Literary Chicago: Colson Whitehead - "The Underground Railroad"

 It's been awhile:

"It was late, but a bone expert from Chicago had presented that night and they might still be carousing in the local saloons."

"Many of the farm's leaders were out of town. Valentine himself was in Chicago meeting with the banks, his two sons in tow now that they were old enough to help with the farm's accounts."

"A prominent abolitionist stopped for a day en route to Chicago and stayed for a week."

"A little boy blew the whistle and the shucking began in a frenzy. This year's prize was a large silver mirror Valentine had picked up in Chicago."

"They put up a library next to the smokehouse. The room smelled pleasantly of smoke when Cora sat down in one of the big chairs with Valentine's books. Royal said it was the biggest collection of negro literature this side of Chicago."

"Cora spent most of the day in her bedroom with the latest almanac Royal had given her. He'd picked it up in Chicago." 

The stakes of the plot are much more grave than anything I want to pontificate about on why Chicago is mentioned so many times, even if only in passing, particularly given our city's complex racial history and the context of the novel.

The city is portrayed in a mostly positive light, as these references describe Chicago as a city with bone experts and books (the city is educated),  with banks (it is wealthy), it has mirrors (it has material goods), and people go there (it is a destination).

Literary Chicago: Ploughshares Winter 2016-17

As in past editions of Ploughshares, Chicago makes quite a few appearances in the most recent edition, although in subtle ways this time (by the way, you should support them; their one of my favorite journals). 

Beth Ann Fennelly recalls her time living abroad in "When Dusk Fell an Hour Earlier."

When I left Silesia, on the Czech-Polish border, I never imagined it would take me so long to return. But after I flew home to Chicago, then loaded up the car and drov 55 South to Fayetteville, Arkansas, I entered a graduate program in creative writing.

After I returned to Chicago in '94, my Czech year grew very distant very quickly.

"Don't you remember your nickname?" one asked.
"Yes," I sighed. I still hated it. "Američanka."
They laughed. "Oh yes, that's right." They laughed again. It was funny to them. "But don't you know your other nickname?"
I shook my head slowly.
"Ah. We called you 'Sunny Chicago.'"
Sunny Chicago? We were speaking English, but I felt lost. They'd had this adorable nickname for me? Sunny Chicago? Really?

While this is a work of non-fiction that doesn't really take place in Chicago, it does show the place our city has for those in between, on the move, a passing through point, whether it's between Silesia or Arkansas.

Daniel Lawless describes the monkey house at Lincoln Park Zoo in The Dean Has No Comment. You should just...just read that one for yourself. 

Chicago doesn't enter into the actual poems by these next two authors, but I feel it is necessary to point them out, being written by two of the most distinguished writers in this city. Enjoy.

Stuart Dybek - Moderation

Christina Pugh - The Social Fabric

Literary Chicago: Ernest Hemingway - "The Snows of Kilimanjaro And Other Stories"

Sigh. Some things never change.

"Listen," the detective said. "This isn't Chicago. You're not a gangster. You don't have to act like a moving picture. It's all right to tell who shot you. Anybody would tell who shot them. That's all right to do. Suppose you don't tell who he is and he shoots somebody else. Suppose he shoots a woman or a child. You can't let him get away with that. You tell him," he said to Mr. Frazer. "I don't trust that damn interpreter."

"I am very reliable," the interpreter said. Cayetano looked at Mr. Frazer.

"Listen, amigo," said Mr. Frazer. "The policieman says that we are not in Chicago but in Hailey, Montana. You are not a bandit and this has nothing to do with the cinema."

"I believe him," said Cayetano softly. "Ya lo creo."

 - from The Gambler, the Nun, and the Radio

"What's he going to do?"
"Nothing."
"They'll kill him."
"I guess they will."
"He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago."
"I guess so," said Nick.

