Too Cold

A cold day—not outdoors, but bodily. Aching knees, sore feet, shoulders hunched and tense, head spinning, nose dripping, breath wheezy.

I walked from Brick's house north of Lincoln Square to Edgewater, straight through (or as straight as its winding paths would allow) Rosehill Cemetery, finding misplaced Bryn Mawr, dazed with walking. I found the neighborhood I plan to call home and wandered up and down its streets, jotting down numbers and notes about the appearances of buildings with "studio for rent" signs out front.

I found the Belle Shore Apartment Hotel, upon which Brick had lavished praise. It is a gorgeous Beaux-Arts structure, pale green stone giving it the look of having been carved from blocks of jade. I went in to see the studio—awful. Horrid bright-blue indoor-outdoor carpeting, tiny, dirty, cheap white poorly-installed kitchen cabinets. It depressed me utterly and made me instantly apprehensive about moving to the city. I stopped in at a café in the hopes that some hot coffee would squelch my sudden fear, and then kept pounding the pavement.

Finally, I went directly to the lake shore and looked out over the deserted beach to the water. It was a crystalline turquoise, the color of the Caribbean, yet it managed to appear shiveringly cold instead of invitingly warm. Brick says this beach is the gay beach and the Eastern European beach. All I care about is the lake herself, changing daily like the weather report, a vast untamable piece of nature steps from my door, to inspire me and keep me balanced, to remind me daily to "dig beauty."

Red called from his cab to O'Hare, re-iterating what a great time he'd had over the weekend. I reminded him I was planning to spend the winter at his place in Florida, and a housing swap was thereby arranged. Much as I love Chicago, my old-lady aches and pains call me to warmth even if there is no city to romance me. A boring, warm place to write is sometimes as good as a city full of inspirations.

I returned to Brick's house, feeling like crying from exhaustion, worry, cold, pain. I crawled into bed under piles of blankets but could not get warm. Even now, with two sweaters, socks, flannel pants, I do not feel warmed through.

I read (The Coast of Chicago, a Stuart Dybek book Cee Cee had given me as part of my welcome package). I tried to nap. I made hot tea and warmed my face over the steam from the kettle. Finally, I began calling the numbers I jotted down earlier. Now I have six appointments for tomorrow. Thinking of it exhausts me. My ridiculous fragility has reared its head again, every last inch of my body hurts, and I am worried about everything, fearful, tearful, overwhelmed.