I was probably in second grade when I first became self-aware. No, it wasn’t painful, just surprising to unexpectedly find myself watching my self and wondering why I did the things I did. Eating orange popsicles until I was ill. Afraid to talk to the cool kids. Botched attempts to run away from home. Tantrums. Preferring rainy afternoons helping my mom in the kitchen to roughhousing with the neighborhood kids. I was a giant head floating through space, discovering that I would always experience the world as a sort-of-fuzzy and semi-transparent head forever critiquing its body for its thin voice, emotional hang-ups, physical fears, and that plaid shirt and periwinkle sweater combo. For this gift of self-consciousness, I could blame my parents or God or screwy serotonin levels or I could simply chalk it up to the human condition. Instead, I blame the school photographer.
As Friday night began to roll, he recalled Heraclitus’s warning about ‘night walkers, magicians, priests of Bacchus, and mystery-mongers.’
New Orleans is home to jazz and government neglect and other American traditions.
“A tantalizing 21st Century cross between Let Us Now Praise Famous Men and On the Road, this remarkable and utterly original memoir heralds the arrival of a new and important American voice. The Road to Somewhere will take you places you will not easily forget.”
A man believed his only chance at justice was to take a hostage and march him downtown. An idealistic dancer packed the theater yet the city cast her out. A search for their ghosts continues beneath the city.
You’ve seen her before. She’s the old woman with her eyes closed on the bus, the one who sits alone on a bench for hours. At night she listens to the exhausted air conditioners that sound like the sea, tuning in to the city’s static like an old radio show.
The Former Desk of the First Office of the Bureau of Manufactured History was unveiled at a ceremony on the third of May and continues to appear in unexpected locations throughout Indianapolis.