Untitled
I often struggle to push through the writing process without a title. The title of anything I write becomes a match, which has the capability of setting afire whatever it was that compelled me to express my thoughts in the first place. Today, I’ll do without it and cross my fingers.
Today, I’ll also express my gratitude for living in Wicker Park. It’s been exactly a year since I decided to stay in Chicago with my two best friends. Originally I thought I’d be in New York by now, cutting my teeth over rent I couldn’t afford, or discovering a side of myself I’ve yet to see. But I stayed here for a few reasons, some of which I’ll explore in this story. The moral of this story is that it was perhaps the wisest and most clear-minded decision I’ve made in the first quarter of my life.
April 1, 2022. I let a handful of New York folks down. Many whom I assured I’d be touching down in Manhattan and not looking back. In typical fashion, I kept quiet, stuck to my guns, and told them Chicago was temporary, a sort of means to an end. They gathered pretty quickly I wasn’t coming. I have some mixed feelings about the way I handled the delivery of that news.
Alex and Parker, my stooges, my brothers, sometimes keepers, were ready in the wee small hours to load up our Uhaul and head west towards a semi-new life. West as in a mile west, as in west of the Kennedy. Hell, Wicker Park was like California for me.
The moving process took 12 hours give or take. It was a bittersweet day, leaving the Lincoln Park apartment I’d spent the last five years in. But I was ready for a new start.
I’ve written prior on acclimating to Wicker Park. It was unlike any experience I’ve had in moving before. Almost instantaneously the neighborhood made sense to me. Alex, Parker and I wasted no time in getting to know the streets, their inhabitants, and perhaps most importantly, our bartenders.
Chicago is a vast and multifaceted city, which you can only begin to discover by moving freely and with the conviction that wherever you’re headed is the right place to go. In the weeks leading up to my departure from Lincoln Park, I realized that I needed to see Chicago through. I couldn’t leave until I got a sense that I’d seen what I needed to see, and done the things I wanted to do. Surely New York can understand that.
Over the last year I’ve made new friends over here, neighborhood people, folks who have been here a lot longer than I have, and yet still give me a fighting chance at becoming a local. Just today I ran into a vintage shopkeeper whom I’ve never seen on the street. She waved to me and we walked about a block just going over the day's happenings. It’s those sorts of experiences that keep me in Chicago.
I’ve developed a sentimental feeling for this apartment, similar to my last one. I’ve fallen in love with the walls and everything that’s happened between them. I’ve collected memories in my room that will stick with me for a lifetime. What constitutes as a good room is one that you feel comfortable in, while simultaneously granting you access to a mental breakdown.
It seems each time I walk through this neighborhood there is something new right around the corner. There’s a story just waiting to happen. That speaks largely to Wicker Park, but primarily to Chicago.
The fact that this story has no title is catching up to me, but at least I’ve written a few hundred words and can still claim ownership of the title “writer.” I guess that after the last year, I can claim “local,” too.