After 20 years with PCOS, where if I didn't take my pills I'd go six, eight, ten months without a visit from "Auntie Flo"--now, all of a sudden everything's "normal". I didn't know gallbladder surgery had any effect on the female reproductive system, but evidently that shows how much I know. At any rate, I'm clearly not used to this being-a-woman stuff yet.
I'm not, even in the throes of PMS, generally susceptible to superstition. I sometimes wonder if my skepticism hasn't cost me; my less-cynical friends talk of visitations from beyond, long-dead relatives or even strangers who speak to them sometimes. And while I don't laugh at them--who knows what is or isn't true?--I don't necessarily believe, either.
So I can't exactly explain what happened to me last night; I especially can't quite explain it because to explain exactly how it came about would be a clear case of Too Much Information. Let's just say that last night was 14 years to the day since I met JP, and last night as I lay in bed feeling all alone and sorry for myself I had...a vision, I guess I'd call it if I weren't such a damn skeptic; as a damn skeptic I'll just call it a memory, I guess, though that doesn't quite do the power of it justice; because suddenly I was hit by the sharpest grief I can remember ever feeling for him, and when I started crying it was totally uncontrolled, the kind of sobs with the ugly little squeaking noises in them, the kind you can't throttle back on even if you try.
A memory with odd and extremely coincidental timing, because when I opened my eyes a moment later and blinked away the tears for a second, I noticed the clock:
11:10. JP's time of death.
I didn't sleep too well last night; it took forever to drift off, and morning came too soon. I've figured out a lot over the past two days, not all of it comforting or comfortable. I don't like who I've become, and the trend seems to be heading in the wrong direction.
I think I need to make some changes, and I'm not completely sure of what they are.
I'm not, even in the throes of PMS, generally susceptible to superstition. I sometimes wonder if my skepticism hasn't cost me; my less-cynical friends talk of visitations from beyond, long-dead relatives or even strangers who speak to them sometimes. And while I don't laugh at them--who knows what is or isn't true?--I don't necessarily believe, either.
So I can't exactly explain what happened to me last night; I especially can't quite explain it because to explain exactly how it came about would be a clear case of Too Much Information. Let's just say that last night was 14 years to the day since I met JP, and last night as I lay in bed feeling all alone and sorry for myself I had...a vision, I guess I'd call it if I weren't such a damn skeptic; as a damn skeptic I'll just call it a memory, I guess, though that doesn't quite do the power of it justice; because suddenly I was hit by the sharpest grief I can remember ever feeling for him, and when I started crying it was totally uncontrolled, the kind of sobs with the ugly little squeaking noises in them, the kind you can't throttle back on even if you try.
A memory with odd and extremely coincidental timing, because when I opened my eyes a moment later and blinked away the tears for a second, I noticed the clock:
11:10. JP's time of death.
I didn't sleep too well last night; it took forever to drift off, and morning came too soon. I've figured out a lot over the past two days, not all of it comforting or comfortable. I don't like who I've become, and the trend seems to be heading in the wrong direction.
I think I need to make some changes, and I'm not completely sure of what they are.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Quiet
Sorry it's been so quiet here. To be perfectly honest, I haven't been doing so well.
I don't know what it is, exactly, but nothing seems to make me happy. And if THAT's not the whiniest GenX slacker sentence I've ever typed...but it's true. And it's not so much my own life that's doing it--at least I don't think it is--but I'm just so tired of this world. I'm tired of wanton cruelty and petty remarks on the radio; I'm tired of divisions and balkanization. I'm tired of the same constant hamster-wheel of competing hatreds and you're-wrong-no-you're-wrong that characterizes 99% of public discourse. I know I'm just as guilty of having opinions as the rest; I remember I used to be a much nicer person. I'm tired of interacting with human beings, mainly, because lately it seems like we're all much crappier to each other than we used to be. Mostly I just want to go to sleep.
I used to think, when I heard about people who "couldn't live with their past", that it was because they were ashamed of things they'd done. But I think I understand a little better now; now I think maybe sometimes it's not so much shame, as not wanting to remember the time when they were happy, because they don't know how to be happy like that anymore and they're scared it will never happen again.
