CCLaP Weekender: July 18, 2014

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

July 18, 2014

New fiction by Daniel Gonzalez Photography by Heather Killion Chicago literary events calendar July 18, 2014 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce FRIDAY, JULY 18

6pm Bad Grammar Theater

Powell's Bookstore / 1218 S. Halsted / Free badgrammartheater.com Presenting the best in horror, fantasy, pulp fiction, science fiction and the unexpected.

7:30pm Lauren Streicher

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free

womenandchildrenfirst.com The Northwestern University professor and "Dr. Oz" regular reads from her newest book, Love Sex Again.

7:30pm Palabra Pura: Cross-Cultural Latino/a

La Bruquena / 2726 W. Division / Free guildcomplex.org The Guild Literary Complex of Chicago hosts an evening of bilingual poetry by Erika L. Sãnchez and Richard Blanco.

SATURDAY, JULY 19 7pm Lori Rader-Day

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The local author performs from her newest book, The Black Hour.

9:30pm Subterfuge: A Night of Readings and Music

Constellation / 3111 N. Western / $7 The Dollhouse and Constellation present an evening of poetry and music.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar] SUNDAY, JULY 20

2pm Nathan Rabin

Uncharted Books / 2630 N. Milwaukee / Free unchartedbooks.com The cultural critic performs from his newest book, You Don't Know Me, plus gives out free promotional gifts from Hollywood studios with every purchase. Free beer will also be available.

3pm Jonathan Rieder and Rick Perlstein

Seminary Co-op Bookstore / 5751 S. Woodlawn / Free semcoop.com Author Rieder discusses his newest book, Gospel of Freedom, in a conversation with local journalist Rick Perlstein.

7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $7, 21+ slampapi.com International birthplace of the poetry slam. Hosted by Marc Smith.

7pm Asylum

Le Fleur de Lis / 301 E. 43rd / $10

lefleurdelischicago.com A weekly poetry showcase with live accompaniment by the band Verzatile.

MONDAY, JULY 21 12pm Natasha Korecki

University Club of Chicago / 76 E. Monroe / Free ucco.com The local journalist discusses her newest book, Only in Chicago.

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7pm

Essay Fiesta!

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free essayfiesta.com This month's show, hosted by Karen Shimmin and Willy Nast, features personal essays by Ozzie Totten, Debbi Welch, Sarah Michael Hollenbeck, Britt Julious, and Scott Smith, celebrating the birthday of Ernest Hemingway.

8:30pm Open Mic

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.

TUESDAY, JULY 22 5:30pm Joan Rivers

Standard Club / 320 S. Plymouth Ct. / Free with RSVP thebookstall.com The famed comedian reads from her new memoir, I Hate Everyone...

Starting With Me. Reservations required by calling the Book Stall at 847-446-8880.

6:30pm The CCLaP Showcase: Eric Charles May

City Lit Books / 2523 N. Kedzie / Free citylitbooks.com The latest edition of this reading series and open mic, sponsored by the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography, features an extended performance by Columbia College professor Eric Charles May (Bedrock Faith). To sign up in advance for one of the open-mic slots, write cclapcenter@gmail.com.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 23 5pm Sun, Moon, and a Star

Miro Plaza / 77 W. Monroe / Free poetryfoundation.org A poetry reading and open mic, sponsored by the Poetry Foundation, to celebrate the original title of the Joan Miro sculpture found outside the First United Methodist Church in the Loop.

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7pm Rachel Bertsche

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com The author performs from her newest book, Jennifer, Gwyneth and Me. 7pm Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic Award

Chopin Theatre / 1543 W. Division / Free guildcomplex.org The finalists of the 21st annual poetry prize perform on stage, with the audience voting for the eventual $500 winner. Hosted by Toni Asante Lightfoot.

9pm In One Ear

Heartland Cafe / 7000 N. Glenwood / $3, 18+ facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

THURSDAY, JULY 24 7pm St. Peter's B-List reading

The Book Cellar / 4736 N. Lincoln / Free bookcellarinc.com Join writers from this poetry anthology as they read from their included work.

