Next Stop: Go

As much as I hate to dwell on my public transportation experiences, I had one this morning that I must relate. There are two Brown Line El stops in the Loop where most of the people leave the train. They are Washington and Wells, and Quincy.

Quincy is my stop but every morning I get up at Washington and Wells, exit from the north door of my car and then walk over to the south door and enter. I don't do this because I have OCD. I do this so I can be the first out the door when we arrive at Quincy. It's a sneaky trick, I know, but I truly can't stand being stuck behind people as they creep ahead of me--on foot or in a car. I hate traffic passionately.

Most of the people get off at Washington and Wells. Today, I heard the announcement "This is Washington and Wells..." I got up and so did the woman next to me. I headed for the north door. The train stopped. Everyone paused in silence, while they waited for the doors to open. Silence. The doors didn't open. And then another anouncement "Doors closing..." People looked around, amused. Obviously the driver hit the wrong button since the doors had never openned.

Then the train lurched. "Quincy is Next." Hey! "Doors open on the right, at Quincy" People were muttering, stunned and confused. The whole train came awake as we left Washington and Wells without letting a single person off. The com-buttons to contact the driver were being pushed all over the train, creating a symphony of "bings" at various volumes. No answer. No announcement. Nothing.

That's what I found the most odd. Perhaps the station had been closed. Those CTA drivers usually over-communicate though. During a normal delay, a train will stop and sit and every thirty seconds, it seems, you'll hear that damn announcement "we are being delayed, waiting for signals up ahead. We expect to be moving shortly..." But this time, nothing.

When we arrived at Quincy, so many people had to get off the train, that the platform was a Tokyo rush hour. It took me five minutes to make it to the street. The train couldn't leave the station because there were people unable to make it off the train and onto the platform. And that's when we heard the only announcement from the driver. "Please stand clear of the doors...doors will be closing."

Cell phones popped up all over the crowd. It made me think of us as herd animals who have a strange group characteristic when we're cornered. We reach into pouches on our bodies, put objects to our faces and begin to shout "yeah, I'm gonna be late."

I liked it. I think everyone liked it, even the ones who thought they hated it. It gave us all an excuse to talk about it and it woke us from our routines. I don't know why it drives me crazy to be stuck behind a near still herd of business casuals. It is one of those lessons in patience that I'm obviously meant to learn. It is something out of my control, from which I am meant to take lesson.

Today has been a day of sunshine and rain--and I'm not talking metaphores. It was an overcast, warm day. It was then a sunny day. It poured rain. The sun came back and it was hot. Again, the rain. Again, the sun.

It is 7:30pm and I'm finishing this blog at the Neo-Futurarium. In 30 minutes, my fiance's show, Inside My Mouth, will have its opening night. And they have a great ending to their show now. If you live near Chicago, you should come see this show.

I got myself a tea and was on my way back to write this when I saw some gathering clouds over the roof of a bank on Clark St. A flash. A peel of lighting. And from nowhere a woman next to me said "did you see that?" I didn't recognize her. The lightning, the midwest, these put us on speaking terms. "Yes." I said. "Looks like it didn't go away." She laughed and we went in opposite directions.

Our lives are sunshine and rain. Now I'm talking metaphores--remedial ones in fact. We stop. We go. And sometimes we keep going with the door closed. Sometimes we try to keep our doors shut but the lightning and the open heart of a passerby rips them open. One day we don't have an ending to our show, less than a week later that ending is the best ending a show can have.

It is during those moments when we have no control over what is happening, that our lives and purpose are defined. In a life that always has sunshine, on a train that always stops and lets you off, in a work of art that always ends perfectly, you are at best a piece of pretty scenery. In our moments of bliss, we are as dead as we are happy. Enjoy it before it passes, because there are always clouds gathering over the banks on Clark st. And when the rain comes, my advice is don't be a baby. After all, while we're knee deep in obvious metaphores, remember that rain brings life.

And that's why you gotta love it. Even if you hate it.

