It is always slightly strange to find oneself suddenly alone, despite all preparations and desire for solitude. In Glasgow, when the weather was fierce and the daylight hours scarce, I’d wrap myself in novels and sleep extended hours, hidden under the covers of my tiny bed. I was lucky enough to have an apartment with heat included – here in Chicago I have the thermostat set to a chilling 57 degrees and I’m huddled in my room with a space heater. I am less alone here. I understand the dialect and have a selection of friends to call upon. Still I chose to remain home at night, calling upon the familiar pain of solitude driven by the desire to rejuvenate my body and mind.City life is strange. I am frustrated by interaction – there are so many people – and so many of them in such close quarters – that I don’t know what to do with my voice or energy. It is vastly strange that humanity can live so tightly and yet travel each day on the no. 66 bus down Chicago Ave. and not speak or acknowledge one another, hardly laugh about awkward situations and rarely exchange a sympathizing look. I instinctively want to connect with everyone I meet – but I never know what to say. It all goes back to my first day on the beach at two years old, when I clung to my mother and fearfully asked her what I was supposed to say to all those people. She laughed and replied, oh you don't have to talk to them. How strange! Since then I’ve learned how to socially interact – it’s always awkward.
When Alexandra is here she comes home with the strangest of stories. She falls into a chair around the Marmie Room table, and while turning on her laptop explains that in a city there is bound to be something fucked up going on any time you venture to look.
"There’s these two women standing around talking casually, you know, a normal everyday conversation, when I realize there’s a pigeon between them, and it’s on fire, and it’s definitely still alive. At one point one woman kind of shoved it with her foot – they were talking maybe about dreams."
I chuckle awkwardly, horrified and uneasy. "You’re kidding?"
"No. And then there was this great woman, dressed all in red, with that sort of blood-orange colored vintage copy of Catcher in the Rye and a big red bag with a cat sticking out. And she sits down next to me."
"And you realize the cat is dead?"
"No. That’s it. Just the woman."
I again begin to laugh. The oddest things I have witnessed are usually some version of hip-art-school culture: like a passing/collective chess game outside the Art Institute with a boombox blaring dance music and a variety of boys with bikes playing a few pieces before riding on. In general I witness things that could've happened but don't - interactions that might have been brilliant, but weren't.
I watch the city in silence – alone and with the secret hope that some great interaction will come of my observations. Seeing so many people every day I've realize how much I’ve learned to suppress natural instinct – how easy it is to recognize something about a person, know instantly how to connect with them, and then quickly disregard the feeling in order to fall back on tried and true dialog:
"Hello, welcome to Argo, how are you this morning?"If only I could learn to capture that split second of seeing people and harness it for good – the sarcastic witty remarks aimed at cocky boys are easy versions. I’d like to be able to catch someone on the edge of sadness or the beginning of a smile and for a moment have a pure interaction.
