Explosions Revisited

"Listening abstractedly to Lorraine, Charlie watched Honoria's eyes leave their table, and he followed them wistfully about the room, wondering what they saw."

--- F.S.F. (1931)

 --- E.I.T.S. (2011)

"Like Some Great Mountain"

            Earlier this summer, my friend, Mike, and I met at the Schiller Woods Forest Preserve to workout together. We met in the parking lot and started walking across the flat, weed-infested field that covers most of the preserve. It's a large field that measures maybe one and a half miles around. At the center is a pond with two small clusters of trees nearby. Directly between these trees stands a hill. It is the same hill that used to tangle my stomach into knots before middle school cross country meets every November. It used to terrify me.

            We decided to run a few figure-eight loops around the trees to warm up. Each time we rounded one of the tiny forests, we sprinted up and down the hill on our way to the next. The hill did not intimidate me like it used to, but the sprints were exhausting nonetheless.

            As we finished our last loop, we approached the steepest side of the hill and darted to the top one final time. We slowed to a walk, locked our hands atop our heads, and started to slowly suck in air. I accepted a low-five from Mike as we wobbled toward a pair of gray shoes resting alone in the grass. It was a gusty day, and the strong breeze quickly dried the sweat that coated our bodies. It left behind a crusty, salty residue. We stared down from the top of the hill and saw a strange, old man trotting up the opposite side of the hill, which had a shallower incline, but covered a longer distance than the route we took.

            He came to a stop near us and looked our way. He wore weathered dress shoes, dark slacks, and a long-sleeved, cotton shirt with plaid print . A small, but sturdy man; he was well built for his age. The wrinkles of his leathery, handsome face stretched around yellowed dentures that revealed genuine happiness. It was a proud, innocent smile – the kind we all have as kids, eventually lose, and hope to earn back with age.

            “How many years?” he asked while pointing to himself. He poked his sternum over and over with his fingers. “How many years? How many years I make?”

            “Uh, twenty-six?” Mike joked in reply.

            The man just smiled as he searched for words. He pulled out his wallet, licked his index finger, and slapped it to his license. It showed that he was born in 1929.

            “Ninety-three,” he beamed as he continued to rap at his chest.

            Unable to contain our grins and admiration, we stood dumbfounded.

            “You've still got it. What's your secret?” we asked.

            The question challenged him. He lowered his brow in search of words.

“Polish, no English,” he responded defeated.

            Mutual respect earned, we shook hands with the man and began planning our workout. We sat and continued to rest while he changed his shoes and walked back down the hill. It turned out that he was younger than he said. Seventy-one plus twelve equals eighty-three, not ninety-three. But, we were equally impressed by his enthusiasm and athleticism regardless. After all, it was a cloudless, stifling day in the middle of summer. News reports broadcasting heat warnings for the elderly were just around the corner, and this man was running hill sprints alongside two kids sixty years younger than him.

            Suddenly, we noticed him steaming up the hill once again. He churned his legs and pumped his arms. His eyes were focused on the top. He was in a dead sprint, cutting the distance between him and an imaginary finish line. But about ten steps from the top, he stumbled. His feet slipped and arms flailed. With each step he tilted further and further forward until he finally toppled to the ground.

            We were rattled more than he was. The fall easily could have broke his wrist or hip, and we feared the worst as we ran over to him. He dragged himself to his knees to rest. Breathing deeply, he stared down at his watch. He had been timing himself.

            When he was ready, he looked up at us with a slightly embarrassed smile, and we helped pull him to his feet. He brushed blades of dry, yellow grass from his shirt, nodding and smiling to assure us that he was okay.

            Satisfied that he didn't need medical attention, Mike and I walked down the hill to begin our workout. When we reached the bottom, we turned to see him standing there, above us all, beaming. He raised his right arm high above his head and focused his attention to his wristwatch. Below, we ground the dirt beneath our rubberized feet and waited for the signal. He lowered his arm forcefully, nearly leaving his feet again. Mike and I bolted from our positions and raced to the top. We laughed the entire way up to a smooth finish.

