Voices (a Q&A with the author)

What does it mean when nearly every voice in your head is screaming for you to get the f*ck out of Chicago?


(Only to be followed by a whisper, "But to where?")

And why, pray tell, does all this news about salmonella leave me craving peanut butter?

That Which We Do Not See

Even the most intelligent of our species fail, time and again, to appreciate the beauty of the world around them.

They rush from Point A to Point B with their faces in cell phones,


and their heads so far removed from the best of their reality that they dream only of alternates: bigger homes; bigger paychecks; more beautiful spouses.

But what of perfectly formed snowflakes, glistening on windshields? What of shadows and sunspots

-- simple smiles or autumnal leaves forever orange (frozen in ice)?

It has taken me a long time to realize that not everyone sees the world as I do.


Which isn't to say there's anything special about me; only that it's with good reason that words such as "weird" and "quirky" are so often used to describe me.


But it is this same personality trait that compels me to seek out the like-minded,


ever hopeful that I will stop to take a picture and the person beside me will understand precisely why I'm fascinated by complex equations,

or a certain slant of light.


Together we will slay dragons with our laughter, run circles around Lake Michigan, and wiggle our toes through the morning dew.


But emotion, as with life, is a one-sided beast:

a landslide that consumes the very thing it loves, leaving eternity-old lessons in its wake.

You can depend on no one in this world.

Which is to say:

You are alone.

It is this very lesson that I find myself confronting again, even as I try -- perhaps now more than ever -- to disprove lifelong hypotheses.

But am I falling again?

Failing?


Cornering myself into the circumference of infinity?


There's no denying it, I think, staring out of my window and into stained glass: this life is a loop, doomed to repeat itself.

And so I do, the record and the needle bouncing inconsolably between the bitter and the sweet;

the beautiful laughter and the desolate sigh.

Which is to say, there's only one lesson to be had here, and you already know it:


The people you love will not recognize you even as you stand before them:

And yet they will remember you, beautifully and painfully,

when you are gone.

Dog is My Co-Pilot

Without question, my "new" apartment is significantly less intense than the last: the police haven't been there once; no one is cooking meth (as far as I can smell); and rather than wearing a snowsuit to bed in the winter, I sometimes feel the need to prop open a window to cool the place down.

So in terms of safety and overall comfort, it's an improvement.

But that's not to say it's perfect; far from it. There was the bathroom incident, for starters. Or the fact that my landlady has a habit of letting herself in unannounced, and generally fails to properly finish necessary repairs.

And the last guy to live above me was a neurotic, heavy walker who seldom took off his shoes when he was home but often bounced on the hardwood floors at a pace Michael Phelps would be hard-pressed to match in an Olympic-sized pool.

He suffered from hearing loss, a problem he accounted for by turning his radio up to obnoxiously high decibels, his speakers just inches above the rotting hardwood that separated our abodes. In other words: I could generally sing along with his music, the tunes so clearly broadcast into my home office.

But he was a nice guy, actually, and when I once mentioned the loud music to him, he apologized profusely and generally (though not always) kept his music down. Which is to say: he put his speakers on a rug, so the sound was muffled. It was still audible, but at least it was nowhere near as distracting.

When he moved out, I was thrilled to discover his replacement was a light-walker: someone I could occasionally hear walking, but only in the same way it's impossible for anyone to entirely snuff out the sound of their steps on an old, creaky floor. His music is generally kept down; and though I can make out his television set when my apartment is silent, if I turn on something in my apartment, I don't hear his TV at all.

It was near bliss until I realized he had one great flaw — a disturbingly dark mark on an otherwise clear complexion.

He has a dog. A small, yippy thing that barked almost constantly the first couple weeks after he moved in. But rather than complain — either to him or my landlord — I chalked it up to anxiety with being in a new place and figured I'd give the pup some time.

And that seemed to work. The dog barked less and less, and in the past month or so I've heard it bark fairly regularly, but never at intervals as long or as pronounced as those first two weeks. In short: it was occasionally annoying, but the bouts of annoyance were generally short-lived.