I'm tired of it all and I know I should be happy. I have a job and it's not the stupid abusive environment I was in before; everyone here is nice and they mostly seem to like me, though I haven't the least idea why. I'm well-paid and I have more than 99% of people on this earth; I'm healthy and not starved and my drinking water isn't laden with microbes and I'm not subjected to torture or imprisonment for my beliefs, and most of the people in the world would be wildly envious of me.
But in spite of that, all I want to do every day is come home and pull the blankets over my head, and all I want to do in the morning when I wake up is to go back to sleep. I'm sure it looks like laziness from the outside; it's not. I am excruciatingly conscious of the many things I need to do or should be doing or even, in some cases, want to do. I manage to do the things I need to do--barely--but the rest falls by the wayside. And that, to me, is not a life. I don't know what it is, but it's not a life.
Wow. That was a downer--even for me, and I'm the one writing it. Jeez.
I don't know what it is, exactly, but nothing seems to make me happy. And if THAT's not the whiniest GenX slacker sentence I've ever typed...but it's true. And it's not so much my own life that's doing it--at least I don't think it is--but I'm just so tired of this world. I'm tired of wanton cruelty and petty remarks on the radio; I'm tired of divisions and balkanization. I'm tired of the same constant hamster-wheel of competing hatreds and you're-wrong-no-you're-wrong that characterizes 99% of public discourse. I know I'm just as guilty of having opinions as the rest; I remember I used to be a much nicer person. I'm tired of interacting with human beings, mainly, because lately it seems like we're all much crappier to each other than we used to be. Mostly I just want to go to sleep.
I used to think, when I heard about people who "couldn't live with their past", that it was because they were ashamed of things they'd done. But I think I understand a little better now; now I think maybe sometimes it's not so much shame, as not wanting to remember the time when they were happy, because they don't know how to be happy like that anymore and they're scared it will never happen again.
I'm tired of it all and I know I should be happy. I have a job and it's not the stupid abusive environment I was in before; everyone here is nice and they mostly seem to like me, though I haven't the least idea why. I'm well-paid and I have more than 99% of people on this earth; I'm healthy and not starved and my drinking water isn't laden with microbes and I'm not subjected to torture or imprisonment for my beliefs, and most of the people in the world would be wildly envious of me.
But in spite of that, all I want to do every day is come home and pull the blankets over my head, and all I want to do in the morning when I wake up is to go back to sleep. I'm sure it looks like laziness from the outside; it's not. I am excruciatingly conscious of the many things I need to do or should be doing or even, in some cases, want to do. I manage to do the things I need to do--barely--but the rest falls by the wayside. And that, to me, is not a life. I don't know what it is, but it's not a life.
Wow. That was a downer--even for me, and I'm the one writing it. Jeez.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Thanks, Everyone
Thank you, everyone, for your kind comments. Anyone who's ever loved a pet knows this particular pain, and I thank you all for your support.
I posted a few days ago about joining one of those all-women gyms. And I've been fairly good about going--the only days I missed were Tuesday, from laziness, and yesterday because...well, you know. Determined to make up for it, I donned my workout clothes and went in today after work.
Well, I now need a new wardrobe just for working out.
I knew this chain--Curves--had a history of bad politics. I knew the founder was a fundamentalist Christian and blah blah skippy. There are things we overlook when we feel we have no alternatives (and before you go saying "Bally's" I refuse to work out with gym-rats and women whose makeup never runs. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.) I signed my little contract and bought some Payless gym shoes.
Well Monday, as I was finishing up my workout with the recommended stretches, I noticed a sign on the wall. "Protect the sanctity of marriage! Call your representatives and tell them: Marriage is one man and one woman!!!"
I was irked by this, substantially, but it was too late to cancel my contract. Instead I packed my "Can we have our country back now?", W-with-a-slash-through-it T-shirt to wear during my next workout.
Today--wearing the aforementioned shirt--I discovered something new--a small table beneath that sign, with two clipboards....bearing petitions for a state referendum defining marriage as one male, one female--period.
And at that point I decided: I'm going to buy a large selection of EXTREMELY leftist t-shirts. Just to make the point, and possibly to provoke a confrontation, from which I will promptly flee.
