Friday, August 29, 2014

Collections from my IRL journal.

Rereading my in-real-life journal has been so cool. I hate parts of it. I honestly think I kinda hate most of it. Don't we journal most when we're in a place of darkness or confusion? I act like everyone journals. I don't even journal much these days.

But somehow, rereading some of my writings makes me feel so "human". I mean, I know I am human. But I can almost read my journals from a place of distance now. Almost like I was reading some anonymous's journal. And I felt more connected to humanity through it, because the way some of my experiences were captured was so raw and poetic...

Anyway, enough of an intro. I just wanted to share so that hopefully you feel more connected to humanity through reading these blurbs and that in turn, I feel more connected to humanity - to you - through my sharing.
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On Being Overwhelmed by Moving (8/22/2012)
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I'm not going to see [my friends]. I'm not going to see the Sears/Willis Tower. I'm not going to Merla's Kitchen or that Ethiopian restaurant. I'm not going to North Lawndale at all. No more Diwali's, no Lindo's, no Village Thriftshopping. No more Redeemer Anglican, Mission Dei, Holy Trinity Church, Christ for All Nations.

This last stretch of time I so carefully preserved for others has quickly become my own life boat. If I bring too many on board, I'll lose my buoyancy. I don't know what to do or how to cope. When I'm home, I'm renting movies I've seen before, trying to quickly wile away the time I specifically set aside for others. And I don't care. I'll gladly watch another movie tonight or tomorrow.

What I have to do is encroaching on what I meant/planned to do. Both of those are being overridden by things I never planned to do or needed to do. So movies are doing exactly as they are subconsciously purposed to do: Make it so I don't have to deal with a damn thing.
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Poetic Beauty and Philosophy of Moving Away from Chicago
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As I sit here, finally at Intelligentsia, wishing an outdoor spot would open up, I am no longer feeling suffocated. For a brief moment I can enjoy a warm latte topped with a beautiful latte art heart and believe, if just for a second, that love and warmth can be bought for $4.00.

And for a minute as I swallow my cup of serenity, I can simultaneously be swallowed again by the anonymity of the city. In 6 days my entire life will be overturned and no one sitting around me knows. I'm outside now, considering the buildings. So large, cold, and unaffected by the people they have silently stood alongside for many eras. How can buildings which were so intricately crafted by human hands now stand so coldly distant? How does it feel for them that they have outlived their creators? For them my leaving means nothing more than the absence of one pair of eyes that have viewed them.

What does it mean that I have entered so many people's lives? Are they unaffected as the buildings? I know some aren't. I know that for certain. So as the Sears Tower gives me the cold shoulder (which I recently learned is the easiest way to tell the Sears and the Hancock apart), I'll try to hold to the fact that somewhere, somehow, my absence will be felt and my memory cherished.

I can leave the city that I've always felt was cold. I can even leave people. I know that my impression will somehow stand like the buildings - living long past the moment of their creation.

How though, can I leave this chapter? I don't need a resolution for every question, hope, and experience that was unliked during my time here. But I need to believe that there is a resolution more hopeful and revealing that simply leaving it all behind me as a memory that resurfaces in a moment of insecurity or joy.

Somehow, in a way, I think it's hard to believe that my leaving Chicago does not mean I've "given up" or like my time here hasn't mattered. I know I've had a place here, but I don't know the meaning of it, and I have to believe it was bigger than me.

As I finish my latte, I'm amazed to discover that after having finished the coffee that the latte heart is still intact. I'm encouraged that something so fragile, held together by bubbles, has outlasted the coffee. The cup that was intended to hold coffee now holds the beauty of what was left behind. In moving forward, I'll have faith that the cup of Chicago stills holds the beauty of fragile moments in my life, held together in resilient beauty long after I am gone.
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Perhaps more to follow at a later date.