I was terrified. After Buster called to say he had had enough of the Registar and that free-lancing was looking better and better and that he would be in Chicago to stay come the second week of December, I have to admit my reaction was probably not the one he had in mind. I should have been jumping around for joy. Instead I sat in stone silence unabale to say anything except, "Wow". After I got off the phone with him I called my best friend to hyperventilate as I am prone to do at times. It all came crashing down at once, what if this isn't it? But we have to try I told myself. Eventually I was able to see the happiness of the situation. Now my cynacism kicks in. This can't possibly go anywhere my head says... don't think you'll ever be happy... besides who can tolerate you and al t he luggage you seem to hide in the closeteous depths of your soul. (Yes I made up the word closeteous.) I was a little less worried as these thoughts are silly and just seem to crop up but I never believe them. At least I like to think I don't. Then as I'm hanging out with a friend watching a movie several nights later. I get a phone call from Buster. I silence the phone but I get another and another. I think, "what the Hell!?!?!" Then there's a voice mail and I listen to it. It's Nick Bantock, one of my biggest inspriations and my favorite author. I own just about everything he's written, not because I like it all but because all of it is beautiful in some way or another. The reson I work the way I do is because of seeing his work for so long. I stumbled upon Griffin and Sabine in a library in Arlington Heights and loved it. He's on my voice mail telling me things are going to be fine and to keep plugging along. I'm in shock and I rush to call Buster back. He answers and puts Nick Bantock back on the phone with me. At this point I am completely struck. By everything. By the fact that this was a secret (a well kept one), that Buster would think to do this for me, that Nick Bantock knows how crappy my week has been going and how creatively stuck I am. He's talking to me and I'm just nodding even though he can't it. After he gets off the phone and hands it back to Buster I still can't speak, but squeak. Now, I am not so afraid. I know that anyone who would go to such lengths to cheer me up and keep things that interesting has got a soul large enough to encompass me and all the deep dark shit. And I don't care about the deep dark shit anymore... maybe it isn't so deep and dark and maybe I can get past it and be truely happy. I think this is once Buster comes to Chicago things are going to be different. I can already hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.