Once I'd made that momentous decision, I spent the rest of my workout trying to resolve a philosophical question:
Not five minutes after discovering the petitions, I was regaled with an amped-up 240-beats-per-minute remake of "Y.M.C.A.", quite literally the gayest song ever written (with the possible exception of "In The Navy", which--see above.) How can a company who espouses the inequality and inferiority of gay people then turn around and prominently feature songs by the fer-cryin'-out-loud VILLAGE PEOPLE on their workout muzak??? What do they think is HAPPENING at that Y.M.C.A?? I'll give you a hint, Curves Fundies--it ain't a wholesome game of Scrabble!!!
This is another one of those Things I'll Understand When I'm Older/Dead, I guess.For now--off to scandalize the sweaty wingers.
I posted a few days ago about joining one of those all-women gyms. And I've been fairly good about going--the only days I missed were Tuesday, from laziness, and yesterday because...well, you know. Determined to make up for it, I donned my workout clothes and went in today after work.
Well, I now need a new wardrobe just for working out.
I knew this chain--Curves--had a history of bad politics. I knew the founder was a fundamentalist Christian and blah blah skippy. There are things we overlook when we feel we have no alternatives (and before you go saying "Bally's" I refuse to work out with gym-rats and women whose makeup never runs. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.) I signed my little contract and bought some Payless gym shoes.
Well Monday, as I was finishing up my workout with the recommended stretches, I noticed a sign on the wall. "Protect the sanctity of marriage! Call your representatives and tell them: Marriage is one man and one woman!!!"
I was irked by this, substantially, but it was too late to cancel my contract. Instead I packed my "Can we have our country back now?", W-with-a-slash-through-it T-shirt to wear during my next workout.
Today--wearing the aforementioned shirt--I discovered something new--a small table beneath that sign, with two clipboards....bearing petitions for a state referendum defining marriage as one male, one female--period.
And at that point I decided: I'm going to buy a large selection of EXTREMELY leftist t-shirts. Just to make the point, and possibly to provoke a confrontation, from which I will promptly flee.
Once I'd made that momentous decision, I spent the rest of my workout trying to resolve a philosophical question:
Not five minutes after discovering the petitions, I was regaled with an amped-up 240-beats-per-minute remake of "Y.M.C.A.", quite literally the gayest song ever written (with the possible exception of "In The Navy", which--see above.) How can a company who espouses the inequality and inferiority of gay people then turn around and prominently feature songs by the fer-cryin'-out-loud VILLAGE PEOPLE on their workout muzak??? What do they think is HAPPENING at that Y.M.C.A?? I'll give you a hint, Curves Fundies--it ain't a wholesome game of Scrabble!!!
This is another one of those Things I'll Understand When I'm Older/Dead, I guess.For now--off to scandalize the sweaty wingers.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
R.I.P Aria, 1991-2005
Today I had to have one of my oldest friends put to sleep.
She'd been sick for some time, losing weight due to an overactive thyroid, and despite the pills I'd been wrestling into her since April, she was getting skinnier and skinnier. The vets said as long as she was eating and got checked every couple of months, it wasn't a worry. Then a couple of weeks ago she came down with pinkeye, so another medication got added to her collection. It didn't seem to be helping much either.
Last night I went into the downstairs bath and she was stretched out behind the toilet. I picked her up and she was just boneless, unresisting. I thought maybe she was just reacting poorly to the heat--the other four cats were in varying states of inertia as well--so I gave her her pill and put in her eye ointment, and put her down near the fan. Sometime during the night she made her way back to the bathroom, and this morning she was still there. I picked her up for her morning pill and she gave me that look. I'd seen the look once before, when my tabby was in the last days of his fight with cancer. "I've had enough," it said.
I opened a can of food and put it down next to her--nothing. She sniffed it once and licked it a little (and spat out the pill I'd given her five minutes earlier) and then just looked up at me. The boys were circling the dish, meanwhile, and she didn't even bother to hiss at them. (Aria had the best crunchy-hiss EVER. She could scare off burglars with that hiss, and she used it every chance she got.) This from a cat who, two days ago, would have ripped your fingers off for a scrap of food. A few days back we sat on the sofa together and shared a plate of spaghetti noodles, strand by strand, and I got nipped a few times for my generosity.
