Hitting a moving target.

A few weeks ago, I began work on another edition of my newsletter. I usually start with some subject headers I want to talk about, then come back to them and fill them out as I’m thinking of them and thinking what to write. Rough outline, then more specific, you understand.

Of course, I wrote about the very large effect our political reality is having on our lives right now.

I went back to it last night, and those concerns I so lightly touched on, so delicately brushed over…are now moot. We are in a fresh NEW hell compared to just two or three weeks ago. That I was concerned about in the last of March now is cookie dough ice cream compared to now in the first weeks of April.

This is untenable.

Posted on by ~tbg~

An afternoon on the other side of the city

Woke up with the thought to run around the city a bit, but decided to go back to my old neighborhood. After my divorce, I got myself a one-bedroom apartment in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago, a densely populated area with a ton of retail and public transport options on the north side of the city.

I ended up walking about 4 miles today, and as I always notice when I’m up there, I enjoy the vibes and what I’m able to do while I’m in the vicinity, but the reality is that those kinds of resources don’t exist on the south side where I live.

I had a list of things I wanted to do, but three were most important. One was to find a bottle of bourbon we can’t seem to find on our side of town. Two and three were more of my vices, namely, going to Unabridged Bookstore and visiting the Chicken Hut, both on Broadway.

I lived in that neighborhood for three years, in the days before Apple Watches and even Fitbits, and while I have no idea how many miles I walked, I stayed fit. The Belmont el stop was about three quarters of a mile away, there was a Walgreens two blocks away, a record store down the block, and a Chipotle on the corner. It was kinda perfect.

People who live there are very jaded with regards to having access to the stuff they have access to, but the old adage of “you don’t miss it til its gone” is pretty stark.

I walked into Unabridged with joy in my heart; I really enjoy bookstores in general, and I really enjoy that they cycle in art books and graphic novels, and their numerous placards explaining why a staff member likes some book or another litter the shelves. It feels like it’s run by people who like books, want you to like books, and will probably be first on the chopping block when neocon assholes decide to target independent bookstores that won’t bend to this anti-intellectualism/anti-“DEI”/anti-queer wave that’s permeating political America.

Anyway, I took my time there, and ended up buying a book and a tote bag with a great pen-and-ink drawing of the distinctive front of the building the bookstore is located. What happened next really made me happy…and sad at the same time.

Outside the front door, is a bench. An actual bench. An actual space where I could sit and rearrange my bags. There is a growing paranoia in urban areas that free seating attracts homeless people; how dare he homeless want to sit down! How dare they be outside! The side effect of this was that no one could sit, no one could rest without buying something in an establishment and basically buying the right to rest.

So I got to sit on that bench, unbothered and unfettered, and I thought about my present. Here I was, years removed from my home being a few blocks away, years removed from Obama and a new uncertain for me in a ton of ways. But my present is also populated by being cognizant of circumstances that made my present possible. Why are there so few benches? And to my wonderment, why can I not have this where I live now?

I got up after taking a breath, and went to Chicken Hut. Chicken Hut is on the corner, and specialized in roasted chicken served with a side, some salsa, and hot pita bread. My half chicken with fountain drink costs $18, and I sat and watched a Spanish broadcast of some soccer game. The fountain machine had Pepsi, and I had multiple cups of a fruit punch/pink lemonade mix.

It was the same meal I had had many times years ago, and when my parents came to visit me, I proudly paid for their quarter chicken with rice meals. It was a link to my past, and it was completely nourished my stomach and my soul; sometimes the good guys win, and in a neighborhood where the Chipotle is gone and a number of avant-garde spots have popped up, their success makes me happy.

As I rode home with my wife’s Chicken Hut order, traveling down Lake Shore Drive through downtown, I am thankful for the opportunity to do what I do, move how I move, and how I got to this point in my life.

Posted on by ~tbg~ 2

The Art of War

Explosions rocked the grassy terrain, kicking up huge clods of dirt and plant bits and critter offal into the air. Jeremiah’s tanks rolled on unaffected, taking up a flanking position to infantry on the ground advancing in the west. Behind them, artillery boomed, huge things that belched smoke and fire.