- from The Killers

Literary Chicago: Jack Kerouac - "The Subterraneans"

" - returning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if really I was that great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos - " 

This is the third work of Kerouac that I've read and the third that has a Chicago reference (previously: On the Road / The Dharma Bums). Although this is a peculiar inclusion in the literary Chicago encyclopedia, as it doesn't say much about Chicago itself, rather the narrator is reminiscing back to other nights, other clubs, other cities, and picks Chicago in particular to call out.

The Bird in question of course is Charlie Parker, who while he played here, isn't as assoicated with Chicago as he is with other cities, particularly New York City. And the story itself, inspired by Kerouac's nights in NYC, is fictionalized to take place in San Francisco.

I'm reminded of Sarah Ruhl's play "The Clean House" which takes place in a "metaphysical Connecticut." I think Kerouac uses this phrase in a similar vein, that maybe Bird noticed the narrator from a night club in another city, and perhaps that city was Chicago, and perhaps it was another Chicago. Is Chicago ever the same place twice or even to two different people? Consider Heraclitus.

Or maybe I'm overthinking a speed-induced ramble of one of America's great writer's lesser works. (Not to mention that cover; it wasn't enough to put one photo of the author on the cover but we need to get his good side too?)

The most interesting thing of this novella overall is the character of Mardou, inspired by Kerouac's real life girlfriend, Alene Lee, who protected her privacy. I stumbled across her biography, written by her daughter and posted in 2010. Certainly worth the read to learn more about the inspiration for one of the period's more complex and entirely underwritten characters.

Literary Chicago: Edward Albee - 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Martha:...and she wants to go to Chicago all the time, 'cause she's in love with that actor with the scar...But she gets sick and she sits down in front of her dressing table...
George: What actor? What scar?
Martha: I can't remember his name, for God's sake. What's the name of the picture? I want to know what the name of the picture is. She sits down in front of her dressing table...and she's got this peritonitis...and she tries to put her lipstick on, but she can't...and she gets it all over her face...but she decides to go to Chicago anyway, and...
George: Chicago! It's called Chicago!
Martha: Hunh? What...what is?
George: The picture...it's called Chicago...
Martha: Good grief! Don't you know anything? Chicago was a thirties musical, starring little Miss Alice Faye. Don't you know anything?

This dialogue happens in the opening scene in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It doesn't really say much about Chicago itself, although the film Martha is trying to think of is Beyond the Forest (1949). Although I guess it says something that we are introduced to two characters that express such disdain towards each other while mentioning our city.

Literary Chicago: Jeanette Winterson - "Gut Symmetries"

"When Mama and I left for Berlin, Jove was about to go to Chicago to study. He was nineteen, a dark teenage hero to a girl in old-fashioned clothes and dreaming about James Dean." (pg 126)

Like in many works of fiction, Winterson's characters go to school in Chicago. While this reference is as vague as Jhumpa Lahiri's Chicago school reference, the context implies the school to be the University of Chicago (see Tender is the Night) although Alaa Al Aswany's Chicago is primarily set in UIC. I don't think I've read any fiction that pays much attention to DePaul or Northwestern though I'm sure it's out there. Any fiction about Chicago State? My alma mater Columbia College? Northeastern? I'm curious...

2016: The Year in Reading

Five Two. Fifty-two. LII. For each week of the year, I read a book. This has been a goal of mine for the past few years and I finally achieved it.

Of course, this is an arbitrary number. Does it mean I read more than in previous years? What about the average length of books? Consider Saramago and the works of poetry I read. Do I need to count pages? Number of words? But this isn't about nit-picking. It's about setting a goal and reaching it.

I like this reading goal in that it forces me to read wildly and without precision. I can read a wider range of works when I force myself to read 52 books. Having this goal in mind means I read more short poetry works and more works of flash fiction and short story collections. I read more non-fiction this year than I've ever read before. I found that sometimes books had to resonate with how I was feeling at the time. Like Lewis's It Can't Happen Here after Trump won the election or finally reading in the Spring Tender Is the Night, which I had purchased at a book fair over five years ago. Some books I couldn't wait to start as soon as I bought them like Known and Strange Things or Speedboat (although I couldn't get into it at first, it really grew on me).