I went to work and called the vet immediately. I knew something was really wrong, and when I brought her in, I found out my worst suspicions were correct. The probable diagnosis was kidney failure, though they couldn't be sure without blood work. Regardless, she was a very sick kitty. "It would take a lot of time in the hospital and a lot of blood-work and treatments, and even then there's no guarantee," the doctor said.
She was fourteen years old. Even at the best, they said it might get her a couple more months, of questionable quality. They said without treatment she might not even survive the drive home.
I held her while the doctor gave her the shot, and told her she was a very good kitty, and petted the stripe between her eyes and thanked her for everything she'd been through with me. And she drifted off without a flinch or a whimper.
Aria was with me through some of the craziest times in my life. Firefly and I picked her out from a vet's office in our little college town, on my 21st birthday, a little handful of gray-and-white fur with what looked like a halo around her. Kitten aura, we called it; it certainly didn't signify an angelic nature, because she was a fluffy little demon.
When we moved back to our respective homes at the end of that summer, Aria came with me--my plans were more settled, or something. She was with me when I met JP, when I married David, when I left David, when JP and I moved in together. She sat like an Art Institute lion outside the bedroom door while JP and I lay dopesick in the heat. The night JP died, she broke out of the room we'd stayed in, and spent the next two days hiding under the bed in the spare room at JP's mother's house, til I came to claim her, Tiger, and my clothes. She was with me through move after move after move, through CR, through everything.
I'm not very good with death. It brings up unresolved issues, I guess. I'm sure there are those who would say "just a cat"...but that cat was, in many ways, the last link to a life I don't have anymore, and people who are gone. So yeah, I'm taking this kinda hard.
I got in the car and left a message for Firefly (Aria's "other mom") to call me; then I came home and kissed all the other stupid cats, even Cassidy, the biter.
Rest in peace, Aria. I'm really going to miss you.
Friday, August 5, 2005
Thursday, August 4, 2005
Naptime, Please??
Oh my god, I could NOT be more tired.
I am at that state of sleepiness where I actually feel nauseated and dizzy, and each of my eyelids weighs seven pounds.
The caffeine is not helping. I question whether even crystal meth would help THIS level of tiredness. I am so tired that I had to cancel my plans for tonight and change them to tomorrow.
What plans, you ask? Well...
I try not to bitch too much about my weight here on the blog--after all, it's one of those things I SHOULD be able to control (and I would, too, if there wasn't so much delicious food in the world!)--but it's been a problem for most of the past ten years. I got a taste of being skinny back when I was an addict--I was a size 11 for the first time since I was in grade school--and I liked it. I've lost some weight in the past few months, mainly after my surgery, but there's still plenty more to go.
So yesterday I went and joined one of those women's gyms, and today after work I was supposed to have my orientation and first workout. I called and changed it to tomorrow. We shall see how THAT goes. (I'm skeptical. And I don't want any overly-chirpy staff trying to "support" or "motivate" me, either. The things that would give me support, the things that would motivate me, are so internal to me that I don't talk about them to close friends, let alone chirpy strangers (although I do post them on a blog where strangers--chirpy or non-chirpy--can read and ponder. So...go figure, or something.))
One of the main reasons I'm so tired, however, belies my comment from last night about LJ. It's uncanny, really; all I have to do is make a dissatisfied comment about the relationship, even in a forum he's completely unaware of, and he suddenly makes some move to pull his ass out of the fire.
Last night I stayed in my air-conditioned room, switching back and forth between "So You Think You Can Dance" and "Rock Star, INXS" while soaking my feet and giving myself a manicure and pedicure. I was perfectly contented, really; but while my nail polish was drying I started to think of tasks that needed doing. So instead of going to bed, I stayed up til about 11, vacuuming the bedroom, moving furniture, etc.
Around 1:00 I was sleeping soundly when LJ came to bed. I always wake up at least a bit when he comes in; generally, though, he rolls over and starts snoring right away. Not last night, though...last night he was feeling chatty.
