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Sunday, September 28, 2014

Look around


Elvis, accept it.

* The first thing I do on Sunday mornings is check into Twitter to see what Peter has tweeted overnight. It's heart-pounding, edge of your seat stuff. It's also not stuff for the faint of heart -- for the recipient or the deliverer: Chasing Mayhem With Peter Nickeas, the Chicago Tribune’s Overnight Crime Reporter.

* A Strange Cloud Over St. Louis Turns Out to Be an Enormous Swarm of Butterflies.

* Reading can teach you the wrong way to write.

* Opening Lines.

* A new kid in New York:

All young artists coming to the city face a pragmatic choice: how to earn a living and still have time to pursue your art. Back then it usually boiled down to waiting on tables or driving a cab. I had made that decision on my earlier attempt to work in the theatre. I chose the cab because, first, I love driving and hate standing up for long-periods of time and secondly, your hours were your own. Once you had the car, you could drive to a rehearsal, rehearse and then go back to work.

* It was going on 2:00 in the morning. Lost in my thoughts in the back of a cab and no longer annoyed about the expanding hole in the shin of my pantyhose, I just wanted to get home so I could fall into bed. Maybe it was the hour, or maybe it was the cutting Chicago cold that goes through every layer to rattle your bones, but the street was dead. The town was dead.

The snow began to fall. I put my hand on the cabbie's shoulder and said, look at this. He pulled over to the curb and stopped. And we both rolled down our windows and hung our heads out into the quiet night to take in the beauty of light wisps of white snow blowing in artistic circles just half a milimeter above the black pavement.

Right there.

* The leaves are brown and the sky is a hazy shade of winter....

Posted by Marie at September 28, 2014 9:51 PM