Short-lived, anyway, until this past Friday. The dog was barking when I got home at 5:30 p.m., and barked off and on for the next two hours... at which point, the pace picked up and was a near-constant until well after 2:30 a.m.

It was around 1:45 that I finally called my landlady, something I've never done before (at least: never in regards to a neighbor). She could hear the dog barking through my phone, as though the pooch were inside my very apartment.

She was skeptical that it was coming from immediately above me, as that gentleman — as it turns out — actually has two dogs. This became apparent to me when she went upstairs (she lives in the basement, three stories removed — and on the opposite side of the building — from the sound) to make sure my neighbor was OK.

We'd theorized that either:

• He'd left his dogs alone for hours, and the yippie one was lonely and/or needed a potty break.
• He'd had a heart attack or some other major medical incident and needed help

When I heard her walk into his apartment, the yipping continued but was joined by a deep, guttural bark from a presumably much larger canine. I was terrified for a moment that she was going to be attacked but as the footsteps continued and I heard her shout for them to shut-up, I figured she was still in one piece.

So as the two dogs barked and I tossed and turned in my bed, my alarm primed for 5 a.m. and a 3-hour road trip on the horizon, I waited for the wail of a siren to come to my neighbor's aid.

But no such thing occurred. Rather than lying unconscious on his floor, he wasn't home. And hadn't been home. Instead, he'd left two dogs, one of them quite large, cramped up inside a one-bedroom city apartment, potentially all day. And most certainly all night. Maybe he checked in on them once; there was a 1/2 hour period of silence around 10 or 11 when I thought maybe he'd returned home.

But then the barking resumed, and I was no better off for the brief silence.

I was angry and irritated. Exhausted and anxious. It occurred to me to give up entirely and hit the road then, rather than waiting for sunrise. But I knew I'd fall asleep the moment I got behind the wheel, so instead I alternately packed my belongings for the trip; crashed exhausted into my bed; and then got up again when it became clear — once again — that I couldn't sleep through the barking.

This cycle continued for five hours, when at long last — around 2:30, maybe 3 — I heard the hallway stairs creak, followed by light footsteps on the floor above me.

The dog hushed, its owner (or possibly animal control) there at long last to end our misery.

A Day in the Life, Part VIIIEmpathy for the Living

My mind is a cacophony of words; images; thoughts.


It is silence, and then a terrifying mess of sounds.

It is awash with ideas and experiences, old and new, many now too lost in time to ever be communicated or understood.


For example: everything you see here is three months old — a single two days plucked from the early summer — though the words are a bastardization of every moment since.



But let us work backwards, for a moment. The unordered order of the recent past.


Yesterday I skipped the post-work workout and drove directly home; tired and unmotivated for anything other than sleep.

When I pulled up to my apartment, I was first greeted by a neighbor (don't worry, I like this one) and his dog. A short conversation and a minute or so later, and I was unloading my car when a man on a bicycle pulled up behind me and said:

"Excuse me, miss. You speak English?"

"Yes," I said, turning around to find a face as vaguely familiar as those words.

And then it hit me. Again and again, as he continued to speak.

He was exasperated and out of breath; a wad of cash in one hand and an inhaler in the other.

And then his story — as familiar as the cash, the inhaler, the bike — began:

He just needed a few more dollars (he said, showing me the wad of tens and twenties) to get his inhaler filled at the Walgreens down the street. He isn't going to hurt me, he said, he just needs a little help so he can get his asthma medication.

"I gave you 10 bucks for your inhaler a couple months ago," I said truthfully, realizing his plea was as likely a ruse before just as it was then.

"I know, I know," he said. "But I just need a little more. It's for my daughter," he said, gesturing to the invisible no one over his shoulder after repeating a story to me that was otherwise identical to the one before.

"I'm sorry," I said, shutting my car door, angry with myself for having ever given the ten dollars in the first place.

"God bless you anyway," he said, pedaling hurriedly on to his next victim.

I looked at my car and sighed, wondering if he'd return later to "bless me" (and my vehicle) for our lack of alms.


And three days before:


His face crinkled and flushed into a melancholy red as he let out a painful sigh.

"The sun is going down," he said, looking out of the window. "The sun is going down and I haven't seen my mom all day."