The White Album, complete with front cover falling off, I found at the Logan Square Arts Fest, the same warm day I listened to Ryley Walker and Bill MacKay and found a reissue of the Beastie Boys first EP on on vinyl. Open Books, where I volunteer, provided many serendipitous findings as well, including Road-Side Dog and Written on the Body. Some books I special ordered, like the poetry collection by Danez Smith after I read a poem of his on Buzzfeed of all places.

Literary Chicago - Joan Didion "The White Album"

I wrote this post a few months ago. Not sure why I never uploaded it. I was planning on originally trying to find somewhere else to publish this, but I never really expanded on it in any meaningful way. I still think it's worth posting based upon the connection between the writer, the artist, this city, and my experience.

(via the Art Institute)

I recall an August afternoon in Chicago in 1973 when I took my daughter, then seven, to see what Georgie O'Keefe had done with where she had been. One of the vast O'Keefe "Sky Above Clouds" canvases floated over the back stairs in the Chicago Art Institute that day, dominating what seemed to be several stories of empty light, and my daughter looked at it once, ran to the landing, and kept on looking. "Who drew it," she whispered after a while. I told her. "I need to talk to her," she said finally.

Joan Didion wrote this in 1976 in an essay titled "Georgie O'Keefe". It was released in her collection called The White Album, chronicling the death of the sixties and the uncertainties of the seventies, covering everything from the Doors to dams to horticulture to Hawaii, Bogota to bureaucrats, to the women's movement and how an artist creates.

I've gotten into the habit of marking whenever Chicago is mentioned in fiction. This year however, I've been a bit out of character. I've read less fiction, and more non-fiction and, especially recently, poetry. I've read Didion in the past, and as I began reading this collection, I'd wondered if she would mention Chicago.

This essay was a pleasant surprise. It got me to rethink my previous notions of O'Keefe. Personally, I've never been a huge fan of her work (nothing against her personally, the works of European artists and authors have always appealed to me more). I've probably walked by these clouds dozens of times.

But last Thursday was different. I wanted to see what Didion saw and what her daughter saw in these clouds.

"Her Laugh (Killing Joke)"

'Cachinnator' was the word of the day one time on Dictionary.com so I wrote a story about it.

Perhaps it is my contrarian streak, but hearing laughter inspires in me near total mental collapse. I find the nature of cachinnators to be capricious and disconcerting. Every time a prospective chortler opens their mouth to release a guffaw or cackle, as if it were imprisoned inside them, I want to yell “Stop!” Have they no concern about the consequences of their actions or how others around them may react to their belly-laughs? No, they think not of my plight or of others like me at all.

This may be a surprise, but there are indeed many of us. We have meetings, local chapters, national conventions. There are critical inquiries into why we disdain such common practice, and defining the “what”: do we despise the laugh itself or the buffoon of the laugh's origin? Some write these notions off as futile or meaningless even if answered. They'd rather live their lives as they are, accepting the fate they've been dealt, and never be able to be one of the buffoons themselves. But I, and others like me, well, there's no hiding it: we want to laugh.

"Pairs"

These things on my feet. It wouldn't be correct to call them shoes. Nor boots nor moccasins nor loafers nor slippers nor anything else in the social vocabulary we have to define the materials that robe our feet. Neither sock nor stocking nor hose will do either, though certainly closer to the lightness those items imply.

The problem, I believe, is that this is the first garment I own that can most accurately be defined not by the materials it is made of, the brand or designer, the size, the country of origin, the length of the laces, the proper use of, or the history of the concept of the shoe itself. These devices on my feet, which to you may seem vague in description, can only be described in adjectives and not nouns.