            At last, we said farewell to our new friend. He turned to walk back down the hill. But before he did, he paused. We stood there for a moment – the three of us, young and old alike – staring out at the field, the trees, the pond, and the traffic laden streets that lay beyond the forest preserve. To us, for that moment, that hill was like some great mountain or canyon we had conquered.

Heart and Soul

            Despite the fact that I had a hopelessly unnewsworthy athletic career, I once appeared in a photo in the sports section of the Chicago Tribune. The black-and-white photo captured me and some teammates playing Nintendo 64 in our locker room as we killed time between classes and practice. It was part of a series called “Heart and Soul” in which Scott Strazzante, a Tribune photographer, sought to provide readers with “an intimate look at high school athletics away from the fields of play”. Ever since this picture appeared in the spring of 2006, I've kept an eye out for Scott's work while looking through the Trib. He has covered multiple Olympics, made the rounds with the Blackhawks and the Stanley Cup, and recently photographed the heated NATO protests. But, in my opinion, his work shines brightest in his photo blog “Shooting from the Hip”. It is here that he displays his knack for capturing the city and it's lifeblood – the people who frequent it.  

            I recently had the pleasure of hearing Strazzante speak at the Printers Row Literary Festival. While showcasing dozens and dozens of his photos, he explained his growing love for street photography. Scott, in his down time or in transit between assignments, roams the city capturing people with his camera or iPhone. His results are often stunning and prove that the most trivial and common moments in our lives can be nonetheless the most meaningful and telling.

            Though I started my own blog with an unspecified agenda, over time I've refined my vision and approach in ways that are similar to that of Strazzante and his street photography. The most enjoyable part of this experience for me has been pulling a notepad and pen out of my pocket while walking down the street or sitting on the “L” and trying to capture moments of insight, observations, and fringe thoughts produced my surroundings. I try to capture people with ink and paper much like Scott and many other professional and amateur photographers do with their lenses. I make a point to quickly scribble down interesting things that are said to me or may overhear while exploring the city. Some of these moments made me cringe, some made me laugh, most made me smile, and one made me dance. But all of them made my mind churn for one reason or another. Everyone has a story and something to say worth being heard. Even the little girl being pulled along by her mother through busy sidewalks with her eyes to the sky and jaw to the pavement in awe of skyscrapers. Even the homeless woman who holds a sign explaining that she's not a bad person, and that she just caught some bad breaks. Or even the CTA security guard in his fluorescent vest which is doubly visible in the black of night who weathers yet another graveyard shift. Strazzante gushed about the people who are heart and soul the city, simply saying, “If you just observe people. It's just amazing, all the amazing things you'll see.” Or hear, for that matter.

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Here are a few of the things I've heard...

“You're not in your little town in Michigan anymore... You're in a big town.” 
            - on Michigan Avenue

“I've never had Starbucks, I like Dunkin' Donuts... You don't like Dunkin' Donuts? Dunkin' Donuts is goooooood. Dunkin' Donuts is the best!” 
            - on the Blue Line Platform (Damen Avenue Stop)

“Guys, I'm at my last resort.” 
            - on Michigan Avenue

“I be forgettin' I'm at work sometimes.” 
            - at the Art Institute of Chicago

“I like photos that give more questions than answers.” 
            - at Printers Row Lit Fest

“I'll give you twenty dollars, that beer, and a titty twister for that t-shirt.” 
            - at Chicago Blues Festival, Grant Park

“You go 'n get youself some cold water now.” 
            - on Harrison Street

“I'm gunna kick until I need new shoes” 
            - at Congress Theater

“Alright, we're gunna take a little break here, put a new string on the guitar. I hope you all are enjoying the beautiful day, today, in Cheee – Caghhh – Goooo.” 
          - near Buckingham Fountain

The Chicago Chronicles III: "Up in the City, Down in the Mines"

            Turning onto Halsted Street, I noticed the dull orange glow shining through the canvas awnings outside the bar. I eased through the wooden saloon style doors and let them flutter shut behind me. Their hinges squeaked as they cracked together over and over. The crowd at Kingston Mines was larger and older than I had come to expect from other Thursday nights I'd spent there. Nonetheless, I became another shade in the welcoming, knowing burnt orange glaze that typically coated the bar and it's patrons.

