Oh strange day to love and hate. Mid of it, I rang JR, turned out he was a block up the street, eating a pear in front of the library, waiting for his turn at the computers. He has to stay on top of his fantasy league. I showed up stomping, hot with the new news from my landlord (landlord with the Russian accent and zee lizp, who, first question he ask is always "How eez you huthzbeend?". I never correct him.) turns out our lease is seven months long, not a year. And if we wanna stay, we gotta come up with $300 more a month, and he knows we can't--he knocked on the door to say he's showing the apartment tomorrow, purely rhetorical, and heres two months notice p dot s dot. Post library, we wandered with half an aim, and jinxed sayin "I'll watch anything with Lee Marvin in it!". Talked briefly of the strangeness of being in the world; ran into Nora and went to the dollar store for pencils for her, notebook for JR, nothing for me. Store soundtrack: pan fluted version of "I Am A Rock." After an errand to pick up JR's mashed potatoes and gravy, after quizzical discussion about the concepts and practice of career, after "huthzbeend", after early rising, before new french girlfriend, after new construction condos, after much hoofing, before edits, we toured the very tidy casa for sale of a old woman who had only lineoleum floors, three canaries, a kind, doughy face. She was reading Anne Rice en espanol.
This early morning in the line at the courthouse, the morning on the bench outside Daley Center as tourists in fake train cars helmed by bullhorned announcers pulled up and everyone snapped shots of the grand Picasso, far enough away to not suffer pigeon or attorney acosting or wafts of acrid summer baked piss. Who wants a block away picture of the fucking Daley Center, even with it's statuary? Where must you come from for that to be pictureworthy?
To love this city, I attest, you must also hate it dispassionately.