regular life

this morning I turned over and open my eyes
and you were looking at me
and you were smiling
and I hoped it was because you felt happy like I did.

I want to take naked pictures
and brush our teeth together
I want to make cakes
and drink tea and cook dinner
and laugh:
Laugh,
while we make cakes, tea, dinner, love.

Most of all I want to watch the world stop outside your window;
the traffic light turning red
the cars going still
everything quiet between us.

my mayor

So I've been following @MayorEmanuel on Twitter. For those who aren't aware of the genius that is MayorEmanuel, the person who writes for this Twitter account is posing as newly elected Mayor Rahm Emanuel, except it's sort of like his alter-ego: aggressive, hilarious, rude, with a trucker mouth. So, pretty much Rahm on the inside—the Rahm that we all know secretly exists. The account chronicled Emanuel's Chicago mayoral campaign, creating a rich cast of characters: Carl the Intern, an ambitious and lovable nerd, Axelrod (David Axelrod, reinvented) determined and obsessive political aide to MayorEmanuel, Hambone, Axelrod's opinionated dog, and Quaxelrod, an incredibly insightful duck bearing a striking resemblance to David Axelrod that MayorEmanuel came across one day and adopted into his campaign staff.

The account is, in a word, brilliant. It follows Emanuel's daily schedule pretty closely, updating on speeches, events, and debates. And it goes a bit like this:

"Carl calls them The InternCorps, they're all wearing these fucking green rings. 'We'll be fine, as long as Chico's not wearing yellow.'"
"Hanging out with nerds at Google today. Up half the night building up my elfin sorcerer, in case anyone throws down a motherfucking 20-side."
"Oh good, we've reached the "everyone shit on Rahm" part of the debate. It's cool, I'll go get my motherfucking raincoat."

I honestly can't explain how incredibly great the whole narrative is—you need to read the Twitter feed to really get at the genius. The igloo building, the great Chicago snow, the Google nerd battle, the igloo melting—all of it, recounted hilariously and stylishly. This author has created a story and a voice, and it is fucking masterly.

But now it seems that the story may come to an end. For, as a sentimental Daley told MayorEmanuel on the night before the Chicago elections, there can only be one Rahm. The twin Chicago universes must come together, and one Rahm must go. A vortex, says Daley—and Carl the Intern does the math to back it up—will open. And MayorEmanuel must go through it. And it is so perfect. What a fitting ending to such an epic journey, a break in the space time continuum that opens right after Rahm Emanuel wins the mayor election. MayorEmanuel is the Odysseus of Chicago politics, and his voyage to mayor-hood concludes tonight:

@MayorEmanuel Rahm Emanuel

And now all I can hear is that music, and suddenly everything just fucking...

Yes. 

everything that matters

Things I fear: dependence,
tears, dying, losing, bees.
Things I love: you, spring,
dirty jokes, happiness, soft hair.
I have all the things I love
In my reach
And bees don't come until August.

Doubting my world

Today was an infuriating day for me in the world of politics. The Wisconsin public employee protests and the House of Representative's 56 million dollar cut in Planned Parenthood's funding are both part of the disgusting aftermath of our allowance of Republicans to take over our Congress. Both of these political incidents make me angry as a citizen. But there was one incident in particular that made me angry as a journalist. Instead of outlining it, here is the letter that I just sent the editors of the Washington Post, which I think clearly articulates my point.

To Mr. Brauchli, Mr. Narisetti, Ms. Spayd, and Ms. Carswell,

I have always respected the Washington Post and have usually found it to be a newspaper that is critical, fair, and comprehensive. But most of all, I believed that the Washington Post was a publication the public can depend on to relay important news. I was thus shocked and disgusted when I did not see one article on the incident at Secretary of State Hillary Clinton's speech at George Washington University on supporting the free speech of protesters in the Middle East. Army officer veteran and former CIA analyst Ray McGovern's unlawful arrest for his silent and peaceful protest—an exercise of the first amendment right that all United States citizens are supposed to have—was a demolishment of democracy in itself. Hillary Clinton's disregard of the incident is even worse in its incredibly infuriating irony. 

But the fact that a major political newspaper like the Washington Post did not deem this newsworthy enough to cover demonstrates that the press is truly immersed in the cozy world of Washington insider politics, and is unable to act as an independent institution anymore. This blatant catering to government officials is wrong. The exclusion of this incredibly important portrait of the hypocrisy present in our administration indicates a severe imbalance in the media, and goes against the journalist's code of ethics—to report all truth objectively. 

