Saturday night was a night for steam-blowing-off, a night marked by a rate of Malort consumption that can only be described as overconfident and unnecessary, going to see some punk bands at our favorite bar, and love of all kinds (new, old, platonic, romantic, unrequited, ended, familiar, ages-old). Needless to say, Sunday morning was marked by another kind of love seldom written of in poems or story, which is the love between a mostly-non-hungover man and a woman with a crippling zealotry for disgusting liquor. My boyfriend convinced me to go to Township for brunch and the ride there was painful. It was the exact feeling of needing very badly to throw up crossed with the pain of being sincerely hungry, hiccups, and that point after you’ve been throwing up for a while and you still feel like you need to, but there’s no vomit left in you to expel. While my mood was cheery, I spent most of the short ride there focused on what was going on inside of me and when we finally arrived, I asked to be let out of the car so that I could “get us a table” by which I mean go into the bathroom and banish the demons.
I didn’t make it all the way into the bathroom or even into the restaurant. Three or four steps onto the pavement, my entire digestive system basically seized, and I turned around and high-tailed it into the alley, making faces and noises that were probably more terrifying than the hipster couple I passed let on. I guess the term would be dry heaving because my body did not really have to vomit, it was just angry at me. While I was holding myself up on a dumpster, trying to force something out of me with no success, I noticed that just to the right of my planned path of trajectory, there was an old bookbag thrown on the ground beside two books, one of which appeared to be a journal. It was this:
This is the back:
I poked it around with my foot to make sure that it wasn’t smeared in shit or piss or on top of a dead rat or something, and after inspection, it became clear that the book had most likely been placed there rather than abandoned so I picked it up, put it in my purse, and went into the restaurant to get a table. Shortly after brunch, wherein I found myself incapable of eating anything more than the side of spinach that came with my panini and a single cup of orange juice, I took Jerry to see the spot where I’d found it and decided to pick up the other book as well, which was this:
I kind of expected it to have something to do with the other book, but I don’t know if it does. When we came home, Jerry and I immediately crawled into bed to inspect the first book. It’s one of those traveling art things, I guess maybe it would qualify as a meme? The first and back pages were inscribed with a hand-written message from someone named Brian with detailed instructions as to how the project is supposed to go. Basically, you get the front and back of one page to do with as you see fit and then you pass it on to someone else until the book is full, and then you contact Brian to find out how to return it to him for posting on the website, which is here: http://mineyoursours.org/index.php?/about-the-project/
Thusfar, it seems that this particular incarnation of Mine Yours Ours has been going through a certain group of young punk kids around my age, at least two of whom go to DePaul. That isn’t surprising considering I’d found it in the alley behind one of the best punk venues in Chicago. The first entry is dated in April and is written by someone that I guess was a month away from leaving everything behind and moving to New York, which means that right now, they are a month or two into their new life. There’s only one drawing in it right now, it’s just a tag but it’s called “the Internet Stole My Girlfriend” and it isn’t bad. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with my page or to whom I will give it when I’m finished. I’ll probably give it to Jerry since he’s mentioned that he wishes he were more creative or had more outlets for his inherent creativity, and I want to show him that it’s not hard at all, or at least give him more opportunities until he finds something he likes.
I intend to spend more time this summer doing things like looking for geocache and experimenting with other media besides writing, or media that isn’t exclusively textual, basically trying to get out of my own headspace. I live in a large house in a relatively quiet neighborhood and I’m torn constantly between the knowledge that I should be writing and the knowledge that I’m young and I’ve taken a lot of my youth for granted and that I’m only getting older as the days go by. Logan Square is in a lot of ways like Paris: there’s art and activities everywhere for people who know where to find them, and no one I know who lives here takes any great pleasure in leaving it for anything but work. The summer’s depression has begun to set in a bit despite all of my recent success. I should be working on poems right now but my only inclination is to listen to Patsy Cline, drink some lemonade, and finish writing up the Facebook page for wineball: http://www.facebook.com/Wineball