things and other things
My great-aunt Lorraine passed away recently. I hadn’t seen her in a few years. The next couple sentences describe the last time I saw her.
7/29/08
Family reunion over the weekend at my uncle’s. Great-aunt Lorraine pulls a plastic bag from her purse. It’s clear. There are seven single serving bottles of scotch. She says, “I just get tired of going places and there’s only wine. It also comes in handy if the event is boring.” She pours it into a small glass of ice and drinks.
August, 2008
Logan Square Auditorium used to be a banquet hall. Strictly for rental. Bodas. Quinceañeras. Graduations. Etc. Old auditorium. On the second floor of grey stone buildings that house restaurants – the fancy Lula, the less fancy Johnny’s Grill where pigeons are rumored to shit on fries cooling outside the alley door. Continue reading “the ex and getatchew mekurya”
6/3/08
Youth romance on the train. Coming home after work. Her face disappeared in the folds of his sweatshirt hood. Her head moves, sways, nods. Her pale hand on his baggy jeaned hip. The dark brown skin of his hand. Her small round ear that appears from time to time from out of his hood. Surrounded by evening commuters, they don’t notice. Their intensity. Their need for public affection. For each other. For this moment.
I was on my bike early on Monday morning. 7.30. The sun in the sky. Hot. Already 83 degrees out. The downtown Chicago skyline obscured by haze. Only the barest outlines of shapes visible. Sweat on my forehead. My t-shirt. My arms. My neck. Riding on Elston. My favorite street in Chicago. Wide. Two lanes for cars and bike lanes as well. It’s a diagonal street heading SE/NW to or from downtown. Only a few traffic lights to stop for. Ten minutes out, I noticed my left foot wobbling a little on the pedal. It seemed weird. I thought maybe my shoe was catching on part of the pedal or crank or something. After a few more pedals and a hundred yards or so the crank with pedal still attached to it shot out into the street. Continue reading “adventures in biking summer 2010”
6/3/08
Riding my bike home from practice. The first warm night of the year. I’m wearing a t-shirt. Memorial Day Monday. Leftover grease charcoal smoke hanging in the trees of the park on California. Dark. Cook outs packed up. Windy. Wind blowing against me in gusts. As I make a left onto Montrose a strong gust hits me in the face and I breathe grit and debris blinking to see. And it’s cold. Completely cold. The temperature drops. I’m enveloped in cold clean air. The wind picks up. My t-shirt is not enough. Screams shouts and shrieks from the girls on the sidewalk. People hurrying from cars and minivans to waiting apartment buildings.
As I walk in the back door into the kitchen, H is there putting dinner away. The bright light reflects blinding off of gleaming white walls and counters. I tell her what just happened with the temperature. A pneumonia front just came through, she replies.
August, 2008.
This morning dreamt that it was winter. Winter. Cold. I had to get to work. H not at home. She told me to stay with a friend so they could take care of me. But it was late. Late out. Dark. Night. Cold.
Leaving school late. Filing out of the train station. In a line going up wooden stairs. Slow moving line. I see JP from high school. He’s speaking French to a girl who’s with him. There is also a third man. I hear their French and turn to JP and say, “Mirate! Cómo hablas el francés!” Continue reading “winter dream”
8/19/08
H and I went to see Phil Cohran play a tribute to Sun Ra for free at Millennium Park. How could it be bad? Even if it wasn’t a totally out show, it would still rule cuz it’s Phil Cohran.
We sat at the edge of the lawn looking down over the chairs and the people sitting in them. Eating our dinner – a shared sandwich, some crackers and cheese. Some water, a salad and a little dessert. The sun slowly setting behind the buildings to our left.
We were surrounded by NPR wine snobs sitting at little tables brought from home, eating full dinners, drinking bottles of wine. Families with babies running wild. People talking loud into their cel phones. A couple who sat directly in front of H and I in the 3 feet between us and the concrete walkway.
Talk. Talk. Talk. We played spot the jazz nerd and marveled at the most mod security guard ever, little pointed beatle boots with a zipper on the sides, tight brown pants and a security uniform shirt that looked as if he had had it tailored. We wondered what people would think of what they were about to see and hear. “I hope they skronk it up tonight and blow these peoples’ minds,” H said.
