Daily Journal Entry #12

Marathons were never her forte and she had no idea why she'd agreed to the haf-day event. Oh right, that's why. She followed Maura around like a lost puppy. She followed her to and from work, followed her through the Dirty Robber, followed her to the master bedroom, followed her into orgasm each and every night. And now she was following her in the Boston Marathon, but in it all, she realized she could hardly complain about the view.

Daily Journal Entry #11

You met her in Psychology class. She had this fantastic tshirt on, one of those Bunny Suicide cartoons, and the most perfect teeth you'd ever seen outside of one of those cheesy posters at your orthodontist's office. Her long brown hair was thrown over one shoulder, but she kept pulling little pieces forward to braid and unbraid while she listened to the chapter six lecture. She got bored around the fifth slide of the powerpoint and started doodling on her notebook. No hearts or stars for this girl, no, she was drawing a brain... a brain with an alien inside in front of a switchboard panel and a bank of monitors. She pulled her foot up onto the edge of her chair so she could readjust her sock... her sock inside her pink and lime green Vans skateboarding shoes. That was when you realized you were pretty much in love.

Daily Journal Entry #10

There's not much to him, I think. Just skin and bones really. I can see the hard lines of his bones and the notches of his ribs and spine when he bends over and unties his shoes. He stands on his old shaking legs, and teeters over the edge of the splash pad. He drops the black, scuffed Nikes into the streams of water and watches as the water fills up the cavity before spilling onto the pavement. He sits, muttering to himself and adjusting his scant belongings around him on the concrete bench in the center of the plaza. I wonder how long he sits out here everyday because his withered skin is worn and tan like leather. I sit and watch him for what feels like hours, days. His fuzzy white hair doesn't get any longer, it stays cropped-though unruly- around his scalp. He begins shaking after a while. It starts out as a slight sporadic tremor that swiftly moves through his body. But a few minutes later he begins quaking, his whole body trembling like a tea kettle about to boil over. He starts shouting, drifting streams of semi-coherent babble longer than the shadows in the five o'clock afternoon sun. No one says anything but the mothers sitting around the splash pad gather their children closer to them, faitnly speaking of false appointments, inexcusable errands, made-up tasks...all desperately trying to concoct reasons for their children to be carted away from the ticking time bomb that the barely lucid homeless man represents. The old man reaches a climax in his indistinguishable, audience-less speech...and stops. He falls silent, gazing in wonder down at the pavement where the early evening sun has cast the shadow of a church's steeple on the ground at his feet. He gets off the bench carefully, like it's made of glass and squats on the pavement. He reverently touches the tips of two fingers to the carful outline of the cross, it's shadow being cast from the shape on top of the steeple across the park. He glances up, his fingers still pressed to the rapidly cooling ground. He gazes up into the sun and crosses himself with his other hand before kissing his thumb and pressing it to the pavement where the shadow of the cross still lays. Then the old man gets up, takes his shoes from under the streams of water and begins to walk. he stoops to pick up his strewn belongings, but he doesn't bother putting on his dripping shoes. He just walks, and walks. Rounds the corner and disappears. I sit for a long time after he's gone, wondering what it is exactly that I've seen.

Daily Journal Entry #9

His light blue shirt has little spots on it already, even though the family has only been at the splash pad for a few minutes. His little denim bucket hat is emblazoned on the front with a green "Osh Kosh BiGosh" and little droplets of chlorinated water drip off the side onto his chubby shoulder. The boy squeals in delight as water shoots out of the ground. He holds his arms out wide and watches the water reach two, three times his height. His cherub cheeks pull upwards at the corners of his mouth like stage curtains at the start of a show to reveal his toothless grin. With another cry of delight the boy shoots forward into the stream of the upward-shooting water, and in a second his blue and yellow Hawaiian print swim trunks are soaked. His shoes squick squick squick as he waddles back towards his mother only to spin around halfway and splash right back through the water again.