Jeremiah watched from his perch high above the fighting. He was curious as to the nature of war and, for all the books he had read about it, it seemed easy. He remembered Jonah, the bully in his third grade class, who had told him something totally meaningful. “It don’t matter how much heart you got, or whatever it is grown ups say,” he spat through three missing teeth. “It’s how hard you punch the other kid in the face. Heart don’t have shit to do with that.”

As Jeremiah looked upon his army, he noticed that he indeed had the capability to punch the other kid in the face pretty damned hard. He had read about flanking, and feints, and shock and awe. He listened as his dad, a veteran of what he called “The Keyboard Wars” wax poetic about psychological warfare, and of being right all of the time, and all of the wars he had participated in and won.

But here before him was war. Bombs and bullets and some lasers too. He imagined the drone jockeys in some far off bunker remotely controlling instruments of death from the comfort of their own work-from-home chairs.

He remembered a time where he had scrimmaged against his older brother Dion, who had moved on to greener pastures to civilian life. It was only once, but it had left a huge mark. Dion had left his army in shambles after only a few tactical maneuvers, putting his younger brother on the defensive quickly and tragically. Jeremiah remembered being angry in the moment, then wondrous, then accepting that he had much to learn.

But those lessons had a indelible effect. And now, while pitched battle raged below, he sat satisfied as divisions of man and machine plowed their way forward. 

So intent was he on the battle unfolding below that he didn’t hear the person coming up on him. Finally sensing someone else, he jumped and whirled around.

“My, you’re really into that,” his mother said, hugging him and getting down on the floor with him. “You playing war again?” She took care not to sit on any of the green plastic army men, the plushies, and assorted Legos. She did notice, however, a few of her hair rollers and a rubber ducky that had gone missing some time before had second lives as members of Jeremiah’s army and air force.

“Yeah!” Jeremiah exclaimed, eager to show his mother of plans well laid and battle well met.

rev2 – 3.12.25

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Joy of Art, part one.

Recently, I was in Miami, and I got a hankering to go do art stuff. There is a Museum of Graffiti in the Wynwood neighborhood, and a Taschen book store.

I’ve been to Miami just once before, and we didn’t stay long enough to really do much. This time, we had a couple of days, and so I was relaxed in figuring out how I wanted to move and what. wanted to see.

First off, I was amazed by the vibe in Wynwood. The vibe was great, and the amount of street art everywhere was unlike anywhere else I’d been. The colors, the variety, the sheer volume of it all! I was snapping pictures out the car consistently.

The Museum of Graffiti is small but mighty. A relatively small space, given it’s expansive subject matter, but it is a must for fans of the art. Graffit has expanded past the aerosol on the walls; now we’re doing corporate disruption, billboard “adjustment”, and spotlighting writers from oppressive regimes around the world. We suffer from a sense of the art world (among other things) revolving around us as Americans, and graffiti is truly a worldwide expression. I dropped some good money in the gift shop.

In the same block is the Art of Hip Hop museum, and it is also small, but the exhibit on view was one that opened my eyes. Cey Adams was the art director for Def Jam Records in their Golden Age, when they were making serious cultural inroads from Run DMC and the Beastie Boys to the ascendancy of Jay-Z and 50 Cent. I had no idea who he was, but I knew his work, and they had a collection of work he’d done, along with videos, shirts, and other designs he was responsible for. Illuminating, and a great use of time.

I was asked, as I was walking out, if I’d been to the art gallery which handles the works by both museums. The two spaces have a cooperative set up, and I was very interested in the work at that intersection of graffiti and hip-hop. The gallery was situated between the two; I had walked by and missed it. So I stopped in.

I spect the next two hours in that gallery.

Thing is, I don’t get to talk art a lot. My friend group and I look at art, and I talk about particular pieces with others, but I got to sit and talk about art, specifically modern art. Where is it going, who are the main players, what we really thought of their work and their reach.

While having these talks, I was able to look at works from a Graf artist I’ve been knowing about since my beginnings. To be in the room with works that were selling for six figures were….not humbling, but definitely an eye-opener. There is room to talk about art as a vehicle for money laundering, and room to talk about art as a function of a soiety beset by AI and work demands and growing poverty, but right then? I was immersed in what I saw and what I felt and dusting off the vocabulary to describe it all.