Speculation about what they would play – Rocket Number 9! Next Stop Mars! Magic City! Nuclear War! We both laughed. “It’s a motherfucker!”
More bottles of wine surrounded us. The sun lower behind the Loop.
The performers appeared on stage. All in white. Women singers and dancers. Percussionists. Pianist. Drummer. Some older men sat on chairs on the right side of the stage. Then Phil Cohran appeared all in white with Sun Ra’s Pharaonic head piece. A smaller old man, Phil Cohran. Looking like a miniature Sun Ra. He sat in a chair in the middle of the stage surrounded by the other performers.
The group launched into a full blown ensemble piece. The women singing over each other. Phil Cohran playing a giant harp. Not totally out, but not totally straight either. A good opener. Slightly weird. The second song was a slow quiet drone that was led by Phil on the zither. A slow singular string scraping out of it. It was so good. And the people around us kept on talking on cel phones. Chatty chat. Not paying attention. We were done with dinner and way into the song.
Do you want to move? H asked.
Yes.
We grabbed our stuff and moved down into the actual seats where we could see better, hear better, and where people were actually listening.
After another song or two, Phil’s sons The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, came out to play some songs. 8 brass players and one super tight drummer. All but one are Phil’s sons. They were amazing! The horns playing over each other in hypnotic phrasing and repetitious cycles. They had the crowd moving. The other performers on stage were dancing, shaking their arms and hands. Shouts from the audience up front closer to the stage. Huge cheers and applause. How many up there in the audience were friends and family? How many of the performers were related? The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble ended up joining the performers for the rest of the show.
A six year old in the doorway on stage right with her mom. Both in the same white as everyone on stage. She was dancing. Looking like she wanted to be out there on stage.
Two hours of amazing music bliss. A few times I felt choked up and tears formed in my eyes. The music was so good and the crowd was so into it – shouting their support and approval.
Towards the end of the night the group began a song that featured the women singing prominently and within a few notes the majority of the mostly black audience was on their feet with their right hands raised in a fist. I got chills. H and I didn’t know what to do and as much as we wanted to show solidarity, we didn’t want to act without knowledge of what we were in solidarity with. One white woman and her daughter stood up. The woman with her arm in the air, hand in a fist singing the words to the song along with most of the audience.
Feeling overwhelmed and in awe of the song and the response of the audience, choked up now writing this, remembering it. Dark. Dark. Summer night. Stage lights. Little bugs in the air. H and I in our seats and hundreds of people in front of us responding to this song with hands in fists in the air.
When it was over, Phil explained that it was the South African national anthem and it was for Nelson Mandela’s birthday. A cheer from the audience. He spoke some more about Sun Ra. Blackness. Africa and what it mean to the African American community in the 50’s and 60’s. Some stories about playing with Sun Ra. Then a bit about how in many African traditions news, information and music was transmitted by travelling musicians who would tell the news and then play with the local musicians to exchange music ideas.
He then began playing on his thumb piano. We heard the first two notes and both said, No way! And the band followed him into The Minstrel and we were happy. And as the song went on I felt choked up again. Everyone dancing. The dancers and singers on stage. The people in the audience. The MC spieling about positivity. The little girl dancing on stage. Everyone freaking out. The song went on. So happy.
Then, when the show was over, Phil said that there would be an after party at Ethiopian Diamond from 9 until midnight. Everyone was invited. “Let’s go,” H Said. And quickly added, “I wish we could.” Then the audience in the front rows rushed to the foot of the stage to celebrate with the performers.
We headed home. We were both blown away. H said she had gotten choked up too. To me it felt cathartic. I couldn’t stop smiling. I had been smiling all through the show. Seeing how the music affected others, all those people, was amazing. It was a tangible thing. It wasn’t like most shows we go to where people are into it, but just sitting around nodding, drinking their beer, talking to their friends. At most shows I feel like there’s a lack of mass emotional connection or power. And this isn’t a criticism. A show can still be good without this tangible electricity. But the difference was so amazing. The feeling. Like the musicians were channeling what everyone was feeling. Like they were reaching out. Building up. Communicating and sharing. Allowing everyone to access something shared and common that’s just out there waiting to be touched.
this is a shorty outtake from flotation device 12. i eventually took it out cuz i felt it didn’t add anything. and i didn’t want to contribute to the glut of zines that feature bike riding in them. and anyways, i’ve prolly already made my fair share of contributions to that glut anyways. on the bike riding note – i am looking forward to warm night bike rides again. tonight was one of the first of the year. so i’m especially stoked now!
