We’re figuring out that settling in isnâ€™t just a matter of putting things in place. It’s more that you do about 85 percent of all the stuff you want to do, and then you develop whatever blindspots you need to not give a shit about the other 15 percent. That’s where I’m at right now–my mind seems to have grown little mental calluses over things like the sight of extension cords, and blank spots on the wall, and the closet in my home office, which is a crap avalanche waiting to happen. But who cares? I love it here. The days have a whole new shape here.
The neighborhood is weird in a good way. Sometimes it feels like I’ve fallen into some pocket of time filled with sensory details from my childhood neighborhood, with the overgrown, softly crumbling alleys, and the cicadas, and the wide wide front steps of houses, and the little copper stamps in the sidewalks. I mean the side streets are like this; it’s different along Lawrence Avenue. You really can’t trust an Albany Park business unless it has at least nine signs (all in different fonts) (and this doesn’t include the window lettering) neon, and/or a strobe light. The only dollar stores worth going to are the ones you can still see imprinted on your retinas when you close your eyes. It’s awesome.
The only trouble with this place is that there’s no really good bar within staggering distance. Any local readers who live west of Rockwell know of anything? There’s a few places right around Rockwell, but that’s still a pretty long, er, stagger. Which is not to say that we like to drink until we are cartoon characters with hiccups and little bubbles around our heads. Not all the time, at least.