Afer I left without buying anything, I made my way back to the hotel, snapping pictures as I went. Murals, bright colored characters, wall burners – I was amazed at the work it took not only to make them, but the efforts the city put into maintaining it.

It was a great trip, and I came back energized and ready to make things. Which is the point, right?

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After.

In my planner, I called it “After”.

That’s it.

I’ve written about the stuff we’ve been going through, and I am constantly amazed and grateful for the kind words and extra-squeezy hugs that have come my way. Over the past year, I’ve lost my father- and mother-in-law and two uncles, so Death and I are quite familiar.

But now, is the After.

Now we’re trying to see what is normal, what will not trigger those memories which make us pause and tear up. All of those home projects we had on the docket, which were on hold while we watched this all play out, have to be done.

Or do they?

The normal winter urge to nest, to make the house as comfy as possible, is starting to recede as spring and summer approach, even in the Upper Midwest. Change is happening.

We’ve had too much change here lately.

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Weary.

One thing about death is the thoughts that happen after it has touched your life. Memories, wishes, hopes, can all be hyper-analyzed and second-guessed til the cows come home or your blood pressure spikes, whichever comes first.

Over the past year, I’ve had to talk about death a lot. I’ve lost a lot of people in the past 8 months, and I’m still not right, but I noticed something that, well, isn’t the most socially acceptable thing to say out loud.

Death is a release in many ways. Not only from the mortal coil, but, amongst the living, the..relief? And that’s hard to say and admit, but it’s true.

For the past two months, I’ve been in a holding pattern while my mother-in-law declined. Watching that was painful, and to see someone I had so much respect and love for come closer and closer to death ate away at me. My wife, watching her mother encounter one medical hurdle after another, made a habit of driving an hour each way to be there for her, being her advocate in the hospital and in her hospice bed. Many a time I came home to an empty house, watching my phone for text updates.

With her gone, things are drastically different. No more hospital runs. No more light sleep, dreading the 3am phone call from a medical professional. The house projects could be scheduled again, knowing we’d be home for the AC man or the cleaners or the plumber. Possibilities opened back up, and that feels weird to say.

Of course, given my druthers, I’d rather have my mother-in-law still here. But quality of life is really important, and she decided she wanted no more parts of hospital beds and intubation, and I think to be able to go out on your own terms is a blessing we all won’t get to have.

But the collective exhale…she’s in a better place, free from pain…and the world, for the living, can start spinning again.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Tis the season.

My mind is consumed with depressive thoughts. It doesn’t help that the post-holiday endorphin rush is over. That we are into our annual sunshine-less period in Chicago. That the return to work after having time off does not make me more energetic to go to work, but realize again that so many people are without in a country of plenty.

In addition to all that, people I love are in pain, and the empathy in me is having a hard time maintaining some sort of even keel. If I could absorb the hurt, the pain, the uncertainty…I would. That’s a superpower no one really wants, but the nature of these relationships I’m in are super in their own way, and I don’t do half-ass relationships.

But the investment in people leads to obvious issues; there’s no hurt like those you can’t do anything about. What do you say to someone facing financial ruin? What do you say to someone going through emotional turmoil? Even more to the point, what do you DO for those people? What do you do that makes a difference to the people you love, to society at large? To compete strangers, to your siblings, your parents, to everyone?

That’s where I’m at right now. And even though I know my reach is limited, and I can’t siphon energy like a Jean Grey, the wish is still there. I want my people happy, comfy, safe, and all of that. And while I draw breath, and have energy, I’m going to try to help that happen.

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The machine.

I think I understand people a little better in the past two weeks.

Amidst the chaos, confusion, and gnashing of teeth of everyday living, I understand people who want to escape into…anything else. Heavy social media curation. Bingeing movies and shows.

I used to be “how could you put that energy into that kind of stuff while all of THIS is going on?” and just now come to realize that “all of this” will still be going on. After the doom scrolling, and the show is over, or the vices have run out…the present reality is still there. It cannot be fully escaped.