            A singer named Nellie “Tiger” Travis was on stage with her band. “I ain't gunna stop,” she screamed, “'til I get my lovin' right”. She sang with authority, and I had no reason not to believe her. I ordered a pale ale and found a good ledge to lean on in the back as she waded into a BB King cover. The sadness of drums, strings, and vocals drowned the chat that filled the bar. Customers and bar tenders met halfway over the bar, shouting from a whisper's distance to communicate drink orders. Tables full of people tightened as they struggled to carry on conversation. All the while, Tiger's emotion filled the place. “The thrill is gone baby... The thrill is gone away”.

            Discount chandeliers and orange light bulbs illuminated the weathered murals and faces that covered and spanned from wall to wall. Everything assumed that hue. Attempts at individuality were defeated, and everyone became a different shade of a sunset suspended in time. I looked to directly to my left and found myself in the company of dozens musicians, their likeness' sketched on paper, framed, and fixed to the wall. The place has “character”. I give it that great buzzword of my approval.

            As Nellie finished her set, I detached myself from my ledge and nodded “So Long” to musicians past and present. The sun never sets, and the music never stops. I shuffled my way through a passageway leading to another room and a second stage. I sat on a wobbly stool as another set began. Joanna Connor riffed through the opening moments of “Tush” by ZZtop, and I noticed a sign I always notice. There are white poster-board signs that hang above both makeshift stages. In sloppy black writing, they read “Illegitimus Non Carborundom”, which supposedly translates to 'don't let the bastards grind you down'.

            I'd heard this set before from Connor, but didn't mind because it was a good one. There's usually a good mix of people the bar. It usually strikes some balance between college students, middle-agers, and even some gray-haired people who sip their drinks and tap their feet all the same. The typical demands of the night life, the self-centeredness and showmanship, usually melt away under the influence of the sounds of blues and shades of orange. But on this night that wasn't so. I've never felt like Kingston Mines was a bar that catered to professionals looking to unwind after work, but on that night there were too many professionals looking to unwind after work. A collage of button-ups, ties, and buckets took away from the aesthetic and authenticity.

            It was a shame too because Joanna Connor is a great guitarist. I made my way back toward the room with the main stage, which now had many open tables. I took Connor in from an old television that broadcast the performance taking place just a room away. Luckily, the speakers continued to blare. I watched her pluck through solos as I tried to put my disappointments aside and salvage the night. She whacked the strings like a kid whacking gophers at Chuck E. Cheese's. With closed eyes, she put the crowd from her mind. Her head gyrated as her hand and fingers spazzed back and forth between frets. She stood on stage where the orange lights burned brightest and radiated herself towards the crowd. I poked the ice at the bottom of a drink and wondered whether anyone else noticed that the sun is always setting in the mines, just like in a good blues song.

The Room Where I Work

            I've spent nine months in the room where I work. In this time, my situation hasn't changed much. My early post-undergrad days, while stagnant, have been nonetheless rewarding, especially creatively. The room can be a prison or blank canvas. A retardant or stimulant. It stifles mobility but offers ample time for self-reflection.

There is a world map taped to the wall in the room where I work. It often taunts me as I sit there and read book after book about others who've had the courage to explore it beyond it's paper form. But, it also lets me fantasize about opportunity, as well as ponder success and failure come and gone.

I didn't always work in the room where I work. I remember staying up late with my dad as he used the family globe and a flashlight to teach me how the days and seasons pass. He would beam the light on the Pacific to show me that while it was bedtime for me, kids were just waking in Japan. It was comforting to know that the world continued to turn even as I slept.

I was in a Geography Bee at a school not far from the room where I work. In order to earn a spot on that stage, I had to defeat my classmates with my knowledge of the world. I can't put into words the pressure I felt when my teacher told me I needed to get the next question right to qualify.

