Last summer, when I had just got back to Istanbul, I spoke of the dam that I had built in front of my heart that prevented anything from spilling out.
And then I spoke of an apocalyptic balcony, and, a bar that I said sat at the end of the universe because so much of my fair hometown is seemingly crumbling around it. And I mused on how, since the pandemic had begun, I had been daydreaming about visiting that bar, about reaching for the handle, opening the door, and stepping inside.
Last Tuesday, my plane landed at SeaTac, and then I caught the train, and then the bus. And I got off the bus right across the street from the Bar at the End of the Universe, but instead of walking in I took a right and went directly to the bartender’s house.
Because it’s time to start getting serious about figuring out why I want to do the things that I want to do.
Coming to Chicago felt like coming home. But being here, where I was born, makes me feel like everything is coming full circle.
And I know you might think that I’m merely repeating a bunch of old moves: taking one of my day-one’s to a wedding, drinking Rainier on a patio w/ with my best friend, and slipping right back into this bartender’s bed like 2008 never happened.
And I get it. But in all the miles I traveled over the last two years, none were more worth it than this last scary leg between the Chi and the Pac NW. Because of all the ways I have tried to reconcile my poor, love-starved skin and lonely heart, this one has worked the best.