The Day! The Day!
My stomach lolls with nausea at the thought of tonight. I have so much work to do, but no real ambition to do it. Instead of taking the time to force myself to work, I turn up the music, stare blankly at the walls, the screen, at out the window, and think of how forlorn everything looks as December creeps on. I've just turned on Linkin Park's "My December." It's an old song that occasionally rolls through my head when December heaves it's cold, ugly gut onto my own and dances merrily across my kidneys. I'm well aware that the song is about losing and wanting a girl, but the melody is dreary and wet, just like December.
I don't see the point of December. In fact, December is so bad that the religions of the western world have stuck all the cheerful holidays in it. I guess it's hard to remember peace and goodwill towards people when the slush hangs heavy on the rafters and occasionally falls ground-ward, only to land on whomever was lucky enough to be there at that particular moment. I would much rather my Christmas cheer on a warm beach, served with a margarita and a fine sight of bikinis sashaying towards the ocean. If I close my eyes and dream hard enough, I'm already on the west coast. But, then I have to open my eyes and welcome the utter depression of it all.
I really shouldn't blame the weather for my apathy, but it's hard not to, especially when there's been such a dearth of blue skies and sunshine. The constant throb in my hand doesn't add to my mood and I cradle it while cursing the work that I've allowed to pile. Tonight is paper. Tomorrow is paper. Friday is paper. Next week is paper. Then, Phoenix.
At times I dawdle in the mist and think of the summer. Today, I've been thinking of mangoes. I've been thinking of holding them in my hand and smelling the complete red-greenness of them. I've been thinking of squeezing them just enough to coax a river of sweetness from a burst pore. I've been thinking of slowly slicing off the skin and revealing the mellow orange fruit. I've been thinking of smelling it, licking it, suckling it, and finally, plunging my teeth into it. The flesh of the fruit is summer.
During one of R and mine's many sojourns in Chicago, we pulled off the blue line onto
Western, near Armitage, at the heart of the city's Cuban Neighborhood. The street was typical Chicago; grimy, dirty, worn, but bursting with the insatiable lust for moving forward. On it, children ran through cars pacing the streets, screaming Mira, Mira, Mira to whomever was strolling past. Look, we did, for the energy resonated beneath their skin and flowered in the bubbling buoyancy of youth. R. and I could only laugh and meander down the street, towards the junkyard bloomers, the rusted signs, and the street art glaring at anyone who didn't appreciate the urban-ness of it all.
At times, rusty Ford Pickup trucks rambled around the fleeing North Side Cadillac’s, wooden flatbeds overflowing with fruits, vegetables, and brown farmers with wide straw hats. Occasionally, a fat, old woman would blob down the street, holding a fist of green and shouting haughtily. The farmers would laugh, slow their truck, and begin the exchange of green for green. Nearby, men sat in front of their shops, smoking cigars and grinning at the madness of the street. The street was the world. R. and I could've sat there for the rest of our lives and never grow bored, for the street was constantly changing. The women bursting from the stores advertising two-dollar Ts looked different each time. Some had stretch pants groaning from the bulk concealed. Others had low halter-tops festooned with gold ornaments and ample cleavage. Others spoke of pure potential, but experimented with coy eye catching. Everyone screamed Mira without sound. We couldn't help but look.
The gutters weren't guttered but were covered with vendors hawking wares. Cuban music danced from worn boom boxes, next to the pirated CDs filled with colourful titles and smiling faces. Smiling old men pulled women from stores and began to dance in their old, halting manner. Their cha-chas twirled smiles and I, too, would have danced had R. not held me back. They were dancing their dance, not our dance, and for me to have jumped in would've been sacrilegious.
Summers sweet was only so because of the multiple colours of every patch of the street, but mostly because of the mango vendors that roamed Western, singing their wares deliciously. R. and I halted near one of the vendors and eagerly awaited our turn to eat summer. An Hindu man was before us, and he was quite determined to have his corn-yogurt drink. He and the old woman vendor haggled for a few minutes, then smiled and shook hands. I think he was a vendor, because the haggle wasn't really a haggle, but a flirt over the food and the heat. A short man grabbed corn and a knife and sliced the corn from the cob in a silvery arc. The corn was gathered, mixed with nearby yogurt and some red spices, and then mixed in a Styrofoam cup. It glistened white in the radiating red of the bricks behind them and us. The Hindu paid, took his cup, and went off singing towards whatever work had to be done. The woman stared after, then turned her brown eyes on me.
I smiled with my eyes and teeth, and pointed at one of the fat mangoes hanging near the metal mango-tree rack. She smiled, showed two fingers, then deftly cored and sliced my chosen mango. I pulled out money and she shooed my slices into a cup. We exchanged green for green, and I departed with R. following slowly after. The juicy smell of the sliced mangoes hung heavy on the day and our noses. But, we couldn't eat it right away. The neighborhood and the day had personified itself in a cup of sliced mangoes.
Another vendor slid by, selling frozen fruit pops, and we finally dispersed the scenery by digging in. At first, we used forks like proper citizens of America, but the mango call was harsh and we instead used fingers and let the sticky love run down our mouths and fingers. The mango was heavy on our hands, our faces, and us, and the sun bore down on the street as the Cuban village was slowly replaced by the abject wealth and nonchalance of Wicker Park.
