Spring Break Destination: Harold Washington Library

Sleep has become unfulfilling .
I can’t seem to lie still for more than
3 or 4 hours at a time.

Constantly thinking about all the things to be done
More things I assign myself than anyone instructing me
Reading a ridiculous amount of books and journals.
That I never seem to finish,
just scanning for what I’m looking for
Collecting words
I have anxiety to create something everyday

My bed has been covered in
books. papers. scribbles of thoughts
all kept on the left side, near the wall
I sleep with faint music playing
my laptop at the foot of the bed.
Lights on.
I lie conscious not to move too much at all hours
I guess it sounds rather incestuous now that I paint the scene

I realize

I have a serious relationship with my self prescribed work.
No wonder I haven’t been able to commit to a relationship
I’m already in a consuming one
And theres no room in my bed anyways.

In the spirit of spring break
I’m going to try something different tonight.
I’m going to clear my bed
Turn off the lights and music
And hope I wake up when it’s light enough to go to the library.

modernday

I’m wearing half the same clothes
From the previous day.
A long lightly tinted pink night dress
And an oversized grey tshirt
Thrift store boots and
Jeans speckled with loud orange paint

Just like my life I suppose.

[my hand doesn’t ever seem to translate the on goings of my head]

There are three blocks to the train stop
If I count the way I want to
On the train I watch everyone watching themselves
And then stare outside through the window

Nothing looks like I’ve been told it would be

The sky is not blue with cotton ball clouds
It’s slate grey. And unfriendly
There is no green ground just the dark water
That rocks along wacker dr.

All I pass is brown and cement
Hard and cold.
The reflective surfaces are
All stagnant and dead.

Inside a small being is facing me in a cart.
It seems over-wheilmed by the plaid blanket
On it’s lower half and the pink fleece over
It’s head.
It pushes the pink up only to have
The plaid consume it. And then little hands
Push the plaid down, to let the pink fall over
It’s eyes.

A teetering struggle is on display.

And just when the ends of it’s mouth start
To curl, warning the frustration is about
To boil out, it’s mother with a quick gesture
Rescues the being from it’s dilemma.
And places an 1/4 segment from her
Dark navy plastic bag.

The little hands hold the cardboard thin object
Bringing the pink sprinkles close to it’s
Doll face.
Scanning.
Examining.
Deciphering.
I agree with the child.
it looks like nothing that should be consumed.

The mother takes it back and eats it instead.
Not tolerant of any waste.
The mother is young and takes quick
Precise bites.

At Polk a woman with long curling ironed
Curled hair and thick tights
Steps past the contracting doors, alone.

The mother stared in her direction
For a long time.

The rest of the day-crowd is blurred.

.cycles.not the menstrual ones.

identical to everyone else
i was ushered into the world
with the consistent question
“is it a girl or a boy?”
from there the pinks and all
other accessories of what
little girls are made of followed.

Informants:

Then
1. mom

She wakes up at 4 am to vacuum and sip coffee, usually all while watching Fox News.
She’ll smoke one Marlboro Red cigarette before taking a shower.
Between 5 and 6, she is perfecting her short hair with layers of various moouses and
sprays. Most of which are called something like Control, and Vavoom.

“It’s you amplified”
-Vidal Sassoon commercial

She is loyal to these products and has used some until they stopped producing them
since the late eighties. She’s always very upset when she needs to try an array of
new bottles before finding on with just the right hold.
From there the blow dryer, curling iron and combs are applied to ensure complete
control over every hair on her scalp.
6 onwards is dedicated spreading liquid colors all over her small face, which are far
darker than her natural skin.

Amy, my younger sister and I would call it her mask.
We would spend hours sitting on the toliet seat watching her morning ritual, which
has remained the same my entire life.
She would stand in front of the mirror with just a towel around her waist and yellow
comb in her left hand, and matching blow dryer in the other.

Now
2. club libby lu

i have to confess, I worked at a Libby Lu.
The pink and purple store full of glitter and fluff
was adjacent to the build-a-bear store.
the circulating joke of our store: build-a-whore

I naively walked into club libby lu,
Because I love working with children
The storage room was stocked with
Pounds and pounds of white, pink and
Purple powered glitter bags. Diva lotion.
Princess pillows. The abundance
Of ways to can commodify what little
Girls are made of were endless.

The performances were maybe the most
Nauseating experience to watch.
Moms would smile and tell their little
Six year olds to strike a sexy pose
For the cameras. the passive
Fathers stood dumbly in the background.

As I stood at the heart shaped table applying
Eyeshadow, lipstick and bobbypins to the young
Girls, I watched the interactions.

I watched the ugliest roots of female relationships.

The insecurities temporarily replaced with new
Colors to their clear skin.
The widespread craving for reinventing
a more glamorous version of the self
The competiveness.
The abundance of shit.

The rawest form of sexual objectification being recycled right before my very eyes. With my participation.