Definitely back in the old hood. I have no pages left in my passport. I'm astounded by the speed at which these photos upload. I am repelled by the tarmac, treeless sun-assault of shopping mall parking lots. My dollars are bleeding out of my leather bag. Spent 3 bucks on a bus ride. Wish I could snap my fingers for a blue Bajaj, but no. Bought a pair of leggings designed in America, made in China, sold by Arabs. People don't say hi to you on the streets. But they explain directions on the kinds of coffee available as if you're at the DMV and have to pass a test. America, impossible America. I am going to try very much to love you! Was sitting at the new Intelligentsia in Logan Square. This emo-music! This air-con! This pay-to-park bullshit! This tatoo-brew! These fancy hair cuts! These amped-up pastries! The solo man hunched over his lap top repeated 100 times! The great design work on throw-away coffee cups! I could go on. I got myself an old-school Chi-town area-code. This is my number for while, cawwwl me: 1.312.493.9705 Impossible America. The sinuous denial of this place, this tethered, tentative nation, this nation of extremities, deformities, help! I know it'll be fine, but seriously. We are so far-flung, so fragmented. It's a wonder.
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