She asked, “Where is Helsinki?”, which is a city very far from the room where I work. The moments of deep contemplation felt like hours under the scrutiny of my classmates. My adolescent brain somehow determined Helsinki sounded kind of European and even a little Nordic, so I thought Finland would be a decent guess. I can still feel the shock and elation that overtook me when she told me I was right.

Years later, I took a class in a room other than the room where I work. It was there I learned to read maps beyond their Geography. They started to scream “POSSIBILITY” and transcend the ridgedness and mindless memorization that I once took them for.

The professor of that class would frown upon the room where I work. He would remind me of the world I willingly isolate myself from. A world shaped by discovery's beauties and horrors alike.

Yes, he would remind me of the sights I can't see in the room where I work. Sights of mountains... those obstacles that slowed the campaigns of legendary generals and provided refuge and inspiration to daring thinkers of the past. Also, sights of oceans... those big blue masses that so many explorers wandered far and wide, trying to find glory in escape.

One day I'll leave the room where I work. Cities will become more than dots on a map or a chance to compete in the school-wide Geography Bee. They will no longer be Google searches or Wiki entries. No, they will become the centers of revolution and the birthplaces of ideas they truly are. They are the strongholds of collective hope.

There is in indeed a world beyond the room where I work...

                                                                                    … I just haven't seen it yet.

The Chicago Chronicles II: "Wicker by Day"

            “Doors open on the right at Damen,” an automated voice alerted. Moments later I was on a blustery Blue Line platform tossing a hood over my mop of hair. I spread my arms wide and expressed gratitude towards the brick structures that tamed the wind as I descended steel stairs and set foot on solid ground. A man standing outside The Subterranean was taking down plastic letters from the marquee with a suction cup attached to a long pole. A different band would be playing there that evening. The Tavern, Crocodile Lounge, and the rest of the bars stood silent as Wicker recovered from it's hangover... I wanted a drink.

            I declined a breakfast menu upon entering a bike-themed dive a few blocks down North Avenue. I sat at the bar and sipped a bourbon while I mapped out the next few hours in my head. One was all it took to take the edge off. A splash of daylight and the effects of the whisky warmed me enough to unzip my jacket and hoodie as I reemerged from the bar.

            Most of the morning was spent checking out some local gyms, cafes, and street art, all the while inconspicuously snapping a few pictures on a camera phone. The neighborhood slowly awoke, and the streets began to fill as the sun approached it's highest point in the sky. While I wandered, I wondered how the residents of Wicker saw me through their plastic sunglasses and over the lids of their eco-friendly coffee containers. Hipsters.

            Feeling the eyes of scrutiny or a dreamer's subconscious turning on me, I ducked into Myopic Books and felt at home surrounded by stacks upon stacks of used books. So many great words, sentences, essays, novels, manifestos housed under one roof. The thoughts and efforts of thousands of other people were at my fingertips; their education and experience printed on pages, bound together, and offered to the world for critique. A book only ends up at a store like Myopic for two reasons. Either, the original owner didn't find the book good enough to ever read again or wanted to share it's greatness with others. Ironically, the used book business, like most great books, thrives on both abandonment and empowerment.

            After I had my fill of browsing, I approached the counter with three books that ranged greatly in seriousness and content. One was heavy. One was light. One was somewhere in between. The conversation with the pretty cashier who wore a strategically torn sweater was ready to check me out behind the counter. I showed her the card she gave me earlier when I checked my backpack. It was a picture of Danny and his friend the Dinosaur from my favorite children's book, Danny and the Dinosaur.

            “Hey, how's it going?”

            “Good, Is this it for today?”

            “Yep. Hey my name is Danny, and you made my day when you gave me this card.”

            “Wow, that's a lot of information... errr... my name is Kate.”

We spent the next few moments of awkwardness speaking through expressions.

            “Oh, no no. I wasn't hitting on you.”

            “Yes. You were.”

            “Well, maybe a little...”

            “I knew it.”

            “...but I was mostly just trying to spark conversation for conversation's sake.”

            “Why?”