For simplicity, for your vocabulary, since you have never worn such a thing, I will call them “shoes.” But this soft wiry mesh is softer than the clunky thing that you are probably scrounging up in your imagination. So instead, picture: lightness. Air. Softness. The voice of your favorite female jazz vocal singer shrouding your feet in clouds. Imagine the feeling of stepping into one of Monet's lily ponds, or bathing downstream from a waterfall in a bubbly ravine. This is not just how these shoes feel, but how they look.

"Seventeen Chandeliers"

I wrote this story while sitting on the floor of Preston Bradley Hall in the Chicago Cultural Center, aka, the room with beautiful giant glass dome in the middle. Lauren gave me the word "lodestar" to write a story about and this is what happened.

I know a world exists outside this room, but I fear I will never see it again. This cavernous space is filled with slow-moving giants. I am fortunate to've not been sighted yet. They are quiet like me. I make my way across rough plains of burgundy, crimson, teal, sienna. I am in a maze with no walls. A false lodestar watches over me. I know it to be false, yet every day I am tricked by it, day in, day out, every day. They all blend together, the days.

At night, it is quiet. Quieter than when the giants of the day roam. I allay my fears of solitude, of capture, of death, by knowing that each day anew, my true sun rises on the same grandiose windows that tell me that there does exist a world outside these walls. But it soon flies away, camouflaging itself with other false stars, seventeen by my last count, though infinite they might as well be: their reflections around the ceiling are eternal.

Literary Chicago: Ruth Ozeki - "My Year of Meats"

"I had a lover in the Year of Meats. His name was Sloan and he was a musician from Chicago."

"Sloan lives in the penthouse of one of the high-rise apartment buildings that cluster along Lake Shore Drive as it winds around the southern perimeter of Lake Michigan. From his vantage, the horizon line is negligible, obscured by smog and slatted blinds. Floor-to-ceiling windows from the gray lake and the steel waves that lap the concrete shore. The carpet is gray and mimics the water."

This description of Chicago reminds me of Martin Amis's character riding the Blue Line from O'Hare in his book The Information (coincidentally, in that post, I reference Ruth Ozeki as well). Writers love to make this city sound bleaker than it actually is. It is setting the mood for a single scene, but it's interesting when it becomes a trend. Algren of course wrote about the roar of the L and the seedier parts of Wicker Park but he is probably most remembered for his over-quoted "never a lovely so real" to define the city.

This isn't to say that I think grittiness is an insult. But maybe perhaps the romanticiziation of the idea is a bit outdated. Then again, this story was taking place in 1991 (and The Information was written in 1995). This was a time when the murder rates and overall crime rates were even worse than in this year, which itself has seen a spike in murder and crime. So maybe the romanticiziation is appropriate, that things may have appeared to be too good in this city over the past decade, and now the ugliness is starting to rear it's thorny head again.

Or maybe I'm just trying to make the city sound worse than it actually is. 

"The Quote-Makers"

Four men are sitting around a table. A notebook lays in front of each of them, with various sheets of loose paper, pens, pencils, and erasers scattered over the rest of the broad, wood table. George is shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and stands up to look out the window, to observe the naked plains before him.

“I don't fucking get this. What are we doing here anyway?” George asks irritably.

Kurt, calm, responds, “George, we go through this every year. We're on a deadline.”

“You say that every year too,” says George.

“Well either way, we have to come up with something,” Kurt says. “We've all done this a thousand times. Let's just give them something short, sweet, and poo-tee-weet, we're outta here.”

George glares at Kurt a moment but then sits back down and picks up a pen.

Oscar begins to whistle a cheerful tune.

Kurt poses in a thousand yard stare into the blank wall, while George starts scribbling frantically. His eyes grow wide and foam forms in the corner of his mouth.

Oscar stops whistling and looks at Kurt, still lost in thought. He nudges him, breaking his concentration and nods in George's direction. Kurt realizes what is happening, stands behind George to read the scrawl he's affixed to the page.

“'I want to live my next life backwards...'” Kurt begins to read aloud. “'You start out dead and get that...' no, no, no, George, stop, seriously, come on. I mean it's a fine idea, but we need a quote, something punchy. A one-liner.”