After bringing me up to date on the latest in the neverending Chronicles of Maywood--he knew both the victim and the shooter in the latest murder there--he told me what he'd been up to before coming home; he and Marcus and K were apparently sitting around drinking and talking all night. "About the real shit," he clarified. And he went on for a while about how the three of them were different from all their other friends; that what they had in common was that all three of them have good women in their corner. Marcus's girl has stayed with him even when he had nothing; K is still with his high-school girlfriend, so they've been through all types of stuff together. And then there's me..."And I told 'em, 'I love my girl and all...I mean, I don't know if she knows it or not, but....'" (This is apparently the only way he can say it, which...yeah, okay, not ideal, whatever--but I'd rather hear it like that than not at all. Which is pretty much what I told him when he said it--"Well, put it this way--it's nice to HEAR it once in a while," I said. I have to keep reminding myself: I'm only his second real girlfriend. Though that doesn't excuse his cluelessness, to a point it DOES explain it.)
He went on, and the general gist of the conversation was how much he really does appreciate me and what we've got. And again: that's nice to hear.
By the time I got to sleep, it was probably about 3 A.M. (hey, it wasn't ALL conversation...) and then I got up at 7. I feel better about LJ....but ohhhhh man, I need some SLEEP.
I am at that state of sleepiness where I actually feel nauseated and dizzy, and each of my eyelids weighs seven pounds.
The caffeine is not helping. I question whether even crystal meth would help THIS level of tiredness. I am so tired that I had to cancel my plans for tonight and change them to tomorrow.
What plans, you ask? Well...
I try not to bitch too much about my weight here on the blog--after all, it's one of those things I SHOULD be able to control (and I would, too, if there wasn't so much delicious food in the world!)--but it's been a problem for most of the past ten years. I got a taste of being skinny back when I was an addict--I was a size 11 for the first time since I was in grade school--and I liked it. I've lost some weight in the past few months, mainly after my surgery, but there's still plenty more to go.
So yesterday I went and joined one of those women's gyms, and today after work I was supposed to have my orientation and first workout. I called and changed it to tomorrow. We shall see how THAT goes. (I'm skeptical. And I don't want any overly-chirpy staff trying to "support" or "motivate" me, either. The things that would give me support, the things that would motivate me, are so internal to me that I don't talk about them to close friends, let alone chirpy strangers (although I do post them on a blog where strangers--chirpy or non-chirpy--can read and ponder. So...go figure, or something.))
One of the main reasons I'm so tired, however, belies my comment from last night about LJ. It's uncanny, really; all I have to do is make a dissatisfied comment about the relationship, even in a forum he's completely unaware of, and he suddenly makes some move to pull his ass out of the fire.
Last night I stayed in my air-conditioned room, switching back and forth between "So You Think You Can Dance" and "Rock Star, INXS" while soaking my feet and giving myself a manicure and pedicure. I was perfectly contented, really; but while my nail polish was drying I started to think of tasks that needed doing. So instead of going to bed, I stayed up til about 11, vacuuming the bedroom, moving furniture, etc.
Around 1:00 I was sleeping soundly when LJ came to bed. I always wake up at least a bit when he comes in; generally, though, he rolls over and starts snoring right away. Not last night, though...last night he was feeling chatty.
After bringing me up to date on the latest in the neverending Chronicles of Maywood--he knew both the victim and the shooter in the latest murder there--he told me what he'd been up to before coming home; he and Marcus and K were apparently sitting around drinking and talking all night. "About the real shit," he clarified. And he went on for a while about how the three of them were different from all their other friends; that what they had in common was that all three of them have good women in their corner. Marcus's girl has stayed with him even when he had nothing; K is still with his high-school girlfriend, so they've been through all types of stuff together. And then there's me..."And I told 'em, 'I love my girl and all...I mean, I don't know if she knows it or not, but....'" (This is apparently the only way he can say it, which...yeah, okay, not ideal, whatever--but I'd rather hear it like that than not at all. Which is pretty much what I told him when he said it--"Well, put it this way--it's nice to HEAR it once in a while," I said. I have to keep reminding myself: I'm only his second real girlfriend. Though that doesn't excuse his cluelessness, to a point it DOES explain it.)
He went on, and the general gist of the conversation was how much he really does appreciate me and what we've got. And again: that's nice to hear.
