The last time I was in Chicago was 1990. Hamster, his friend Rusty, and I traveled to see a three game series between the Orioles and White Sox for the last season of Comiskey. It will not be 29 years before I come back.
I did not know Mondrian made paintings like this:
until I visited the Chicago Institute of Art yesterday. There too, this Gerhard Richter:
- If you follow me on twitter I sent you lots more yesterday
- Wonderful museum, tremendous contemporary section, made me finally acknowledge that high modern is now as mummy to me as the impressionists
- I am typing in the breakfast lounge of a Holiday Inn Express, formerly the Hotel Russ, on Wabash at Ontario three blocks from the Magnificent Mile, it's 6:30, my body thinks it's 7:30,
- one last painting, someone new to me, Alma Thomas, her Starry Night with the Astronauts, my favorite colors, then some links while everyone else still sleeps:
- On repose and death (I knew James Schall, he taught at Georgetown, I never had him as a teacher but he was, if I may so claim, a friend of mine, a good guy)
- Life versus Machine
- Why the fuck is Zizek back in my twitter timeline?
- UPDATE! o, ick
- Our lying eyes
- TALES of FAT FETUS and the T-WORD
- Cathedral and Forest
- The business of poetry is remarkably good at devaluing poetry
- I no longer worry-wonder why I spend the most time and invest the most effort on holiday weekend posts and - more essentially - have stopped pretending I don't know why
- After the shouting, the silence
- In car from Kensington to Chelsea and Chelsea to Chicago and, starting in a few hours, from Chicago to Chelsea and tomorrow Chelsea to Kensington, my music on my phone, I'm reminded I'm utterly stupid for Destroyer
I have nothing to recant, I am just
the decanter. You, the just destroyer,
have in faith become the role, recalling
for those gathered the noble fallen
with a prayer to his-grace-above-fire,
(“Turn me, I’m burnt on that side”)
St. Lawrence. Well done, I applaud.
And you: Well executed.
This is it. Not much else to await
when our fates touch: I’ve nowhere to be
but eternity, you’ve nothing to catch
but the thatch. Dry on dry,
we keep our wits about us . . .no one to meet but our match.