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she· verb
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08.02.03 There are a number of reasons I haven't updated in awhile, two of them would be that I'm in ketosis and I'm cheating on you with another website. Another one would be that I'm still employed by the House of Pain but they are working my editing and writing fingers--not to mention both left and right frontal lobes--down to bloody stubs and there's nothing left to type with, let alone enough gray matter to form a coherent thought. A fourth reason would be that I live in the middle of a hayfield and nothing ever happens here. Ever. Add all dem reasons up and you get the number four (4), an unpleasant aching between your temples or an un-updated sheverb. You thought I was kidding about the hayfield, right? Wrong.
Aside from the interesting symmetry of rolled up hay, there really isn't a hell of a lot to work with here. I could regale you with tales of how trace elements of boron and selenium might be present in the soil, or that this particular batch was cut early in order to provide maximum nutrition for some very scary horses across the street, rather than late for maximum yield which does happen in September, but honestly now. What the fuck do you care?
This type of secluded, quiet and speculative life actually did work for me as I was coming to terms with my father's death. I needed that first six months as we both processed physical the act of his dying, then that following year to miss him until I thought for certain everyone I encountered could see glowing evidence of his absence from my life each time I opened my mouth, my eyes. But now? Now I miss Chicago with almost as much fierceness as I miss my father. I miss its distorted sense of Midwestern cosmopolitanism mixed with yuppie sensibility as the theater districts and its tiny version of China town and Greek town mimic New York City. I miss the Loop. I miss the El and Quincy, Armitage, Belmont, and Ravenswood. I miss the Old Town School of Folk Music. I miss Hyde Park and south side barbeque. I miss museums and libraries and galleries. I miss the Music Box. I miss Lake Michigan. I miss the Green Mill. I miss the freakish people who either smell peculiarly or say disturbing things about Jesus and the contents of their trousers; but ask me for money anyway. I miss the inexplicable corn-on-the-cob-slathered-with-mayonnaise-selling street venders. I miss communal alleyways and driveways. I miss traffic and the sense that wherever that other driver is going it must be really important or they wouldn't lay on the horn when they're delayed for 30 or more seconds. I even miss Stompy. I miss life happening all around me at all times.
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