Dear Readers, an apology for the lapse in publication! As outlined in the essay of a few months ago, I was the sole person running a three person department for about three months, and it left room for little else.

I recently spent about a month on an essay that ultimately failed to thrive, so this missive may be less composed than an essay, but hopefully meatier than an email, (although I suppose it’s an email regardless!)

Earlier this week, I found myself sitting on the bus on a stretch of Division I have come to loath, but which is now part of my bus route to work, due to a construction detour. I have spent upwards of a half an hour on certain days just sitting outside of Restaurant Depot and Five Star Laundry, wondering just how early I would need to catch the bus to avoid this Kafkaesque traffic. Once we hit the bridge, it’s like six minutes to work, but until then, the jury’s out.

2

It is once again the time for “end of year lists.” Top songs, top books, top everything! In this spirit I would certainly venture to say the earache in my left ear two days ago could possibly be its crowning achievement on the pain scale of this entire year. Nothing is less pleasurable than being on hold with a sprawling medical system, knowing that even if they do ever eventually pick up your call, you’ve probably reached the wrong department, and listening to advertisements for their various services and commitment to your health, while it feels like a wasp is repeatedly stinging your eardrum in the other ear.

3

I did log into Spotify this week, in spite of migrating to Tidal, to see my “Wrapped” results. My top genre was “Jangly Pop.” I had to repair to Wikipedia to figure out what kind of music I had been listening to so much. Turns out REM is in that genre, and the last few months, my music diet was mostly plaintive or “jangly” frustration-laden indie pop or straight up spirituals of ontological despair. Pastor T.L. Barrett and the Youth Choir for Christ got a lot of play in recent months, as did Moby’s settings of “In This World” and “Natural Blues,” and Nona Hendryx’s “Problem.” My number one song of the year was “Mearcstapa” by Fleet Foxes, which became a ritual listen in our surplus wine storage area, which still stubbornly defies organization, an anthem to negative space between “the falcon” and “the falconer;” however, due to heavy traffic of sixties and seventies Motown, funk and RB throughout the year, Spotify pegged my listening age as “65.” Thanks, Spotify!

4

This year was certainly another year of losses: one close friend ghosted us, another may as well have, and I lost a friend and mentor to whatever our collective next chapter is, but I like what this author’s grandmother chose to do, in leaving her life “empty:”

When Jane Goodall, who I once had the immense privilege of hearing speak, left this earth, I felt less sad than awed by what she got done, in the time allotted to her. I’m starting to feel less sad and more just grateful when certain public figures who bettered this world pass on. They got the work done in the time they had.

S. pulled out a box of Christmas decorations that once contained a care package that a close friend we saw only one time this year sent for St. Patrick’s Day during quarantine. That one thoughtful gift sparked a practice of sending surprise packages to loved ones that continues to today. One should arrive in Texas this very afternoon. She still resonates in our life, even if at a temporary distance.

5

I had a dream earlier this week that I was having a sleepover with Oprah. I imagine it was inspired by this Onion article https://theonion.com/oprah-pursues-dr-phil-on-ship-through-arctic/ I had read earlier in the day. In the dream, I told her how important it was to me to just get through things, but Oprah told me, as we both perched on her queen-sized bed, that “that was not enough,” and that I needed to be “more vulnerable to my experiences…” Perhaps Oprah in my subconscious was telling me to be more present to circumstances, even the hard ones, in order to fully inhabit them, rather than cope and shrink.

It is odd that prescence and “attachment” can feel analogous in a way they really aren’t. I believe strongly in Anne Lamott’s admonition not to “furnish” a hole you might fall into, but we still need to look around, and offer ourselves enough grace to be clear-eyed, regardless of whether things are “working out” (so to speak) well, or perhaps not so well. There is still information to be gathered, good to be sought and experience to be had in any sense of circumstances.

The Walgreens website has somehow misplaced every photo and photo project I uploaded since last January, after I switched from Google to Duck Duck Go, including Christmas ones still in process for this year’s giving, the CTA has decided to stop recognizing my iPhone for payment and my left ankle has some significant reservations about being functional this evening.

I sit on Division, and we haven’t even gotten to Restaurant Depot, let alone Five Star Laundry, but I left two hours for my forty minute commute today. I gave myself space to be vulnerable to the current slate of frustrations last night during my bar shift, and I think dream Oprah was right. I feel rather OK. I’m not running late this week, and I can see that bridge over the Chicago River in the distance. Shouldn’t be more than another twenty minutes until we reach it.

I hope if I restart my phone all those pictures and projects will magically reappear, but I’m listening to “Golden Lady” off Innervisions at the moment, I still have a little iced coffee in my traveling mug, and we just made it to that bridge!