It's funny, though, how two dollars can define a neighborhood and, inevitably, a day, a month, or a season. Wicker Park is a sensation in its own, but when I think of summer, I don't think of it. I think of eating mangoes in the Cuban district of Chicago and of ogling the sassiness of Cuban women flitting through the streets and stores.
And, now I'm hungry for Mango.
I don't see the point of December. In fact, December is so bad that the religions of the western world have stuck all the cheerful holidays in it. I guess it's hard to remember peace and goodwill towards people when the slush hangs heavy on the rafters and occasionally falls ground-ward, only to land on whomever was lucky enough to be there at that particular moment. I would much rather my Christmas cheer on a warm beach, served with a margarita and a fine sight of bikinis sashaying towards the ocean. If I close my eyes and dream hard enough, I'm already on the west coast. But, then I have to open my eyes and welcome the utter depression of it all.
I really shouldn't blame the weather for my apathy, but it's hard not to, especially when there's been such a dearth of blue skies and sunshine. The constant throb in my hand doesn't add to my mood and I cradle it while cursing the work that I've allowed to pile. Tonight is paper. Tomorrow is paper. Friday is paper. Next week is paper. Then, Phoenix.
At times I dawdle in the mist and think of the summer. Today, I've been thinking of mangoes. I've been thinking of holding them in my hand and smelling the complete red-greenness of them. I've been thinking of squeezing them just enough to coax a river of sweetness from a burst pore. I've been thinking of slowly slicing off the skin and revealing the mellow orange fruit. I've been thinking of smelling it, licking it, suckling it, and finally, plunging my teeth into it. The flesh of the fruit is summer.
During one of R and mine's many sojourns in Chicago, we pulled off the blue line onto
Western, near Armitage, at the heart of the city's Cuban Neighborhood. The street was typical Chicago; grimy, dirty, worn, but bursting with the insatiable lust for moving forward. On it, children ran through cars pacing the streets, screaming Mira, Mira, Mira to whomever was strolling past. Look, we did, for the energy resonated beneath their skin and flowered in the bubbling buoyancy of youth. R. and I could only laugh and meander down the street, towards the junkyard bloomers, the rusted signs, and the street art glaring at anyone who didn't appreciate the urban-ness of it all.
At times, rusty Ford Pickup trucks rambled around the fleeing North Side Cadillac’s, wooden flatbeds overflowing with fruits, vegetables, and brown farmers with wide straw hats. Occasionally, a fat, old woman would blob down the street, holding a fist of green and shouting haughtily. The farmers would laugh, slow their truck, and begin the exchange of green for green. Nearby, men sat in front of their shops, smoking cigars and grinning at the madness of the street. The street was the world. R. and I could've sat there for the rest of our lives and never grow bored, for the street was constantly changing. The women bursting from the stores advertising two-dollar Ts looked different each time. Some had stretch pants groaning from the bulk concealed. Others had low halter-tops festooned with gold ornaments and ample cleavage. Others spoke of pure potential, but experimented with coy eye catching. Everyone screamed Mira without sound. We couldn't help but look.
The gutters weren't guttered but were covered with vendors hawking wares. Cuban music danced from worn boom boxes, next to the pirated CDs filled with colourful titles and smiling faces. Smiling old men pulled women from stores and began to dance in their old, halting manner. Their cha-chas twirled smiles and I, too, would have danced had R. not held me back. They were dancing their dance, not our dance, and for me to have jumped in would've been sacrilegious.
Summers sweet was only so because of the multiple colours of every patch of the street, but mostly because of the mango vendors that roamed Western, singing their wares deliciously. R. and I halted near one of the vendors and eagerly awaited our turn to eat summer. An Hindu man was before us, and he was quite determined to have his corn-yogurt drink. He and the old woman vendor haggled for a few minutes, then smiled and shook hands. I think he was a vendor, because the haggle wasn't really a haggle, but a flirt over the food and the heat. A short man grabbed corn and a knife and sliced the corn from the cob in a silvery arc. The corn was gathered, mixed with nearby yogurt and some red spices, and then mixed in a Styrofoam cup. It glistened white in the radiating red of the bricks behind them and us. The Hindu paid, took his cup, and went off singing towards whatever work had to be done. The woman stared after, then turned her brown eyes on me.
I smiled with my eyes and teeth, and pointed at one of the fat mangoes hanging near the metal mango-tree rack. She smiled, showed two fingers, then deftly cored and sliced my chosen mango. I pulled out money and she shooed my slices into a cup. We exchanged green for green, and I departed with R. following slowly after. The juicy smell of the sliced mangoes hung heavy on the day and our noses. But, we couldn't eat it right away. The neighborhood and the day had personified itself in a cup of sliced mangoes.
Another vendor slid by, selling frozen fruit pops, and we finally dispersed the scenery by digging in. At first, we used forks like proper citizens of America, but the mango call was harsh and we instead used fingers and let the sticky love run down our mouths and fingers. The mango was heavy on our hands, our faces, and us, and the sun bore down on the street as the Cuban village was slowly replaced by the abject wealth and nonchalance of Wicker Park.
It's funny, though, how two dollars can define a neighborhood and, inevitably, a day, a month, or a season. Wicker Park is a sensation in its own, but when I think of summer, I don't think of it. I think of eating mangoes in the Cuban district of Chicago and of ogling the sassiness of Cuban women flitting through the streets and stores.
And, now I'm hungry for Mango.
posted by Jon at 1:53 PM
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