Daily Journal Entry #8

I learned so many things those first few months riding the train twice daily. For example, there are three to five specific groups of people that ride the train on any given day. After a semester of commuting, I was able to spot these people, even in their best disguises, from a train car away. The Daily Commuter: These are either the classy business types or sleepy college kids. The former can be spotted carrying briefcases and newspapers, and they lack the ability to talk on their cell phones at a decibel that doesn’t make you want to bang your head (or theirs, for that matter) against those sad green-tinted Plexiglas windows. Beware, these people will ruffle their Wall Street Journal in your face and will not ask for the unoccupied seat beside you…they will just take it. The college kids are much easier to spot. They are often seen scrambling to finish forgotten homework, studying for tests in classes they haven’t been to in weeks, or more likely, sleeping slumped down in the seat with their mouths hanging open. Some S.C.K (sleepy college kids) will make the effort to shower and get dressed before leaving their houses in the morning, but more often than not, they will roll out of bed, barely remembering to brush their teeth before rushing outside and speeding all the way to the train station. They board the train breathless, having run all the way from their haphazardly-parked cars, and smell heavily of coffee and sleep. The Sports Fan: Often drunk, perpetually confused, and inexplicably loud, the Sports Fan is the bane of the Daily Commuter. The Sports Fan never travels alone; he is accompanied by at least three equally obnoxious friends and a six-pack of Miller Lite. Busch Lite, if he’s under twenty-five. It is not uncommon to see a Sports Fan Family, consisting of a mother, father, two fighting 10-15 year-olds, and an infant dressed in the team’s colors. Even as early as nine in the morning, the Sports Fan is on the wobbly path to inebriation and loudly arguing whether it is a better idea to get off at the Jefferson stop or to ride into downtown and take the red line/bus/cab to Wrigley Field/Soldier Field/Comisky Park. The Suburban Family: As nice as a category this may seem, it is the kiss of death for everyone on the train car. The Family is very much like the Sports Fan Family, except that they lack a purpose. The Suburban Family got up one weekend morning and decided to spend the day in the city. With no consideration for the very irritable train folk, they quarantine their screaming, snotty-nosed, bickering children into a set of flipped seats, and instead of quieting them down, they only add to the noise by shouting threats every two to four minutes. The Suburban Family does not know their way around the city, so be prepared to be asked directions. Do not huff and sigh at the commotions The Suburban Family makes the duration of the train ride because that will just encourage them.

Daily Journal Entry #7

A friend once told me that my humor can be divided like a pie-chart.
“30% of the time you’re actually pretty funny,” he explained. “But the other seventy, we either don’t know what the hell you’re talking about or you just sound like an idiot.”
Actually, he isn’t my friend. He is an asshole, and he makes it his mission in life to offend as many people as possible each day. Colin is the typical teenage boy: he is constantly torn between farting and humping everything that moves, and he harbors a strange obsession for Spongebob Squarepants. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything dressier than his old high school soccer jersey and his favorite red plaid pajama pants. His youthful attire and unfortunately persistent acne betray him as a young man in the unforgiving throes of his later teenage years, but his thick neck and rapidly defined jaw promise that he is likely to grow into a very handsome looking gentleman. If only he weren’t such a damn prick.

Daily Journal Entry #6

Luke leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh of annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Okay, so how many are we talking here?” Luke eyed the little girl suspiciously.
Nothing but the small diner table stood between man and child. She sat across from him, arms folded in a position that exactly mirrored his own. Her blue eyes glittered mischievously and Luke could not stop himself from thinking that she looked just like her mother.
“Five,” she replied, eyeing him with equal intensity. Luke’s cool faltered.
“Five?!” he asked incredulously. He leaned forward, putting his hands on the table and narrowing his eyes. ”You expect me to fill the back of my truck with hay, and cart you and five of your little friends around town for an hour?” He breathed deeply through his nose, putting his rant to an immediate stop for sake of the child sitting before him.
Without missing a beat, the girl nodded.
 ”Yes,” she said simply.
They both turned their heads at the sound of the door swinging open. A tall, dark haired woman entered and approached the table with a smile, arms laden with bags full of a variety of junk food and sweets.
Luke suspected that the M&Ms in the bag in the woman’s left hand were among the only green things the woman had purchased that evening.
“Hey kid,” she said, stroking the child’s hair. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah, just about,” the girl said smiling up at her mother. “I’m just making a deal with our Luke, here.” She then turned to face him, an expecting look on her features.
Luke’s head dropped in defeat.
 ”What time?” he growled.
 ”Seven’s good,” the girl giggled, standing up.
She took her mother’s hand and together they headed towards the door. At the last moment, Luke lifted his head.
“Happy Birthday, Rory,” he called in their direction. 
 “Thanks.” She waved in acknowledgement and continued out the door. The mother, however, lingered. 
 “Thanks, Luke,” she said, her teary eyes shining with sincerity. 
 “Anytime, Lorelai,” he said to the swinging door. “Anytime.”

Daily Journal Entry #5

I can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be him, so carefree. He smiles easily, laughs even easier. I watch him tossing the pigskin football to his dad, thumping his brother on the back and grinning at a joke, shoving nearly an entire fully-loaded hotdog into his mouth, seeing him plant a wet one on his niece’s cheek. He runs back and forth across the lawn, in and out of the house - I’m always reminding him to keep that door closed, but he never listens - around the yard. He’s got his nephew on his back, and our daughter around his ankle. The kids flock to him and he laughs as they tackle him to the ground. I see him deliver tickle tortures to each child individually; they scream and pretend to run, but they always come back for more. He stands up, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes - I should remind him to get it cut soon - and pulls out a baseball for the kids to toss around. After a few quick “lessons” for the children, he sends them off into the backyard and heads back towards the grown-up’s table. He knows I’ve been watching him; I can tell by the smile on his face. I just can’t believe how in love with him I am, after all these years. He knows it, too. He can see it in my face. With a wink and a kiss on my cheek, he sinks into the chair beside me and strikes up a conversation with his new sister-in-law. Our hands find each other’s under the table, fingers intertwining in a familiar gesture. That’s when I notice his ring is gone and my heart sinks.