George puts down his pen. “'One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor,'” he responds.

“Oh why was I born with such contemporaries,” Oscar sighs.

"Propaganda"

I wrote this story based on the first fifty or so images on Google after searching for "Propaganda." Enjoy!

The man in the white hat is pointing his long finger in my face; the man with the mustache keeps his back turned the whole time. Accusations automatically become truth when they're said with enough conviction. A third man in a mask is begging, pleading: is he on my side? I look to her, to her wrists cuffed together like mine, to her brown eyes for reassurance. The finger continues to point as if unattached to any body.

I am aware of the reality, of the gravity of this situation. Mockery is boring but only one of our sides can be right. My enemy loses power when he expresses doubt. But that finger continues to hold steady as if it emanated molecules of doubt that attach to any being at which it aims. Are good and evil relative terms? No. But how did I end up here, with her, in a state of compliance, in a state of surrender?

“Shut up,” the man attached to the finger says. I never said anything out loud. Yet here I am, willing to, eager even, to believe everything he says. And her and I aren't the only ones. The alarms were sounding; we panicked; we fell in line. We surrendered identity. We submitted possessions. We abandoned thought and listened without discourse. We barely ate.

But were we afraid?

Pitchfork Music Festival 2016

Another edition of random notes I took during Pitchfork: 

The connection between ONO and Jenny Hval. Removing layers, physically and sonically.

Anderson Paak! Shamir!

Cartwheels at Sun Ra Arkestra and 92 years old!?

Twin Peaks, from Young Camelot to here. Regret I never saw them more in DIY spots.

Mick Jenkins: "Drink more water."

Crazy inflatable etc...

So why are we here? Why do we go to music festivals? Why do we listen to music? I always have a crises of faith at these things. I wonder what's the point.

Aren't there more important things than listening to music in a park, many of the neighbors can hardly even afford to go to so they settle for hawking dollar water bottles and ponchos on Ashland Ave? But are only greeted with another instance of being ignored.

Being thanked for saving the earth as I parked my bike then participating in an event that trashes a park and having to use Instagram and deplete the energy on my cell phone which I will surely have to charge again at some point.

Do we need these festivals more than ever in a world so full of pain, confusion and anxiety? The world is exploding from Nice to Baton Rouge, do we take advantage of joy at every possible moment, because we never know what will be our last? Or is that a huge cop out?

"Tears"

This story was inspired by the photography of Rose-Lynn Fisher. Follow the story along with her images here.

(Tears of laughing until I'm crying) is an entropic quest. The connected lagoons in the Northeast do little to conceal their desire for abandon. While harmony was never the goal, vacant land replaces the once childish idea of inter-connectedness: are you laughing or are you crying?

(Tears of change) prove that there is no life around. Abandoned suburbs run rings 'round our fortress. Soon, every branch, ever tunnel we've created will be consume: only to be exhumed and proved that the only consequence is change.

(Tears of grief) is as desolate as you expect. I can't go on...

I'll go on.

"No Time, Toulouse"

I wrote this story inspired by one of my favorite Monty Python skits.

I walked into the advice center, briefcase in hand. A man with mustache, grinning, wishes me “morning." Before I've time to set down my cane and remove my hat, he holds up a white sign with four words in black ink informing me of our business here today. From a mount secured to the ceiling behind him, a big orange screen with black letters repeats our reason for meeting. It clashes with the plaid wallpaper. This man seems sly, but I must remember: I'm the one that is depending on him right now.

He lets go of the screen and picks up the original white sign. He then reveals a box, of which all six sides repeat these same four words. He points to the box; I laugh as I notice he already has these words written on his hand in black marker. He pours a shot of brandy from a bottle which instead of any label of brandy, it is written: “No time to lose.”

Ear Relevant: Ellington/Mingus/Roach - "Money Jungle"

Mingus starts. Then Roach. Then Ellington. And then? And then we're in. We're in the 'Money Jungle.'

