I am enamoured with the city of Chicago.
Today, Toni (fellow stripper and U of C student) and I headed to the northwest to shop for costumes. The changing cityscape was dazzling as we thread through the poverty-blighted southside, grizzled industrial zones, and bejeweled skyscrapers. Chicago is far from picturesque, but its flaws are more beautiful in its proclamation of the human condition and its struggles. Perhaps its naive of me to revel in the 'ugly', but there is something genuine in the sooty lips of wide smokestacks or the rust-streaked bridge on 63rd street. When I look upon them, I know that people have trod here, lived here, worked here, fought here, and left their mark here. Their weathered structures do not feign maidenly modesty, but testify to their countless days and nights, people and interactions in tragic, naked glory.
Perhaps I enjoy such a cityscape because I am similarly fated. Living far from the idyllic, I can sometimes only take in life's complex weave. Events mold me, scar me. In the end, I will know that I have trod, lived, worked, fought, and left my mark. But in the end, I know fewer eyes will appreciate me.
I speak for myself, but this surely applies to many. Everything and everyone weathers, and is reborn every moment into something more remarkable.
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