By the time I got to sleep, it was probably about 3 A.M. (hey, it wasn't ALL conversation...) and then I got up at 7. I feel better about LJ....but ohhhhh man, I need some SLEEP.
Tuesday, August 2, 2005
About Chez Gladys
One of my loyal reader/commentors, eatmisery, asked me a question today which seems to deserve an answer. In response to yesterday's post about the drug spot and its sandwich truck, she asked:
Chez Gladys should be fine. This block is rough, but it's a two-sided coin, you see.
I've posted here and there about LJ and his "job", which I like to characterize as "freelance herbal-pharmaceutical sales". And in this capacity, he is involved with a loosely-allied organization whose members profess similar employment. Really, it's not much different from any other professional organization; it's like the Teamsters, only with more guns. They have their rules, their policies, their ways of doing business, things which are not to be violated, and they police themselves.
The nice thing about it is that all the members of LJ's "union" know each other, or know someone who knows someone who knows everyone. And so, for example, the other morning when I came outside and there was a strange man retrieving something from under our front porch (which he swore wasn't drugs, but c'mon now), all it took was a two-minute call to LJ to ensure that such a thing would never happen again. "I talked to dude," he said later that night, "the one with the motorcycle, the one who runs the block? And he said he was gonna talk to everyone and tell them to stay away from our shit."
Another example: the other day when Tim was here and we were running errands, we came home with our hands full of bags. In trying to juggle everything while taking my housekeys out of my pocket, apparently I forgot to press the "lock" button on the car remote.
Just before he came to bed around 3, LJ went out to get a few things out of the truck that he'd left there--a couple of CDs, some mail. He came back in and said "I think someone was fuckin' with the truck--the glovebox was open, and that little box inside the armrest--like they was lookin' for something." I thought about it and realized what I'd done, and apologized even though they hadn't stolen anything (there was nothing to steal!).
The next day LJ called me at work to tell me that he'd talked to one of his other associates on the block, who told him that he'd seen someone in the truck--probably a crackhead, he said--and that he'd run him off before he could do any real damage.
I've tried to explain this to various friends and family members, but it's hard to understand unless you're here: the drug dealers want trouble just as much as I do, which is not at all. And the worst kind of trouble would be trouble involving me, because of the fundamental politics of race here in Chicago.
See, if a black person kills another black person in this neighborhood, it might make the news, depending on the circumstances. Mostly, though, it's just "expected" somehow. But if a white person dies at the hands of a black person, that's a headline. And if the victim was a white woman? An educated, professional white woman? That would bring down the police like the wrath of God--and THAT would be very, very bad for business. All the drug dealers want is to do what they do in peace, really.
Some of them know me by sight; they'll say hello when I'm sitting out on the porch, or laugh at me when I go stand in the spray from the fire hydrant. They smile at me as I drive past; like my neighbors to the east or the woman on the corner who keeps offering me free kittens, they're just part of the neighborhood. I know they don't quite know why I'm here, though I'm sure some of them see LJ and draw their own conclusions; but they also know I'm not going to interfere with them, and between that and the affiliations they share with LJ, they don't interfere with me either.
Could I sell this house? Maybe. It wouldn't be easy; there are five or six other vacant houses on the block, most of them with "For Sale" signs in the window, and my house (as we know!) has some flaws that need to be corrected before it would really be salable. If it sold, I'd almost certainly make a profit. But if I stay longer, if I fix this house up the way I plan to, I will quite likely make a killing. This neighborhood, sooner or later, will be one of the hot places to buy. I've watched for ten years as the gentrification crept westward, and it's coming closer. I don't think I'm entirely happy about that--there's a reason I don't live in Lakeview or Lincoln Park--but from a financial standpoint it's not a bad thing.
More importantly, though--I feel like this is where I belong, somehow. (Or at least, if I don't belong here, there's an actual REASON for it, instead of the nebulous not-belonging I've felt nearly everywhere else in my life. I can deal with not belonging somewhere as long as there's a good reason. It's that inexplicable, I-should-fit-in-here-but-somehow-I-don't feeling that I can't stand.)
Plus: I'm a writer. Someday all these experiences will be useful...I hope.