But for 30 minutes or an hour or on a lazy Saturday, that reality can be ignored, and that’s what lets you keep your sanity. To be drawn into fictional lives, to acquit yourself of the mundane, unimportant, bothersome parts of societal relations with others similarly affected…is the only escape some people have.

That said, I am not a fan of the “sports radio” treatment of current events. I am not a fan of the constant rehashing, analysis, and “long time listener, first time caller” interactions from Everyman On The Street. I understand that reactions are an industry unto themselves now, but it’s not an industry I want to invest any time in, no matter what the reaction is or what we’re reacting to.

I think what sums this up can be equaled to a kind of conflict stress. Every day, we are bombarded with YOU WON YOU LOST THINGS SUCK YOU ARE UGLY YOUR NEIGHBORS ARE SKETCHY GET MONEY WATCH THE GAME WATCH THOSE PEOPLE by a ideological media for who this is all a game of clicks and numbers, and who am I to blame anyone for trying to sit out of that as long as they can?

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The places you’ll go.

I went to the library today and I got a couple of books that were on my to-read list. One was by Larry McMurtry, noted author a quite a few books about the Wild West and cowboys and such, called “Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen.” It’s a book of his recollections of his growing up in the context of storytelling; where he grew up, everyone was working, and there was very little time to sit around and tell stories. Part of his point (I’m on page 70 at the moment) is that storytelling loses a lot in a society where everyone is either too busy to listen or have nowhere to go to laze around and listen.

When I started the book, I was put off a bit. Here was this white dude, speaking of a country long gone, of a people who inevitably vote Republican and proudly don’t go more than 20 miles from where they’re born. The kind of people for whom work is a currency, and social issues boil down to “I have it bad, and no one else should really have it better than me.”

Anyway, what drew me in was our community. He spoke about the stories of his childhood, and I saw a ton of parallels. He was made to do the manual work of a rural life, but everyone sensed that he just wasn’t good at it. He got ahold of some books and was sold; these Anglophile writers wowed him with their language and their storytelling. He saw how he could apply those lessons to the stories he wanted to tell.

The difference, which became glaring to me, is that he wanted to immerse himself in that Anglophile world. The world of European writers, who he was introduced to and were soon lifted up as examples and roadmaps to follow. I’m a bit different, and I hope others are, too. The key is a saying that I’ve heard over and over – “if you know better, do better.”

I cannot imagine a list of inspirations that doesn’t include James Baldwin or Audre Lorde. Pablo Neruda and Amy Tan. Alexander Chee and Ta-Nehisi. And I mourn the people who look to Europe for these classic writers but don’t see the talent under their regional noses because “woke” or “diversity writer”. What treasures he missed!

The book was published in 1999, and now I have to wonder if he didn’t read the older writers because he didn’t know about them, or they weren’t “as good” as the people he names as influences. And that’s the rub with being a non-white person consuming media; you are surrounded by such great talents, see them every day, seek them out, read them, wonder at the sentence structure and ways to turn a phrase…and find out that there are people who are so hung up on the European artists that were allowed to publish and be lionized those many years ago.

But at the end of the day, the urge to read, to consume, to be influenced by all that the world has to offer is its own reward. I grew up in a different Wild West, but while I can struggle with questions of representation and who gets to be the big name and who can’t, I can connect with him on essential questions of environment and telling stories. You know, human traits and qualities that can shine in my writing just as they do with his.

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Not quite helpless, but.

She’s gone inside, mentally exhausted. He sits outside, smoking the last of his cigar.

The taste of the Nicaraguan leaf swirls around the inside of his mouth as he stares up into the sky. He exhales, and the smoke hangs in the still night air, illuminated for a while by the porch light. If he squints, he can make out a star, shining dimly, but still shining. He closes his eyes tightly, then opens them, but things aren’t any clearer.

Across the world, at that very moment, there are people hurting, but he can only think of one person and her hurt. A hurt that he cannot fathom, but he has a front row seat to. He can only do so much, but there is so much he can’t do. And that is the worst feeling.

To want to help, but not being able to; is there no sadder circumstance?

He leans forward, puts out his cigar, takes the last sip of his bourbon, and heads inside.

Posted on by ~tbg~