            “I'm trying to get a feel for people in Wicker. You know?”

            “No. Hey, is my co-worker checking me out?”

            “Yeah, he is.”

            “Good, I like him.”

            “I know you do. I'll get out of your hair.”

           “Thanks.”

We returned to normal conversation.

            “That picture is from the best book ever, Danny and the Dinosaur.”

            “Oh, okay. I've never read that one. Your total is $21.35.”

            “Cool, thanks Kate. Have a good one.”

            “You too.”

            The Myopic fiasco wasn't the first time that day I failed to strike up some decent conversation. There was also the guy who worked at the gym that no one was working out in and the girl at the coffee house that named all their coffees after famous artists like Pollock and Van Gogh.

            I was failing to grasp Wicker. I had been running around the neighborhood like a five-year-old on an Easter egg hunt. I bounced from place to place in search of enlightenment and inspiration, moving to the next sensible hiding spot as soon as the one before proved lacking. I ordered a whisky like Hemingway, struck up conversation with strangers like Terkel , and tried to consume experience like Eggers. I faced the facts that I'm not at all like any of these people and shouldn't try to be; I'm bad at it.

            With that tweak in perspective, I finally lightened up.  I came to realize how much I was enjoying Wicker.  I fear that way too many of it's frequenters fall into the trap of trying to become a part of the neighborhood rather than appreciating what it has to offer.  Grateful I had overcome this trap, I continued to wander and collect my thoughts.  For all my searching throughout the day, inspiration overtook me in the least expected of places, hanging out on a bench in the park. As soon as I put my body to rest, my mind went into motion. I wrote...

      I see a man on a powerized chair. He wears a brown hat, black jacket, brown slacks, black shoes, browninsh-blackish skin, and a grey, coarse beard. It's a crisp day, one of those confused between winter and spring. He's weaving through Wicker Park. The actual park. Through the corner of my eye he appears homeless or drunk, or both. He swerves within a foot of me as I rest on a time-worn bench that sits alongside the sidewalk. He doesn't beg, plead, or con. He asks, “How yuh doooin-uh?” and is on his way. I wish I had recorded that utterance so I can play it back over some instrumental blues from time to time. For all his brown and black and grey, he is the blues. He is John Lee Hooker, “uh-boom, boom, boom”. As he fades from sight I look at the path he has traveled, which can't stretch more than 30 yards. He wasn't swerving in drunkenness. He was navigating a treacherous sidewalk riddled with imperfections. At my feet lies a couple feet of navigable path around a particularly prominent crack in the pavement... a crack to me, a canyon to him.

            It soon occurred to me that all the benches in Chicago parks are exactly the same and probably have been since the beginning of time. But, at that moment the bench I sat on reminded me of one in particular. It reminded me of one that my Grandma would sit on while she watched me and my brothers jump off the swings and play “Stay off the Hot Lava” on the jungle gym at Hiawatha park. It was a humbling experience, watching the rest of the world continue to move while I sat and watched like she would. I noticed a girl playing fetch with her dog in the out field of a baseball diamond near where I sat and tried to capture the moment by scribbling a couple lines.

Back and forth I watch that white dog go.

She pants and plays in mud and melted snow.

Unafraid of consequence, happy as can be.

She is titan; a champion of curiosity.

"Bottle This"

 “Coca-Cola owns the world,” the boy sitting beside me explained to his brother.

“.....”

“The more soda they sell, the more money they get, the more companies they get, the more people they get.”

“.....”

“You know Eskimo's? You know all they drink?”

“.....”

“Soda.”

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          The “brothers” sat and conversed on all sorts of topics while the three of us munched chicken wings at Harold's on Milwaukee one afternoon.

          I say “brothers” because this name most likely only applied to these two individuals in name. Judging by their difference in age, personality, and skin color; they weren't blood. They could have been the poster siblings for one of those programs. You know, those programs that pair an at-risk youth with a mildly successful young adult, in which the latter is supposed to serve as a positive influence in the former's life. I don't at all intend to diminish a relationship that is potentially much deeper than my narrow-minded assumptions; I am an advocate of such programs. I merely want to establish that these two were randomly launched at birth into two radically different life trajectories, but nonetheless sat next to me enjoying lunch.