Wednesday Catalog
Today I have seen:
the limping man with a Cubs hat
the wind blowing up skirts
my office
myself
a packet of asprin
a free bagel
the Chicago River
a silent, wildly gesturing homeless man
the Adam's Street bridge
a can of Dr. Pepper
"I hate George Bush" in over 30 languages

Today I have heard:
thousands of keystrokes
the hum of my printer
the wind blowing up skirts
the footsteps of five million Chicagoans
the ringing of my telephone
the voice of my fiance
the muted, plodding rattle of the Brownline El

Today I have smelled:
gasoline
a free bagel toasting
the spring sun on Loop pavement
the Chicago River
cigarette smoke

Today I have felt:
a pain behind my eyes
lonely
amused
excited
exhausted
old
cramped
trapped
eager
pissed

I have not been sleeping long enough. I have not been eating well. My shirt feels too long. My watch is still stopped but I wear it every day to remind me to buy a new battery. It is 8:04. My cell phone is charging. My printer is still humming. I'm sure the wind here is blowing up skirts all over the city.

It is still 8:04.

The Wheel of Enlightenment as Demonstrated by a Limping Man from Chicago and a Rude Man From New England
The old limping man in the Cubs hat was gone for days. It was starting to worry me. I used to see him at the same time around the same place (give or take twenty yards) every day. But lately nothing. And I found myself no longer dreading his hellos. I found myself becoming eager to see him. I had, after all, made him into a character, one who features prominantly in the story of my morning routine, and his absence was negatively impacting my daily narrative.

And then this morning I saw him. He didn't look as cheerful as usual. I wondered if today had been the first day he could walk after a long illness. Had he just been released from the hospital? Or was this the first time in a couple of weeks that he'd been able to get his tired body out of bed at the usual hour?

Anyway, I saw him. And I was happy. And as we passed, another milestone. "Hi. How are you?" he asked. And this time I responded directly and cheerfuly. "I'm doing well, thanks. How are you?" "Good", I heard him say behind me.

It occured to me as we passed that this time, he didn't push our relationship to the next level the way he had previously. He didn't do it because of who he is, but because of whom he is to me.

I should explain that: He was the one in a funk. I was the one looking eagerly at him when he raised his gaze to me. He saw me looking at him with the regard that strangers don't have as they pass, and it awoke him. It asked him to be friendly. And then the greeting, the question...And I liked it, even needed it.

Our relationship has taken a turn, his and mine. The power dynamic shifted today, and it shifted because I made him into an emblem of midwestern politeness, a character who symbolized a Buddhist-like appreciation for the moment; and when he hobbled along, dour-faced and silent, I had to beg him with my eyes to fulfill his role.

Now the last thing I'm trying to describe is some kind of power I think I have over the universe. Quite the contrary. We're all story-tellers. Part of the function of our left brain is to create a narrative thread in our lives (people with damage to this part of their brain can literaly turn their lives into fantasy stories) and we contextualize all of our experiences via this thread.

There's a great Korean Zen Master living in the United States who teaches about the stages of enlightenment. I'm not enlightened, so I'm sure I'll do a terrible job explaing my own personal understanding of these stages but here I go: The first one is an attachment to name and form. People at this stage only understand the nature of reality as it is presented to them. A chair is a chair. A box is a box. The next stage is attachment to emptiness. These folks understand that form is emptiness. There is no chair. There is no box. Life is inherently meaningless. People in this stage can get really depressed with what is commonly called Zen sickness. The next stage is an attachment to freedom. People in this stage realize that if life is meaningless, they can then do whatever they want with it. These folks can be too happy in a way. They are still detached from the world of the living because they base their new freedoms on the notion that their life is nothing. The final phase has no real name or is sometimes called "just like this". The folks who reach this stage make a full circle. Again, a chair is a chair. A box is a box. They realize that although form is emptiness, emptiness is also form. Although life is meaningless, although we can turn it into anything we want, the secret of life is to live it. Why do we need to construct a fantasy? Why do we need to turn our noses up at baseball? Life just is as it is. What's for dinner?

All of us are enlightened. Within each of us is every stage that I described. A greeting from a stranger is greeting. A greeting from a stranger is meaningless. A greeting from a stranger is everything. A greeting is just a greeting. Hello.

