choosing poisons

this is about being poor and taking drugs.

you know it's June when walking the steps to the Reg means running into people with creative contraptions for schlepping large quantities of soon-due books, usually involving (but not limited to) the following: cardboard boxes and plastic bags (all, of course, in various stages of rippage), hiking backpacks, elastic cording or suspenders, rolling suitcases, and sled-dogs. these combinations: at any given hour of the day: the slow trickle of the filing faithful never dwindles.

began my day at the library promptly as it opened, lugging one load of books; another one of its size (weakling arms, backpack and shoulder bag, all running at max capacity) should clear out my room and keep me free of penalties. at moments such as this, i give thanks for my living arrangement within the wingspan of the Joe Regenstein—even if the Commune over here has descended even further into a Den of inDecision (and with no Efficient Despot in sight, since i am leaving shortly).

later in the afternoon, i headed down to a very different library: the Bessie Coleman branch of the Chicago Public to return that book which could not be found in the Reg (although, most likely, it was transported back by sleigh earlier in the week and is, now, resting again on its shelf in the 4th floor stacks). indeed: despite all of my high-pitched campaign promises, doing so today means that the book in question was returned several days late. nonetheless, the kind staff at the Library Under the Green [Line] allows its patrons to pay each other's fines. how considerate of those who would be physically incapacitated for days surrounding the due date of a book taken out on another's trust (by which i mean, of course, because they are, ultimately, synonymous: library card)....

the el tracks running along 63rd end abruptly just east of Cottage Grove: a tangible reminder of the University's decision (back when they were offered the chance) to not let the CTA extend the Green a few blocks further northeast to (or even towards) campus. as if that wasn't segregational enough of a statement, the actual barriers—wire fences and dead-end streets—begin at 62nd and culminate in The Midway. gots to keep Them out and Us in (and preferably both), i suppose. it always blows my mind, though, looking at the University buildings from the south; you can't see Rockefeller, really, from any other direction and a couple blocks of distance—because any edifices of normal height between the viewer and the Chapel (not to mention the rules of perspective) fade it into perspectival invisibility. from the wastelands populated only by "Giant Cheap Lot for Sale" signs in handwritten letters and from behind one of the chickenwire fences, it's impossible to miss the Gothic spires that dwarf the tallest local construction: the train tracks that, in any case, are truncated before they can even whisper "gone nowhere," haggard and low.

biking back up Ellis, i passed the hospital where i'd spent the hours between libraries today, doing the final installment of this, ahem, psychomotor test that has had me puking and lethargic one day per week for five of the past six. it's hard to Say No to Science, i'll tell you that much—especially when it's (i'll say it again: Science) is paying half of what i need for the IU program. but i'll also tell you what is Not Fun: vomiting the little glass of water they give you along with the capsules and then, despite that said thimble-measure is the only thing in there (because eating beforehand is, of course, strictly verboten) and then not "in there," continuing to go through the retching motions for the next several hours.

it just so happens that these weekly joys have (except for today) fallen on Wednesdays, right before the marathon eX shift, 4:30-9pm, for which i got special dispensation based on my illustrious fame garnered through years in that checkered basement and a whole history of impossible feats. mercifully (and also by virtue of my calm wild-eyed asking for it on the basis of checkered past), the shift was alone. so although i couldn't, say, leave the register and go use the bathroom for the duration, at least (after futilely attempting to gnaw on a piece of pita and wanly sip some clear soda) i could take my place alongside the best of those who have hurled into the isolation of a garbage bin in the back of the shop. at least mine was a few hours after 8:30am....

for obvious reasons, it becomes completely ludicrous to even consider complaining about feeling ill under such chosen circumstances. in addition, it's unthinkable to mention anything—because even the least judgmental of interlocutors will arrive at a conclusion that heavily relies, conceptually and interjectionally, upon: Cessation, You Freak.

except that such things are never that easy. it's the money, yes—but also the way in which the funds are obtained. throughout this whole ordeal, i've realised that, in fact and despite how i'd like my otherwise done, this sort of thing is exactly how i'd prefer to make a living. being paid for pain and discomfort, pure and simple, is the reification of a desire that seems to run through all of what seem like other activities. these days, however, there are precious few opportunities for mortification of the flesh with recognition. even martyrdom is better compensated.

so we who can't do without it learn either to sublimate into the (always tenuously inferior and palpably unjustified) back-break mountain of books—or wind up keeling over the gutter where the trains don't run.