You don't really have to know too much about jazz to know you are listening to something incredible. Believe me: I don't know that much about jazz. But I do know that these are three of the greatest musicians to have performed the form at all, let alone together at the same time.

Mingus doesn't hold back. Roach never lags. Mingus is abrasive, but Roach counters gently. And Ellington is as smooth as ever, keeping up with the younger guys.

'Le Fleurs Africaines' is a mellow departure but Charlie pairs Duke's elegance with ominous pulls from the double bass, while Max keeps track of the background. 'Very Special' picks it back up again and 'Warm Valley' showcases a melancholic Duke.

This session was recorded September 17, 1962 at Sound Makers Studio in New York City. I bought this album February 6th, 2016 at the Jazz Record Mart in downtown Chicago a week before the store closed. These dates might not matter. It was my only time at the Jazz Record Mart. I should have gone more. Nothing lasts forever.

My copy of the record is a 2015 reissue: may we do what we can to preserve this music, not just this album, not just these three men, but for every artist, if you believe in the art, acquire something physical of it. That's why I'm starting to write about my records more. There needs to be record of these records. I forget about the records I have sometimes.

'Switch Blade' ends side one. Mingus ends it, his bass sounds like a guillotine swaying over a single note, bending it this way and that. I take a sip of tea and get up the flip the record. And then

Enrique Vila-Matas - "Because She Never Asked"

I recently moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. A new home needs new books, I reasoned. Two days ago, on my way home from work, I exited the Blue Line subway and stopped by City Lit, an impulse I'm sure I'll indulge many more times. My initial plan was to find Alvaro Enrigue's "Sudden Death" but it was out of stock. Instead I picked up books by two Spanish authors: "On the Edge" by Rafael Chirbes and the book this post is about.

I opted to read Vila-Matas's short book first since I haven't had much time to read recently with the move. I wanted to begin and end something. The book is composed of three parts. A short story written by the narrator about a fictional character obsessed with real life actress Sophie Calle; the narrator's meeting with and interactions with Calle; the narrator's descent into physical illness and ruminations on life and mortality based on the confusing actions of Calle.

After finishing the book, I clicked on over to Goodreads to rate how I felt about it. I hovered between 3 and 4 stars, liking vs. *really* liking. I decided on 4 stars, as it has pretty much everything I want out of a book. Meta-fiction, descriptive language, copious amount of references to other authors/artists, reflections on the meaning of literature in life, various settings (Paris, Barcelona, the Azores), develops coincidences and connections (sorta like how I recently read another novel that fictionalizes an actress), and is shrouded in ambiguity throughout.

What Do I Want to Write?

That's always the biggest question, isn't it? And yet, for as many words as I've combined together, through keyboard or pencil or pen, it is still a difficult question to answer. Why do I write? Because I have to, I say, and so say the writers. The philosopher in me has to doubt: and he has to doubt that I actually want to write.

Because I have to doubt anything I think I want.

I can only want what I have been exposed to. I can only think I know what I want based on my experiences, which are based on my circumstances, which alas, I have not entirely decided on my own. /enddigression

One key to understanding what I want to write is understanding what I want (or "want") to read. Lit Reactor had a post today about lazy readers ("lazy fuckers") who are too dependent on Amazon. I am not one of these readers. I thought it curious that the writer of this article assumed their readers all depended on Amazon for their next book purchases as opposed to going to a bookstore. Is this really the state of the book-buying public? Perhaps that shows my own bias: I am fortunate to live in a city with a plethora of stores: one Myopic would be more than enough for a single town, yet I can go months (years?) without having shopped there due to going to other bookstores.

Likewise, I travel, and when I travel, I make it a point to visit bookstores (see: St. Louis / San Francisco).

You find books you never knew you even wanted to read. It's the same with record stores as I've made this point before: you don't know what you really want and being surrounded by all of these possibilities is so much grander experience than relying only on Spotify or Amazon. /enddigression