IN BRIEF
It was a beautiful week. The leaves are bright, crispy, everywhere. Chicago fucking streets. Scenes. Air. Wind. Sunshine. My brain's pleasure centers are apeshit with joy.

The apartment sits in one of my favorite neighborhoods. I'll Flickr it when time allows.

The pizza at Pequod's occupies the highest notch.

There are new meters on North Clybourn. Someone tipped off the Department of Revenue. Parking around here is about to get dicey. The traffic is already hellish.

"The Fog," the remake, might be the worst movie ever made.

Parks. Recreation.

MOST POSSIBLE DEGREES
What's done is done.

The drive up to Chicago was wings on the downthrust. I was contracting, my muscles curled up and squeezing like springs, ready to release everything. Everything is: thundering exclamations of intent; resolute shouts to those who would challenge my methods; chest thumps; tears of boredom, of sadness, confusion; doubt -- several tons of; anticipation; more thundering exclamations of intent; hot dog daydreams; fear; turn signal; exit ramp.

Losing it. Having it all back (almost). And then there's this heartbeat. This living in me. It's there. Finally.

The first week has been fill in the blank. I have seen enormous apartments. I have seen hovels that stunk of weed and sausage. They are $1,000 a month, all of them. Their walls protect you from certain facts that might make the outside unbearable. Those facts are: parking is a gerund that will ruin your day; CTA bus exhaust will cloud your lungs and judgment; those white lines, those lanes, mean nothing if getting anywhere means anything; no good Mexican food; city tax; people with nothing to lose; cabbies.

And do I have the temerity to arrive after all this work, all this vacillating and carrying on, do I have the temerity after all that to sit here and tell you that this city, there are things about it that are not premium grade A choice prime? I do.

The apartment hunt has exhausted me beyond repair. But today I found my home. I am fortunate. It is the kind of place about which people write things. About which they write things like: the area, it's perfect; seriously, you have no idea how lucky you are; you'll never have to worry about parking; that kind of square footage for that price? Exclamation point; I am the envy of others; my lifelong search is over; yadda yadda yadda; die happy.

(Did I mention the writing? I've been doing a lot of it. I love you all with every last fiber, but the man said not to worry so much about updating my blog.)

I had a job interview on Monday. It went well. I am supposed to hear back tomorrow. But you probably won't read this until then. So I am supposed to hear back today. I will answer the phone in my underwear. This much I know for certain.

Has it been difficult? stressful? Of course it has. Has it been worth it? Yes. Every last difficult stressful bit of it. To see that lake, those buildings, these people. To walk these streets and smell this air and feel this breeze. There are sidewalks and bike lanes. People with sideburns. We are progressive. Liberal. We accept one another for who we are. We walk places. Ride busses. Wear slacks, starched shirts and backpacks.

Good dear sweet gentle god, let me be part of this. Let me dream again about everything I used to dream about. Everything: Everything: Everything

GOLD TEETH & A CURSE FOR THIS TOWN
Are all in my mouth.

The leaving part will be difficult. The early morning car pack and last kisses. The final pictures and promises and the one last morning — dark, cool, and dewy. I had several moments over the weekend when I realized that I was three business days away from taking to the highway, heading north. You must remember not to think of the details too much. You must remember to be cool and casual. You can’t be all weepy at 88 on the interstate. And by you I mean me. There’s a narrow line to be walked and me don’t want to slip up.

I am making several CDs to get me through the first days. I am calling them, collectively, “Sad But Not Too Sad.” They include songs that might be quite uplifting if it weren’t for the fact that I’m going to be unemployed and without a couple key friends. But enough of that. It’s not like I’m moving to someplace faraway and crazy, like Plano.

But the drive will, I know, be an ordeal — 14, 15 hours in a small car packed tight w/no stereo and only the 30 or so songs that will fit into the mp3 player. I tell myself that I should be able to make the entire trip on three tanks tops. Wearing a tank top. From the pet shop. Me must remember not to sweat the drive too much. Nothing can be done about it. Cowboy up.

Know that I’ll miss you all terribly terribly horribly. I will have special T-shirts made with your names in a gothic typeface. I will name other people’s children after you. Maybe spray paint your images on a prominent 90/94 overpass. The possibilities will be downright Midwestern.

You’ll see. Just you wait.