I can tell you that I'm from New England and that means that I'm rude. I can tell you that I am anxious when I meet this limping man every morning because of how friendly he is, and I wouldn't be lying. But the world I create on this blog, while it may be true, is fixed in name and form and is therefore irrelevant the moment I have written it. It is therefore meaningless. It is therefore everything. It is therefore just a blog.

I am from New England, therfore I am rude. I am rude one day, friendly the next, therefore my nature is changeable and my true self is nothing. If I am nothing, I can be anything I want. I am friendly! I am from New England. My name is Andy. Hello. How are you?

Of Moms And Can Openers
Mother's Day was a crowded brunch in a resteaurant called She She on a hot day in Lincoln Square. Genevra was worried about her show. They don't have an ending. They open Thursday. This is theater.

We were the only people in the restaurant, it seemed, who had no mothers with them. You saw many mother-daughter duos, and whole families taking up two and three tables pushed together, having multi-generational mom fests.

Genevra and I have mom's out of state, families who live far away. We do celebrations by phone mostly. We send cards. Genevra is the queen of cards. She always knows when to send them, fires all of them off on time, tells me when I should send cards, gives me cards, sends me e-cards sometimes just to tell me that she loves me.

I am a lousy card man. I have a hard time letting anyone write things for me, let alone sentiments and humor. I have a natural aversion to intimacy most of the time and also feel somewhat possessive of my funny. So why would I let anyone do either of those things for me? And then of course there's the whole corporate thing. Do you know why you celebrate Valentines Day or even Mother's Day? Ask Hallmark.

But of course I sent my mother a card. And I called my mother on Mother's Day and wished her a happy one and told her that I loved her. Because I do. And I miss her a lot.

In the restaurant I had one of those moments that I couldn't explain at the time. I used to have these moments when I found myself in strange suburban neighborhoods--anywhere in the country. I would stop and think to myself "that backyard is as familiar to some family as my backyard is to mine. This neighborhood is somebody's home. This space, these houses and this street are so familiar to these people, they almost don't see them anymore." And I thought that way about the families around us. Whole families, whole generations there, their homes belonging to the midwest, their houses, their nieghborhoods so different from mine. Beyond that, I can't explain the sensation, and if hardly anyone out there identifies with me, I may have to blame my epilepsy again.

The first time I experienced this sensation was with my late brother Jon, when we were kids. He pointed to our electric, mounted can opener that was underneath a counter in the kitchen and he said "look at this. Look at this can opener. We're so used to it that we don't even notice it. Look at it like you're looking at it for the first time. It's weird. It's just hanging out here."

He wasn't on anything. I think we were just kids and so I understood and could also do as he asked. I simply sat back and took in our kitchen cabinet for the first time. And he was right. That can opener looked bizarre. Everything did. After all, we are, all of us, total strangers to most everyone in the world. We're the electric can opener, the midwestern mom at the table next to the theatre couple. Why shouldn't we be able to take a step back and see the details of our lives objectively?

And I suppose, despite its putrid sentimentality, the gawdy words or obvious humor printed on those damn cards and the fact that we are celbrating it mostly to line the pockets of ingenious corporations, Mother's Day isn't such a bad thing. It's a good day to take a step back and appreciate your mother from a different perspective, to for one day stop treating her like the overlooked beauty of the neighborhood you live in. And I'm sure that sounded corny to most of you. But I think that's simply mother's day in it's natural form--when you take a step back and see it for what it really is. Corny. But meaningful.

I guess it's like an expensive brunch with some good friends. The food may be over-priced, your fiance may have too much pepper in her macaroni and cheese, someone's got to pay for it and it makes someone else richer, but it's a nice excuse to sit and talk with your friends. Sitting and talking is good, and so is appreciating any human being, for any reason.

Have a Happy Monday.

Please send your Happy Monday greeting cards here: Andy Bayiates, c/o The Neo-Futurarium, 5153 N. Ashland Ave., Chicago, IL 60640

And please help turn Hallmark on to the idea of Happy Monday cards at www.hallmark.com.

They'll make a friggin fortune!