          The younger of the two was born and raised Chicago and couldn't have been a day over thirteen. He wasn't from the suburbs or one of the “good neighborhoods” of the city like many of my friends and me. Likewise, he wasn't coddled by the culture of shelter and contentment that prevails in such places. Many are refused this luxury. That lifestyle would be foreign to him.

          His older brother knows that lifestyle. With one glance I could tell that most of the hardship in his life came in the form of failing to make varsity, cramming for finals, and trying to find himself. He may have even been dumped a few times. Like most upper-middle class, white young adults, his problems weren't really problems. He realized all of this and seemed to like giving back.

          As they ate, the older brother rambled on and on about his college days, gave vocabulary lessons, and talked about places across the country he had been. He styled his hair and styled his words. At one point he compared a time he tried to eat insanely hot batch of chicken wings in Buffalo, New York to the fall of Achilles, but was interrupted promptly by his brother,

“Yeah, I know Achilles. That's Greek mythology.”

          Later, he was talking about how good his wings were and about how he forgot how “righteous” Harold's was, only to be cut off again.

“Righteous? You mean fly?”

          This kid stuck in my mind because he had a gift for always getting in the last word. He spoke like he had something to prove. You could tell that he was trying to make sense of his situation. He was trying to figure out why he was here with this man on his Saturday afternoon instead of playing pick-up or video games. He was digesting his food as well as his surroundings. He was trying to understand a very complex scenario in a way that made sense to him.

          What he lacked in age, privilege, and general life experience, he made up for in attitude. Tipping back his coke, he flexed his curiosity at every opportunity and delivered his insights with authority. I admit that a lot of what he said was outlandish (i.e. Coke and Eskimos). The fact remains, however, that he was able to explain the lure of corporate America more accurately and succinctly than 99% of the people I've ever met.

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          I don't know his name, but I wish I did so I could look him up in fifteen years or so. He is going to be successful. I just hope society doesn't beat him down too much on his path to achievement. He's determined to live life on his own terms, and I think he will.  Thankfully, I was privileged to catch one more insight as I balled up my trash and tossed on my backpack.

“You're not eating your fries,” the older brother observed, “Oh, I forgot, you don't really like fries right?”

          He normally had such quick responses to everything, but mulled over this specific, simple question an uncharacteristically long time before responding.

“Yeah, fries are bad for you, and I don't wanna die too young.”

“.....”

“But, I don't wanna die too old either, ya dig?”

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If only Coke could bottle that.

The Chicago Chronicles I: "Winter Night"

          The Bulls were 14 and 3 in the early stages of a lockout shortened season. It was their best start since Michael and those great teams of the 90's taught the City of Chicago how to fly. On this particular night, the Bulls would win handily. Years down the road, however, I'll remember it for moments before the game rather than the game itself.

          Trudging through the CO2 saturated slush, Mitch, Javier, and I made our way down Madison Street towards the Billy Goat Tavern. We had about an hour to kill before the Bulls tipped off and decided that the soggy shoes and cold feet would be well worth the opportunity to put some food into our systems before heading into the United Center. The salivating smell only a good burger joint can emit enticed all of us as we crossed the final intersection of our trek. We entered to a packed eating area and crowded bar. A time-hardened worker behind the counter was relaying orders to his comrades who manned the crackling, stainless steel grill. From under the shadow of a ball cap, he greeted us with an unshakeable grin that had emerged through a mask of dark scruff.

          With every order, the man behind the counter enlightened both the workers at the grill and the rest of the establishment that another customer had ordered a Cheezborger, Cheezborger, Cheezborger. He didn't so much ask you what you wanted; he told you. Two words were all it took.

          “Double Cheez?” he questioned.

          “Sure...,” Mitch replied.

          “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,” he bellowed for all to hear this time.

He was catching his stride.

          “Double Cheez?” he asked Javier.