The inflection at the end — coupled with his keen observation of the rural horizon — was what killed me, my body filling with a sort of empathy that, these days, is reserved especially for him.

He's only six, after all. Going to school all day for the first time in his life, leaving his mom at home alone with his infant brother. Spending three nights a week refining his martial arts skills, and every other weekend with his grandparents.

But that wasn't all I thought about then, putting my hand on his shoulder and telling him I'd let his Papaw know it was time to take him home (it wasn't our weekend, after all).

Secondary to my concern for him, it bothered me that it's seldom his father he misses (or at least: that he talks about missing). That he's become so used to that absence in his life, it's hardly worth mentioning. It is, after all, his father who swims in the same gene pool as I, and it pains me to think our role in this little boy's life could be in any way amiss.

But I shake off the thought, reminding myself that this attachment between a mother and child is historic. An inevitable fact of life, really. It's the mother they so often cry for; seldom the father.

Why is that?


"But I can't go yet," he said, sniffling and wiping his eyes. "I need to bull ride Papaw first."

I informed my father of this change of events and stood by, amused, as my nephew threw on his favorite cowboy hat and hopped onto my father's back.

He was smiling and laughing in seconds.


It was the same smile I saw three months ago when I opened my apartment door to find him on the other side.

He marched in, hands on his hips, and rattled off a list of things he wanted to do during his weekend visit.

And, boy, did he keep my parents and I busy. Museums


and aquariums

and sculpture parks


and hatcheries


(just to name a few).


I had fun, really. All of us did.


But one thing really struck me on that trip, something that was solidified this past weekend:

There's no denying he resembles both of his parents, but it's particularly interesting for me to see him now: he's the same age his father was when I was born.


And now when I look at him, I see the beginnings of the boy I first remembered.

A Day in the Life, Part VII"There's No Place Like"

Maybe it's because my parents were always moving. Maybe it's because we're nomads by nature.

Or maybe it's just me.

But I have honestly never felt content enough to hang my hat anywhere. The best places I've discovered are far away from family, and a healthy amount of guilt compels me to strive for proximity.

(Unless wealth were to afford me to the luxury of flying anywhere on a whim — thus far a dream and not a reality).


I do feel, at times, that Thoreau had the right idea; just... an undermining level of hypocrisy.


I've struggled with Walden ever since I first read it in high school: a man endeavors to turn away from society and live alone on a small farm. He praises the virtues of nature — and solitude — all the while downplaying the visits he paid to his benefactors (the Emersons) and ultimately abandoning his experiment after 2 years, 2 months and 2 days.


He said it was time to return to civilized life though, in earnest, he'd never left it. He'd just... changed it, in a way... only to realize he needed it in its entirety more than he'd ever care to admit.

But I think I understand him now. I understand the desire to be at two places at once; the desire to give everything away and retreat within oneself.


And yet: I want all of the things I enjoy in life, without the hardships that pay for so many them.

Gas to travel. Photos and cameras and music and bicycles and books and concerts and plays.


And yet: no more traffic. No more construction or 8-hours-a-day without the smallest slant of sun.


A week ago I was in one room, with the TV on in another. Through the hall I heard words I'd written (spoken by another) — a fairly rare occurrence for me, given the medium for which I normally write.

And I thought: well, my job isn't so bad. If only I could do it from home.

But where is home? My apartment with leaking walls, mold, and a landlady who lets herself in, unannounced?


The city where I live — the horns, the drunkenness, the middle fingers... and bicyclists who ride 3 in a row, blocking traffic either to prove a point or through sheer ignorance of the world around them?



The place where I grew up, where nearly every visit is marred with frustrations too personal to list?

And I think... I know the answer. Home is anywhere for me, so long as I maintain the freedom to pack my bags on a whim. In my dream world, I keep my job but have the ability to do it from anywhere: my apartment, my hometown, internet cafes on remote islands. Campsites in the Pacific Northwest; trails in Appalachia. I pack a single bag and move, but always with a home to return to.


But right now? Right now... I feel stuck. There are cars and pink fabric walls everywhere I turn.


They are closing in.