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December
22, 2005. A shockingly small and smooth heat wave caressed the very edges of my city today, giving us a damp and cold and windy evening to walk out into, revolving doors spinning gaily behind us, chrome edging and glass flickering light every which way. Downtown Chicago is so shiny. The streets are especially wet, as well as the patches of sidewalk worn free of ice and snow. Work's been quiet and sort of peaceful. People keep carting around large plastic bins full of brownies and things, and the subways are full of people carrying large, handled shopping bags with wrapped presents inside. My boss was giving a parking pass to each of us in our department, but was hilariously apologetic to me as she realized I may not have a car any time soon. I laughed and made her an offer: I'd 'trade in' my parking pass for two movie passes. She liked that idea just fine, so now I can hop on the bus sometime when I am feeling like a bit of the ultra-violent escapism, and get over the multiplex a few miles down the road. Things feel sort of aimless right now. A little numb. The holiday stretches before me as a series of many days of watching other people partake of some common bonding. Not that I'll be on the outside, really, but I don't know. I keep getting this feeling of isolation from some teeming mass of gaiety wreathed in red, green, and gold. All the colors and lights of the season seem far off, like something on television. For me, I have blue, and dark purple, and the pale grey of snow and ice on the pavement. I have winter's reality filling my head - the routine of the bus and the train rule me, the steady walking, the efficient work I do at a desk for nine hours per day. This time of the year usually has some sort of voluptuous dimension to it, some shimmering, shivering excitement. I keep shaking my head when I think of it, as if I am clearing cobwebs. All there is is the early darkness, the snow, the ice, the pulling on of mittens, the salt-crusted curbs, the sirens bouncing off the skyscrapers. On really cold days, the thin cold air is especially difficult to breathe. It reminds me of going to a spa and sitting in the steambaths. One's breath gets shallow and unsure, and the lungs feel angled and precariously narrow. Sometimes, it's quite invigorating. Lately, it's been something to tolerate. go
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