Elizabeth's apartment is the third story of a old mansion tucked away on a quiet street just north of Chicago. It has the character of a cottage with reading nooks, slanted ceilings, violin sheet music and metrodomes sprawled out on the couches, and tiny doors that open into colonies of my imagination. The windows are what I adore most- dark wood and New England style. It is raining tonight and it sounds like small pebbles collecting on the glass. All parties are asleep tonight except me. I am rolled in flannel blankets on her couch and my recent struggle with insomnia has lead to reading a massive amount of poetry.

I have never been an avid poet. I will probably never be someone who will claim to fully understand Yeats. With poetry, it is the unraveling of the imagery, thought, and idea that is so difficult for my wandering, unfocused brain. It is also the challenge that I am learning to fully embrace. A good poem -for me- is one that cannot be read once or even twice. It repeats itself in my brain even after I have left the couch, apartment, or city. I can compare it to a lover. I cannot get it out of my head.


". . . Out here I feel more helpless

with you than without you

You mention the danger

and list the equipment

we talk of people caring for each other

in emergencies -laceration, thirst-

but you look at me like an emergency

Your dry heat feels like power

Your eyes are stars of a different magnitude

they reflect the lights that spell out: Exit. . ."


Adrienne Rich, Trying to Talk to a Man



Note to Squirrel: Thank you Candace for such a wonderful day. I loved going to your acting classes with you and pretending for a day I would be the next gravitas toss. I admire your passion for the theatre and cannot wait to be your audience.

the journals