To compound this notion that the tickets were mine: I couldn’t find a trash can anywhere nearby. With all these tickets clutched in my right hand, I was wandering around briefly looking for some place to throw them away. Finding none, I had to keep walking with them, a small bouquet of tickets in my fist. I really must have looked like a crazy person.
I like this photo because it captures a lot of what we do, when we arrive home. Which is namely: pausing at the sidewalk, and looking at all the flowers that have started to bloom.
Originally, I thought these statements were all from the same person or voice. That they were part of a single narrative. But on re-reading things now, it seems that whoever created this talked to a lot of different people. Possibly asking the questions “Where are you going? Where are you coming from?”
Snapped this photo with my phone, while standing in the last Metra car, looking back at the city. There was more snow melting than falling today, and this resulted in a great deal of water on the back window.
It was funny to encounter this the very first time: it showed a certain kind of doggedness, a certain kind of determination. But I’ve seen these buckets multiple times since – and they seem to have been growing in number, the past few months.
Spotted this guy on the way home, and it made me smile. Sure, he takes up a lot of the rear window but I think you and I can agree that it’s worth it. Besides, any car that sees this will very clearly move out of the way, once he catches a glimpse of the Hulkster.
My mom was pretty quick with her translation, though according to her the author wasn’t really fluent in Chinese. Which was surprising, as I just assumed it was a note written by someone who was Chinese. Below are her words, with a bit of editing from me:
I never really learned to read/write in Chinese, though I can mostly make my way through a conversation in Cantonese (less so in Mandarin). I recognize a few characters here and there. Words for “I” and “person,” “big” and “small.” The range of characters I know is very limited.
Last week, on the way home from work, Liz and I decided to pop in for a quick drink at The Promontory. There’s been a lot of buzz about this place, as it’s by the same folks that run Longman & Eagle in Logan Square.
Every headstone in every cemetery is a marker of loss, of what was and is no longer. But particularly painful are the headstones of children, which mark both loss and potential – of all that could have been.
Well this seems like an extremely unfair way to go about treating trespassers… haven’t they suffered enough?
Liz and I spotted this, while heading home yesterday. We were going south on Lake Shore Drive, and saw this large pickup truck hauling a very pink Barbie truck in the bed.
As I was browsing around, a woman said behind me “I’ve got another box.” I turned, and saw she had set out yet more books to go through. I learned a lot of them were Philosophy books (she and her husband were both professors, I think). I learned that they’re moving, and that these books are a small sample of what they had inside the house.
When I touched him on the shoulder he seemed to perk up a bit. I asked if he had anywhere he could go and crash, if I could call him a cab. Part of me wanted to help and part of me was thinking that maybe I could move him away from the cop, maybe avoid him being arrested.