Spent the weekend in Chicago. Ate at Frontera Grill: ahi tuna ceviche with jicama and duck carnitas with mole. Devine. Sat next to an older gentleman at the bar. When my food arrived, he asked what I had ordered. I looked at him, paused, then said “You look like Rick Bayless.” It was not RB, but an insurance guy from Macon, Georgia. We talked about Gone with the Wind. A bible of sorts, apparently. Folks from Atlanta must memorize it.
The city from the Hancock bldg at night: one word: lights.
Next morning breakfast at theWit with Laura Goldstein. We discussed Minced English by Amira Hanafi. Can’t wait to read it. Laura gave me a copy of her chapbook: Ice in Intervals: “outstanding sounds wintering our blood.” An afternoon of walking in the snow to Millennium Park (slush on “the bean”), then inside the Art Institute: Agnes Martin, Rothko. And Richter: dragging a dry brush over wet pigment. Acknowledges the photo as fleeting moment. But “the pull” exerts force on the one who cross the border.