          “Uhh, yeah, with fries.”

          “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,” once again echoed throughout the bar.

He was a man possessed.

          “Double Cheez,” I nodded.

          “DOUUUUBLE CHEEEEEEEEEZ,” he added extra authority.

          After paying the woman at the end of the register and pouring toppings on our burgers, I volunteered to grab the first round. I returned from the bar to find that Mitch and Javier were standing at the counter. All the seats had been claimed by other Bulls fans. The man working the counter, now just feet away, continued repeating customer's orders at the top of his lungs like a parrot on steroids.

          “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ... DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,”

He seemed to bark and chirp at the same time.

          Tipping back Coronas and Coors Light, we instantly became part of the atmosphere. Like everyone else in the tavern, the Bulls grasped our focus. We began to churn out thoughts on all the hot topics pertaining to the city's hottest team. We discussed the impact of recent injuries and score predictions, but, somehow, comments on snowfall, burger quality, and girls we currently were and weren't interested in wove their way into the conversation. The vast majority of all Chicago barroom conversation amongst groups of 20-some-year old males falls into those very four categories: sports, greasy food, weather, and women.

          “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ... DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,”

He filled the gaps in our debates. He had a thick Mexican accent. When he had a moment he turned to us and proved the fact that he was capable of using an “inside voice”.

          “Hey, how are you guys?” he asked us.

          The line at the counter shortened as game time approached, which gave us the opportunity to get to know the man behind the counter beyond his booming war cry. We polished off beers and he rattled off orders for the next fifteen minutes, all the while joking back and forth and making small talk. I consider the interaction we shared with him to be of the highest quality. I will spare the details of the conversation, but it probably would have sounded something like this to the casual observer:

          “Sports,”... “Greasy Food,”.... “Women,”... “Sports,”... “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,”...   “Weather,”... “Women,”.... “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ,”.... “Greasy Food,”... “Women,”... “Sports.”***

***(note: we obviously managed to touch on all four categories)

          At it's surface, I must admit; it lacked depth. But, it was one of those rare authentic interactions with a complete stranger that our smart phones and iPods continually deny us. It's situations like the one on this winter night that one realizes that the city is overflowing with interesting people worth learning about and sharing your thoughts and time with.

          After exchanging goodbyes with our new friend, we were on our way. We zipped our coats and braced ourselves as we walked out the door and exposed ourselves once again to the harsh Chicago winter. He could still be heard shouting orders as we crossed the intersection, but his voice quickly dwindled in competition with the sounds of the street. The rush of the wind and travel of cars over moist pavement filled our eardrums. The scents of beer and burger soon surrendered to those of exhaust fumes and the only “DOUBLE CHEEEEEZ” we heard were the ones that continued to echo within our heads.

Where I'm Coming From

I have realized that the best way for anyone to grasp my past experience with writing would be to read some of what I have already written.  I have a stack of over 50 papers I wrote in college and a hard drive with even more documents dating back to high school.  From time to time I grab a couple essays and reread them in order to revisit where I once was ideologically and stylistically.  To kick off this blog, I have compiled a few passages from these papers in an effort to showcase some of the subject matter which I have already dedicated a significant amount time studying and writing about.  Instead of telling you my background and interests, I will allow you to draw your own conclusions.  It is my hope that this exercise will orient you, my reader, to where I am coming from.  

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"“Dare to Know!” was the famous challenge Kant made to the human race." 

--- from "Burkean Conservatism", September 2008

"Freedom is a very vague concept... it is hard to generalize the common man's idea of what freedom truly is.  One's vision of liberty depends on countless circumstances that make each and every opinion unique.  A person's background, ambitions, upbringing, and personal experiences all shape his or her vision.  It is typical for historians and the common student to generalize notions of freedom."

--- from "Freedom is Not Free", October 2007

"I argue that military coups were a frequent occurrence in post-colonial Africa due to the lasting impacts of colonial legacies.  The political instability and weak economic performance of the early African states can be partly attributed to decades of unwanted, repressive rule that they endured.  These young states were left unprepared for independent rule and vulnerable to further military intervention."