"Chez Gladys will be okay, right? Would you ever consider selling the place to move elsewhere? I know you love where you're at, but is it worth it? What would be a good reason to stay? I'm genuinely curious."
Chez Gladys should be fine. This block is rough, but it's a two-sided coin, you see.
I've posted here and there about LJ and his "job", which I like to characterize as "freelance herbal-pharmaceutical sales". And in this capacity, he is involved with a loosely-allied organization whose members profess similar employment. Really, it's not much different from any other professional organization; it's like the Teamsters, only with more guns. They have their rules, their policies, their ways of doing business, things which are not to be violated, and they police themselves.
The nice thing about it is that all the members of LJ's "union" know each other, or know someone who knows someone who knows everyone. And so, for example, the other morning when I came outside and there was a strange man retrieving something from under our front porch (which he swore wasn't drugs, but c'mon now), all it took was a two-minute call to LJ to ensure that such a thing would never happen again. "I talked to dude," he said later that night, "the one with the motorcycle, the one who runs the block? And he said he was gonna talk to everyone and tell them to stay away from our shit."
Another example: the other day when Tim was here and we were running errands, we came home with our hands full of bags. In trying to juggle everything while taking my housekeys out of my pocket, apparently I forgot to press the "lock" button on the car remote.
Just before he came to bed around 3, LJ went out to get a few things out of the truck that he'd left there--a couple of CDs, some mail. He came back in and said "I think someone was fuckin' with the truck--the glovebox was open, and that little box inside the armrest--like they was lookin' for something." I thought about it and realized what I'd done, and apologized even though they hadn't stolen anything (there was nothing to steal!).
The next day LJ called me at work to tell me that he'd talked to one of his other associates on the block, who told him that he'd seen someone in the truck--probably a crackhead, he said--and that he'd run him off before he could do any real damage.
I've tried to explain this to various friends and family members, but it's hard to understand unless you're here: the drug dealers want trouble just as much as I do, which is not at all. And the worst kind of trouble would be trouble involving me, because of the fundamental politics of race here in Chicago.
See, if a black person kills another black person in this neighborhood, it might make the news, depending on the circumstances. Mostly, though, it's just "expected" somehow. But if a white person dies at the hands of a black person, that's a headline. And if the victim was a white woman? An educated, professional white woman? That would bring down the police like the wrath of God--and THAT would be very, very bad for business. All the drug dealers want is to do what they do in peace, really.
Some of them know me by sight; they'll say hello when I'm sitting out on the porch, or laugh at me when I go stand in the spray from the fire hydrant. They smile at me as I drive past; like my neighbors to the east or the woman on the corner who keeps offering me free kittens, they're just part of the neighborhood. I know they don't quite know why I'm here, though I'm sure some of them see LJ and draw their own conclusions; but they also know I'm not going to interfere with them, and between that and the affiliations they share with LJ, they don't interfere with me either.
Could I sell this house? Maybe. It wouldn't be easy; there are five or six other vacant houses on the block, most of them with "For Sale" signs in the window, and my house (as we know!) has some flaws that need to be corrected before it would really be salable. If it sold, I'd almost certainly make a profit. But if I stay longer, if I fix this house up the way I plan to, I will quite likely make a killing. This neighborhood, sooner or later, will be one of the hot places to buy. I've watched for ten years as the gentrification crept westward, and it's coming closer. I don't think I'm entirely happy about that--there's a reason I don't live in Lakeview or Lincoln Park--but from a financial standpoint it's not a bad thing.
More importantly, though--I feel like this is where I belong, somehow. (Or at least, if I don't belong here, there's an actual REASON for it, instead of the nebulous not-belonging I've felt nearly everywhere else in my life. I can deal with not belonging somewhere as long as there's a good reason. It's that inexplicable, I-should-fit-in-here-but-somehow-I-don't feeling that I can't stand.)
Plus: I'm a writer. Someday all these experiences will be useful...I hope.
Monday, August 1, 2005
Gentrification: A Setback, Perhaps
Something I've never seen before:
The drug spot in front of Chez Gladys now has its own sandwich truck.
The drug spot in front of Chez Gladys now has its own sandwich truck.
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