One of my favorite things in the summer is to ride my bike late at night. Alone on the street only a few cars passing occasionally. Cool air. Sometimes heavy with humidity. But always cool and caressing after the heat of the day. The buildings pass by lazy. Trees that line the roads. Dark branches against dark night sky. Leaves green rustle whisper in the night breeze. Coming home from wherever I was. A show. A movie. A friend’s house. A diner. A bar. The city quiet for the night. Slowed down. Feeling like a hometown. A comfort zone. A pocket of safe from the world. Float and glide on rubber tires past mail boxes and street lights stoplights intersections. Cool air on my skin through my t shirt through my hair. My city. My town. My home. Trees overhead. Stars through the leaves and branches.
this is an outtake from the 2216 section of flotation device 12. i felt i had already included enough pieces that established jeff and, sadly, this one had to go. in the end not much was really mentioned about our video game playing. a serious oversight.
Hey. Jeff said sneakily looking around.
Yeah?
Hey is it getting dark in here? He asked. It was still light out.
Awesome. It’s totally getting dark in here. I shut the blinds to cut the glare. He turned on the tv and the n64 and put in perfect dark.
This is the game we played most. Most on the n64.
Video games became one of our main things to do while hanging out. He was into video games and wanted to do sound for video games. Design it. Create the soundscape and sound effects. Compose the score. He loved it. I liked to play socially. So if I had someone to play with I was happy. He was always renting games. Some I would watch him play, some I wouldn’t. He’d play for a couple hours and then go out or do homework or play guitar or skate.
Is it getting dark in here? Initially it just meant perfect dark, but of course eventually it came to mean, do you wanna play video games? Of course we could always be direct about it and say, Hey do you wanna jam some vids. That always worked too.
this was a little coda that originally followed the treefort (slight return) section of flotation device 12. when i first wrote it, it seemed logical to include it. it flowed with the rest of that junior high section, but when i read it once all of the pieces were put in order, it seemed to kinda just sit there.
We had a brilliant idea too. David and I or Luke and I or all of us. On the west side of the subdivision beyond the pond and on the other side of all the fences beyond the last recently sodded lawns of the new houses there was a field. A cornfield old and unused derelict and filled with dead cornstalks and grass. In our explorations seeking out new places to explore and new places to walk we came across a cement platform. It must have been the floor to a storage shed. We said it was an old barn. It was divided into a few different levels and the cement was fairly smooth in some spots.
As we sat out there under the summer sun blue sky and white clouds hoping that the men in the pick up trucks that seemed to occasionally patrol the fields didn’t come, we had a brilliant thought. Let’s turn this into a skate park. We could build a half pipe out here and some mini ramps. We could use the multi levels for a kick ass street area. It’s out of the way and no one would bother us. Genius.
Jeremy could help. His dad had built an amazingly professional quarter pipe that they kept in his garage. It was on wheels and they would wheel it out to skate it in the driveway. It terrified me with its perfect curvature smooth wood and vert at the top and its five foot height. Jeremy could help us. Luke could help us, having built that half pipe in his basement. He also helped me build a launch ramp that we kept in my garage that had a nice curve that Luke got from wetting the wood with a hose and bending the wood back while standing on it. We could get wood and nails and pvc coping from the dumpsters. That’s where we always went for supplies for treeforts or bike ramps skate ramps or whatever we were building. Often the dumpster raids also included clandestine exploration of the skeletal frames of houses after hours when the workers had left for the day. Climbing in through the sunken basement windows. Climbing up the skeletal stairs. Walking through skeletal walls. Climbing on skeletal beams. And carefully walking over skeletal floors.
We could do it. We could build our own private skate park out here in this field. Sun pouring down. Browned yellowed dead corn stalks. Blue blue sky. Possibility in the air. Dreams dreamed. A shared fantasy. The sound of skateboard wheels on cement on wood in our minds. We could do it. But we didn’t.