--- from "Military Coups in Africa", December 2009

"[Friedrich Nietzsche] was proof of his own theory that geniuses are not born, they are made.  [The realization of this possibility empowered] generation upon generation to engage in their own intellectual dialectic between their academic and creative selves.  It is here that the European intellectual tradition made a transition from early incomplete thinkers to a wholeness [displayed by Nietzsche]."

--- from “Nietzsche: Early Years and Development”, November 2008

"If there is one thing that I have learned, it is this: college, like all aspects of life, is a learning experience.  It is important to try new things, meet new people, and consider new opinions.  By opening myself up to new horizons, I have broken away from some of the qualities I use to value and strengthened others."

--- from "Lessons Learned and Grades Earned", April 2008

"Unlike more outwardly exploitative colonial practices, colonial education required a certain level of complicity with the native population. Due to this compliance, the divisive effects and hierarchies associated with colonial education in Nigeria were much more difficult to eliminate in the post colonial era. Education was a unique colonial practice in a sense that it was the root of many internal hierarchies that would come to characterize post-colonial Nigeria."

--- from "Education in Colonial Nigeria: The Divisive Effects of an Imperial School Culture", May 2011

"The history of discovery is comprised of narratives and experiences that initiated transformation in many societies.  The expeditions of Christopher Columbus and James Cook displayed how two drastically different worlds could converge in an explosive and transforming experience.  Upon deeper reflection, the tremendous effects of travel are often felt at a more intimate level and incite personal growth."

--- from "Eat, Pray, Love: Bernard Walsh's Personal Growth in Paradise News", May 2011

"How it is difficult to confide in one who cannot realize the journey they travel, and how peculiar that our seemingly differing journeys are paths all so similar.  I often wonder whether I am the only one who can see the stars, moon, and sky."

--- from "Midnight Stroll (in the style of John Barth)", November 2007

"We initially defined [the sociological imagination] as one's "ability to see the connection between personal struggles and social structures".  While I agree with the way the textbook defines the sociological imagination, I have come to believe that for one to truly exercise this tool, it isn't enough to simply "see" the connection between self and society.  Instead, I argue that one must reflect on this connection and internalize the complexity that characterizes relationships between the self, others, and society at large... My values and beliefs are always changing as I become increasingly cognizant of how I fit into the larger scheme of society.  My story is one of socialization."

--- from "The Sociological Imagination", May 2011

Today, I Consider Myself a Writer

          I have always admired writers.  Their ability to provide structure to the thoughts that chaotically zip through their heads fascinates me.  This ability is enhanced greatly by the courage they possess to present these thoughts to strangers, and, even more so, friends.  While I enjoy a good film, concert, and even the occasional painting or play, I have found that I connect more intimately with the author than the director, musician, or artist.  Writing, in my perception, offers readers an accessibility that transcends the physical nature of these other mediums.  Using merely text, writers manage to convey the simplest of thoughts to their readers, while simultaneously offering insights into the most elusive depths of their cognizance.  Further, while deeply personal, a great read can be strangely conversational in the way it allows writers to interact with their readers.  Good writing stimulates the imagination of the casual observer in a way that rivals the most beautiful of paintings and the most impressive of performances.

          With this being said, I have always neglected my own creative side for one reason or another.  I hope to use this blog to develop the skills and demonstrate the growth that I know will be necessary to determine the role of writing in my future.  As I progress, I intend to explore various styles and mediums.  Readers can expect posts attempting various forms of writing, including anything from well researched non-fiction to raw, unstructured philosophical ramblings and creative writing.

          Armed with a pen, paper, and laptop, I intend to find out what I'm really made of.  This is my way to determine whether my experience in life to this point has been great enough to produce written works of substance with the capacity to stimulate the thoughts of others.  Whether this experiment in writing becomes just one more failed hobby or opens the door to a rewarding profession, I can only speculate.  Today, however, is the first day I consider myself a writer; and if I can provide you an ounce of the enjoyment and inspiration that other writers have provided me, I will consider myself a successful one at that.