Daily Journal Entry #4

Looking at her across the table, I can’t help but think she hasn’t changed one bit since the last time I saw her, since the last few years that I’ve known her, since the fifth grade. Her unremarkable dark blonde hair hangs past her shoulders by three inches - never four, because that would be tacky - and her big brown eyes are clouded with an air of insecurity. Her paisley-print top looks like it’s straight out of a third-grade teacher’s closet, and her stiff jean skirt hangs to the tops of her knees, legs crossed at the ankles. I ask her about her trip to Europe; her lackluster appraisal of the study abroad program and the general economy of Europe reveal nothing about what she did there, what she experienced, what she learned. I ask her what she discovered about herself while she was there - I’ve been told that you often find yourself when you’re traveling. Her brow furrows, creating this small indentation between her eyebrows, the same confused look she’s had since she was ten. She’s not sure, she says, what she learned about herself, but she did learn an awful lot about the European culture. Always deflecting, I notice, I have noticed, I’ve been noticing since the fifth grade. She reflects that she’s happy that she studied abroad, that she can say she finally did it, that it’s something to tell other people. I mention I’ve been accepted to study in London. Her face sours like a carton of old milk. She changes the subject.

Daily Journal Entry #3

I can’t think with all the noise. It’s rising up out of the mouths of my fellow commuters, swelling into clouds of pithy babble that clog the air of the cramped train car. I’ve plugged in my headphones, the tiny white earbuds proving ineffectual to the dull drone of city-goers onboard this crowded train. What I wouldn’t give for that perfectly empty, wide seat in the back upper corner of this car. I try indicating my desire to vacate my current slot, crushed in beside the window, but the heavy woman next to me seems to have fallen asleep, her romance novel open and resting spine-up on her heaving chest. I am assaulted by the pungent scent of regurgitated Bud Light as the blue-and-red-clad man behind me belches loudly. His friends laugh at the vulgar display as he swipes the back of one hand across his mouth and cracks open another beer. I am disgusted. I can’t get close enough to this window, I decide as the heavyset woman, the proverbial cork on this bottle of a train-car seat, shifts and her thigh slides further from its twin, coming to rest within centimeters of mine. With the shifting comes the faint scent of cats, another pungent odor to add to the plethora of disgusting smells I am victim to this afternoon on the Metra. I click-click-click up the volume a bit more on my iPod, trying desperately to lose myself in the sounds of Brandi Carlisle and the rattle of train tracks beneath me

Daily Journal Entry #2

I don’t think it’s been touched in a while. There’s a faint indentation, just a straight line, as if a finger was swiped through the thick layer of dust and inspected. But another layer just settled right on top, and the difference between the once-touched and never-disturbed bits are nearly indistinguishable.
I have this urge to clean it, to wipe it free from the desk, leaving myself a clean surface upon which to work. Or rather, upon which to settle my eyes, as this work shift is proving less than entertaining. I reach for the paper towel roll, unraveling two large swaths of the downy-soft fabric. My finger is poised, quivering above the trigger of the disinfectant spray bottle. With a firm squeeze, I’ve launched droplets of cleaning solution into the air, flying towards to dust-laden desk like tiny kamikaze soldiers, holding out their swords and preparing for battle. The dust particles flair up just a bit at the disturbance in the air when the droplets hit the desk, pinning their enemies down with their soaking qualities. The downy fabric in my fingers drifts down upon the desk, and for a moment, as the cloth makes contact, I can see the dark imprint of dust, of dirt, of time having passed right by without anyone noticing. I try not to think of it too much as I swipe the cloth back and forth across the faux-wooden surface. It’s clean now, all taken care of.
I sit back in my chair, cross my ankles, and wait for the next bit of time to lay a hand and leave a mark on my clean desk.

Daily Journal Entry #1

The strong “kah” sound almost echoes off the whiteboard, betraying the name’s physical two-dimensional quality. No pause between the first reaching arm of the letter and the second sloping one. The effect is this small trapped space between the erect spine and the juncture of the branches. Swooping vowels “a” and “e”, written with such nonchalance, are separated by staccato “t” and vertical “i”. A larger than normal space between the first and last pieces of the moniker are a pregnant pause before the grandiose form of “S”. Leaning upon the slithery consonant is staccato “t”, less confident than his twin as he holds hands with rolling “r”, who in turn rests an elbow on little “o”’s head. Stand alone “n” shrugs in deference to “g”, which ushers out with a tail curling in upon itself. “Katie Strong”, the whiteboard reads. Just a simple name, but a story nonetheless.