I have an art project on my mind and needed to go find a particular little branch for it. JR came with. We went up to the train bridge despite it being frosty out.
Someone dragged a livingroom set up here, and set it up across from a makeshift tent house that has long blown down. The bottom five windows of the building behind it is my old loft. I knew it had been rehabbed, but I was galled when I noticed the windows. 4400 sq. feet and we only had two windows that opened. The rest was plexiglass or plywood. I felt resentful. JR noted: "It looks like a hotel now".
JR is a good friend; I explained to him my very long dream from last night that involved doing a Japanese tour as the extra-guitarist in reunited Babes in Toyland. There were a lot of things I could not bring to Japan on the plane, so I smuggled my three most important items and tucked them tightly into the top of the coon-skin cap I was wearing. The items: an empty cassette case, a package of herbed goat cheese and something that represented money. He helped me try to divine a meaning. He did not laugh too hard at me when we arrived home and I crossed "find stick" off my to-do list.
I like the train bridge because it's so Chicago: 1/4 nature, 1/4 trash, 1/4 industrial, 1/4 gleaming rehab condos every way you look.
You can't beat that view of downtown. Chicago is so Chicago--it's like getting mashed in the face with a volume of Sandburg poems.
One day, a few summers ago, a friend and I stood here and threw rocks trying to knock out the remaining glass in the panes. We said we wouldn't leave until we knocked out some of the white panes. After about 30 minutes we realized they were plastic, not painted glass, and couldn't be broken no matter what we threw at it.