Two hundred. thirty five.

Sometimes walking in the city can feel like I'm immersed in The Truman Show. You know? As if I'm walking around the backstage of a giant production.
When I'm walking to class, I take a back way, a long way, a quiet way. Few people walk here, so it's always jarring to happen upon a group of construction workers reading and doing crossword puzzles with brows furrowed before they begin their day. You know? We all seem so out of place for a few seconds, like actors out of context - the man wearing their hard hats & struggling over a few letters, pencil gritted in teeth. Me, walking an unusual path. Everyone freezes for those few seconds, even the pigeons: "maybe if we don't move she won't see us..."
Later in the day I stumbled upon an unfinished art show at the cultural center. Huge wooden boxes with cryptic names sat in a hallway, waiting to be unpacked and set up. Aha, I was too early, they weren't prepared for me. I have fooled them all! I have beat their system! Was half expecting a security guard to escort me out, and I could wink at him and whisper that I knew what was going on.

Anyhow. So just a little mad these days.

two hundred. thirty four.

Hannah and I went downtown recently to go to an Irish singing lesson of sorts and then a music jam in a pub. Life should always always be this way. The ladies knitting, people playing music, fish & chips at every table.
It flashed me back to a moment to a pub in Galway.
To set it up: We had just met Paul, a nice lad engaged to a nice lass back in Chicago.
"Where did you meet her?"
He pointed. "That pub, right across the corner. We met there!"
"How sweet! That gives me hope that I can find a husband here in Ireland," I said laughingly. [And, you know, completely serious.]
"Really? Oh great, meet my friends!" Cried Paul, in a enthusiastic "but-wait-there's-more!" announcer voice.
Disregarding my protestations, Paul dragged me over to meet his three friends. None of the the fine Irish gents were interested in love and marriage (though not for Paul's lack of trying, as he would constantly check in and ask if we were falling in love yet and point subtly at the church just behind the pub). They were jolly good fun though, mostly making fun of each other and filling us in on Irish life.
Brian and I got to talking about Chicago vs. Galway.
"I would live here in a heartbeat," I said.
"Here? Why?! This pub is as good as it gets here," said Brian.
"This pub is one of the best things in the world!"
"But you have Boystown and Wrigleyville!"
As if the delights of those sex-crazed and boozy areas could satisfy me the way the ocean could, just steps away, and the music playing at my elbow, and the Guiness in my hand. As if the lights and clubs of Chicago could compare to the graves that were older than my country in farmers fields. People passed them everyday without a thought. As if the Budlight buckets could top the warm whiskey drink the bartender insisted I try.
So we shook on a trade, Brian and I.
Still banking on it coming true one day. If you meet a man named Brian parading around in my life, you can be rest assured that I'm over at his pub in Galway.

two hundred. thirty three.

'Twas a fine evening for a pipe and some cherry moonshine.
I bought a clay pipe from Ireland and used it tonight for the first time.
Forgot this week about most of the reading for classes so there'll be a lot of Yeats on the train tomorrow morning.
I like him better when it's raining.
You know?
Some things are better read in the rain or the sun
or on a train
or whilst completely stationary in your window seat.
Yeats happens to read very well when the skies are a bit grey.
[no surprise there, you may say rightly.]
The weather calls for sun tomorrow, so it seems I'll have to plug on through anyhow.

Sleep is a thing lately that is not swift in coming & not long in staying. You know? Summer seems ripe with that, what with the sun and the wildness and the loudness of it. I try to force myself to like it, to enjoy the brazen, unapologetic heat. But I'm more content when at least the mornings are cooler.

Had more to say -- something funny too, and I've forgotten it now of course.

two hundred. thirty two.

[Barefeet on wood floors
I'll tell you everything you've heard before
about summer nights.]

I find myself restlessly pacing & toenail painting with cherry whiskey in my mason jar.
Also: reading too many books in the stillness of this sticky evening

The soundtrack is "Michigan" by the Milk Carton Kids on repeat.

"...but I think what really kept him cheerful was his inquisitiveness."
 [Till We Have Faces]

 Isn't that the truth?
Let's always stay curious, searching.
If we remember the wonder we'll stay winsome. Forever and ever.
Promise?

two hundred. thirty one.

When will we know all the things we've learned?
I wish I could remember it all.

I spend every Monday in the city now. I have a Yeats poetry class in the morning, which is better than you could imagine it would be. It's filled with older people, and I get along so well with older people. Pat is a woman who's been to Ireland too many times to count. We stand in the hall and talk during our bathroom break. The teacher walks by and grabs my arm, telling us that she always likes the hall-lingerers the best because they are always the most interesting.
Then I have a break, where I'm prone to wander around the Art Institute with Pappy, or find new places to eat and sunny places to sit.
Then it's my creative writing class at night. It's only successful, educated, young folks, which is the worst. The first day, I walked back and forth in front of the door several times, then walked back downstairs to stall/verify that I was indeed in that classroom. I tried to pretend I was a different person, a confident person, and kept giving myself pep talks. Eventually I made my way in and it's not been too terrible. Only mildly terrible.

I've also inadvertently begun working again. I was supposed to just go in for a few training shifts but now it appears I'm on the schedule every week - like a real job or something. I already miss early retirement. Long, lazy mornings working my way through multiple cups of coffee, stacks of books or pages of writing. I miss the walks and bike rides. I miss cooking all of my meals. Volunteering at the retirement home.
Now it's rushing to and fro, eating old nutella croissants and drinking lukewarm coffee.
[Ok. I suppose it could be worse. Because an old nutella croissant is still a nutella croissant.]

Oh, these summer days are flying by so fast.

two hundred. thirty.

I can see the lilacs blooming outside my window. 

In the mornings we open the doors to let them in. The kitchen smells the best - like coffee & lilacs.

I'll never tire of lengthy mornings. 

Went for a bike ride today. 

Grateful for reminders, strong reminders to be planted. 

We can be moved without being uprooted. 

I, too, sway & raise my branches

[as the wind rushes where it wishes]

but trees,

you know,

they are rooted.

And so I must be too. 

delighted & grounded all at once. 

P.S. It was an aspen.

Remember how those sound?

two hundred. twenty nine.

The books I'm reading are big
[I mean - the things I'm reading are bigger than my brain box]
so it's nice
to talk
slow.

I like when we have time to linger.

We don't use our words
as hasty triggers
[bang]
and hurt the one at the other end.