Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The startling reality of things
Is my discovery every single day.
Every thing is what it is,
And it's hard to explain to anyone
how much this delights me
And suffices me.
To be whole, it is enough
simply to exist
[Ukrainian Village above Augusta Boulevard.]
Monday, April 18, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
just terribly, but humorously sang
Jonathan Richman's 'Stop This Car' after each sudden
swerve or rubbery squeal. Once they discussed
the pros and cons of having sex
with Bob Dylan–or a Bob Dylan look-alike–in a Buick
while listening to 'From a Buick 6'.
Black fumes billowed from the exhaust, and by a species
of dead reckoning they charted, in a road atlas, detours
and punctures, losses and gains–all
the time wondering whether (as Van Morrison once
sang) to 'Hardnose
the Highway' were the same as to live.
"They Drove, Mark Ford
[Milwaukee Avenue below North Avenue]
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in 'sadness,' 'joy,' or 'regret.' Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, 'the happiness that attends disaster.' Or: 'the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy.' I'd like to show how 'intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members' connects with 'the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.' I'd like to have a word for 'the sadness inspired by failing restaurants' as well as for 'the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.' I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever."
"Middlesex," Jeffrey Eugenides
[Damen Avenue above Haddon Street]
Monday, April 11, 2011
The little petit-larceny punk from Damen and Division and the dealer still got along like a couple playful pups... Their friendship had kindled on a winter night two years before Pearl Harbor when Sparrow had first drifted, with that lost year's first snow, out of a lightless, snow-banked alley onto a littered and lighted street.
"The Man With The Golden Arm," Nelson Algren
[West Chicago Avenue east of Damen Avenue]
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
“The notion that anything can be invented wholly and these invented things are classified as fiction and that other writing, presumably not made up, is called nonfiction strikes me as a very arbitrary separation of things. We know that most great novels and stories come not from things that are entirely invented, but from perfect knowledge and close observation. To say they are made up is an injustice in describing them. I sometimes say that I don’t make up anything—obviously, that’s not true. But I am usually uninterested in writers who say that everything comes out of the imagination. I would rather be in a room with someone who is telling me the story of his life, which may be exaggerated and even have lies in it, but I want to hear the true story, essentially."
~ James Salter, Paris Review Interview No. 133
[Damen Avenue below Division Street]
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