My parents came to me in a dream I had last night, a dream I can't remember much about. It seemed that they were here, here in Chicago, sitting down in front of the building. I don't know how they got there. I remember feeling terrible, awful, as if there was something I needed to do and couldn't, but that I was struggling to do. I finally succeeded in doing whatever that thing was, but when I looked for them again to tell them, I couldn't find them. Couldn't find them at all.
I woke up, and there was a kitten kneading my stomach. I picked Fargo up and went and sat in the chair next to the front window and looked out at LaSalle Street. Nobody seemed to be out there, and it looked cold.
Today after work I went out to the mall, looking for some pillowcases. Mine are all worn out and I'm tired of them feeling sticky and thin. I found some nice flannel ones at Field's and took all the old ones and folded them up for use as cleaning rags sometime. As if I ever clean.
If normal people experienced the things I experience writing these pages, I think the country would be quite different. People, here in the online world, seem to come up to me for no reason and tell me nice things about the things I write here. In some ways I'm embarrassed, because I am certain that the words here are a pretty poor reflection of the things inside my head. In many ways I'm flattered, overwhelmed by the idea that anyone else even cares about the things I do, think or say. And in an overall way, I am happy that these people want to say something, anything at all. Things are so anonymous out on the street and out in the world. It's not the case here. I'd like to challenge all of you: if you think something, feel something about what I write here, instead of sending your comments to me, instead turn them to another direction and go to someone else, someone who does some small task or duty well, and tell them that you appreciate it. Expect nothing in return. Just do it.
After you've done that, then come back and tell me what happened and how it felt to do it.
If you just come here and tell me about how you felt about these pages, my own modesty will dull the glow of what you say anyway. And the limited ability I have to retell the story will not do you justice. Go out there, and tell people that they've done something good.
Tell them, "Princess Jeanne said it was OK."