The Chicago Talk

I've been wondering lately what I was thinking when I decided to move to California. I believe a large part of me came here to retire. Sand. Sun. Activities. Beautiful people. I have all the makings of a good vacation, only vacations end at some point. To continue at a leisurely pace and leave everything worrisome behind leaves one feeling extraordinarily artificial -- and that's what this place is. Beyond the beautiful landscaping and countless things to do lies a world where rainy days and all things necessary for balance are bygone. Reality masked by forgetfulness.
The trouble with forgetting things occurs when those things long-forgotten resurface. There is no current strong enough to carry away a full quarter of a life.

A boy from Iowa once tried explaining to me why the most interesting people in California are from the midwest. He said we're all looking for that place where we can finally identify with something other than our small town upbringing; and once we arrive we find the only things worth value are the other ones like us. I didn't listen to him, certain my experience would be different. Unfortunately, he was correct.

I moved here anyway and developed alzheimers or something similar, dismissing who I was for a person slightly less. I moved into retirement, a nice home on the beach, in order to put to rest everything I had spent the previous years fighting to become. No more sadness, no more searching. "I am content," I decided.

I carried my amnesia proudly, considering myself well-adjusted until late one night in February when a maniacal disc jockey unleashed a decade of fury in my parking garage. He saw everything he hated about himself in me and wouldn't stop yelling because of it. I chased him out onto the street, confused and very drunk, and his last words were something about being much better off now that he's become desensitized to the things that matter in life. I spent the following weeks thinking he had a good point.
From time to time, I remind myself of that horrible moment.

I was standing in line at Albertson's last night when I got a message from one of the most interesting people I will ever know. It was an update on his life, his failures, his accomplishments, and at the end an addendum, "I still do not know who I am." Thank God.
Only the ones who can admit to not knowing - those continually searching - ever really amount to anything. Something about Los Angeles made me think it was okay stop wondering.
Five months ago, I encountered the most necessary relationship I have found here; and it's one of the few things I hope to take with me when I find the courage to dig myself out of this mess. Last night, we talked about it. We talked about not knowing who we are. We talked about wanting nothing more than to get away from this and reestablish priorities. We talked about Chicago.