I am sincerely disappointed in the Post. There is absolutely no excuse for the negligence of such a significant incident. I went back to the news stories on Thursday's online edition of the Post to see what could have possibly taken precedence over reporting the events of the speech. I found this headline: "New Prince George's Wegmans becoming a social hot spot."

So this is America?

Claire Rychlewski

I am actually offended as an aspiring journalist that neither the Washington Post NOR The New York Times (I'm sending their editors a version of this tomorrow) bothered to cover this. Of course, bloggers were all over the events but unless someone is an avid follower of off-beat news sources, they never would have known this happened. This sickening sycophantic attitude the mainstream news media has toward the government is repulsive. The press gets so buddy-buddy with Washington officials that journalists and editors would rather pointedly ignore the hypocrisies and the disregard of civil liberties present in our administration than bite the hand that feeds. 

I am disgusted, shocked, and outraged. But most of all, I am sad.

battling complacency with imagined explosions

Sometimes, when I'm riding the bus, or sitting in class, I wonder what it would be like if I exploded. If all the energy that races around my molecules decided to gather itself into a giant force and blast out of my skin. It would be terrific, I think, and maybe there would be a huge fire from all the friction. And maybe my body would be reduced to this bright orange red green blue yellow thing that vibrated and spoke and pulsed and moved urgently, so fucking urgently. And everyone would turn around and look and think, "Wow, that chick just exploded, and that's the most exciting thing that I've ever seen."

Sometimes, I get so restless that I can't read or type or talk. Which is probably why I sit around and imagine my own... destruction, I guess. Except, nothing is really being destroyed—it's only being made better. Realer, or something. I'm just exploiting a cheap metaphor, aren't I? I feel like I should cite my sources, since there've been countless people who have articulated this better than I ever could.

But we all want to feel vital, I guess. I'm so hopelessly and helplessly human, waiting for my life to shock itself into action. 

The revolution is just a t-shirt away!

Honestly if you've ever hung out with me for an extended period of time, you'll hear my cynical, and sometimes self-important, complaints about the human race. I don't openly dislike people, nor am I really a misanthrope--I just wish we were all a little bit better. I've been kind of complain-y lately, which is undoubtedly annoying, but this is something I seriously can't get over.

Wearing a t-shirt with Che Guevara's face on it is the most insidiously paradoxical thing one could do. First of all, if you're not fourteen, why did you buy that? What possible message were you hoping to send other than, "I'm a total counter-culture visionary with a vague knowledge of some far-off Latin American struggle that I'm trying to apply to my silly little privileged life." Spending $14.95 for a t-shirt made in Cambodia by children who get paid 5 cents a day while rich American clothing distributors profit doesn't really scream "Damn the man!"

What's most obnoxious about the whole Che craze is the fact that most people don't have any fucking context for the concepts they want to preach. Yeah. Dude looks good on a t-shirt; but he's just one piece of a really complex and gray history of a country that went through incredible political strife. I don't claim to be an expert on the intricacies of Cuba's story--but I'm also not wearing a t-shirt that indicates that I do have that knowledge.

I've seen various shirts and bumper stickers with the phrase "Stop Bitching, Start A Revolution" scrawled in a rebellious font on the front. I've always hoped the irony wasn't lost on the designers--that for most lazy consumers of this product, buying a vague t-shirt is the closest they'll get to being proactive about anything.

Stop buying t-shirts and do some fucking research. There--it even rhymes.

fleet, precious.

I remembered in the early hours of today when I was laying in bed with someone important that that exact moment would never happen again. I will never have the same conversation twice, never look at someone's face and see the same something again, never get the chance to hear anything the way I heard it the first time. Sometimes, when I remember, I try to pause myself and look around. I take in the room and the way a particular picture hangs and the way your face looks and the way their laughter sounds and the way the air smells, even; so right and rich. And it's never a perfect moment but I know I have to keep as many as I can.


No one lives breath to breath, but we all want to. I can try to stop everything for a while by tallying all the tiny paint particles on the ceiling, or counting to a million bazillion. Or watching the digital clock blink red in front of me, trying to predict when the numbers will shift, but never getting the timing quite right. I can try to do all of those things but ambulances still speed by and people still buy coffee and rabbits always run across the street and minutes happen and happen and happen and they never happen the same way, not ever again, not once. 


Sometimes I want to cry at how quickly everything moves; but most of all, I want to cry when I realize I'm always forgetting that.