here is a short, halfway conceived list of things that inspire me more than most literary journals:
1. The Musicmart, State Street, Chicago, Illinois. the music mart is sort of an indoor mall where symphonies play music during the fall and winter. i like to go there and sit down at a table and listen to the music and write down things that will later be called juvenile or silly. feel free to visit me anytime at the music mart and i will buy you a small fountain drink from sbarro. later, i will ask you to have “dibs” on the refill. email me in advance if you’d like to do this because finding me at the musicmart is a game of “where’s waldo” since i have been told numerous times, by different people, that i resemble a homeless man.
2. Evander Holyfield and Boxing in General. evander holyfield seems to have more power than anyone else on earth. sometimes when i am writing something, i think, “would this beat up evander holyfield or would he bounce left then right and uppercut the shit out of me?” also, i saw a match between lennox lewis and oliver mc call the other day in which mc call had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the fight. i felt really weird watching it but also inspired. find the video and watch it, he starts crying in the middle of the fight. i feel like this is how i feel when i know i am writing something entertaining. all i do lately is type and watch boxing.
3. The Blue Line, Chicago, Illinois and The Surgeon. sometimes i just ride the blue line around until it gets somewhere i don’t know and then i get out and walk around. i do the same thing with the bus. which brings me to The Surgeon. The Surgeon is a man who rides the blue line. i often see him sleeping in the back. every once in a while he wakes up quickly and starts doing this sawing motion with his hand. no one is going to cry when he dies. i am at home with people who will not be remembered.
4. A Video I Saw on Chicago Public TV Yesterday. there was a video on public access tv yesterday where an old lady was sitting next to her son. the son was in a wheelchair. the old lady kept saying, “this is my maurice and he is not right because someone gave him a cigarette mixed with formaldehyde. maurice wants you to never do drugs because drugs have ruined my maurice.” then maurice would just groan and sigh and his mom would say, “yes maurice, i love you.” i want a group hug between me, The Surgeon and Maurice.
this post will not receive 85 comments because it does not take a stance on a literary issue and then attempt to dismantle other arguments ultimately resulting in nothing. i do not have any opinions on literary matters that extend beyond myself. you are all silly. j/k everyone, it’s mean monday. i don’t mean any of this.