7:30pm James Magruder

Women & Children First / 5233 N. Clark / Free

womenandchildrenfirst.com The author reads from his new LGBT story collection, Let Me See It.

To submit your own literary event, or to correct the information on anything you see here, please drop us a line at cclapcenter@gmail.com. please drop us a line at July 18, 2014 | 5

ORIGINAL FICTION

Mitchell didn’t know what to say. He fidgeted, managed to crack an upper vertebrae in his back with a harsh turn towards the window of the train. He peered through his reflection at an overpass that directed traffic into his red, straining cheeks. What was the hurry to get inside of him?

He opened his mouth wider, swallowed hard.

“It may be that I’ll always love you,” Mitchell mumbled, fogging up the glass. “But I just can’t do this anymore. You can’t call me from his house for Christ sakes!”

THE INTIMAC 6 | CCLaP Weekender

Photo: “Metra Milw North at Sunset,” by Flickr member Railsr4me [flickr.com/railsr4me].

Used under the terms of his Creative Commons license.

CYBYAUDITION DANIEL GONZALEZ

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Mitchell shook his head and faced forward. The train’s steel rotors groped over the tracks. He’d grown to love that sound. It reminded him of the way he used to kick the hell out of his shins, feeling his way to the bathroom when he woke up late at night in Stacey’s bed, her skinny arm slung over his chest.

After relieving himself in the dark, he’d turn around, trying to be aware of the corners of her hall table, the width of the doorway, a lovely, anticipatory ache in his chest as the outline of her bed penciled in.

“Don’t call me anymore,” he said, a little too loudly. “For fuck’s sake!”

No matter how many times he went over it, no matter how perfectly the phone conversation fell into place, his voice calm, clear, almost like a recording as he told her off, he still wanted her. His heart ached to be back in the darkness of those nights in her room, to stub his frozen toes on the corner of the bed.

“Excuse me?”

A woman with powder blue eyes spoke directly to Mitchell, standing over him with an expectant pout. She slipped a pinkish silk scarf from around the top of her head and shook some snow off of it. Her ears were red from the cold.

“Yes, hello,” Mitchell said. He started to get up and give her his seat, but while still in a crouch he realized there was practically no one else on the train.

“My name is Sheila,” she began, shoving her scarf carelessly into her purse. Nervous smile. Not too tight. “This may sound strange, but can I tell you a story?” She organized her posture. Her shoulders became perfect ivory steeples. “I’m on my way to an audition. I’m an actress, yeah, and I have to give this monologue, you know, and I just want to practice one more time.”

Small hand gestures, non-threatening. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten to an audition wishing I’d just had one last run through.” Throw arms out.

“Okay. My name is Mitchell,” Mitchell croaked. He could hear the high whine of the phone conversation rewinding between his ears. It was a sound he loved even more than the clumsy clunk-squeak of the train picking over the rails.

“Sheila. Thanks a lot.” She crouched and placed her purse at the base of Mitchell’s seat. The train jerked a few times, making this take a while to complete. She even grabbed Mitchell’s calf once to keep her balance, then rose standing over him.

“Ready when you are,” Mitchell called.

“Okay,” Sheila said, checking the space behind her. She wore a thin sweater with a small, ornately crocheted collar, the loops stretched from hurrying to pull it over her head on cold mornings. Mitchell nodded to her as she turned to face him. His neck was already beginning to cramp. The seats on the upper deck of the train had been designed to reduce pesky interaction between people standing in the aisle and those seated. Somehow, he felt this new relationship had run its course, that it was already over and now he had 8 | CCLaP Weekender

to decide what he was supposed to do next.

“Thanks for being so realistic,” Sheila commented. “Directors are so totally impatient.” She smiled. Not too tight. She wrung her hands, performed a Stevie Wonder like head bob, then fell into character and began the monologue.

“I woke up this morning thinking about my last boyfriend, Winston. It’s a great name. I liked it right away. We met on Craigslist. Don’t judge. I was selling some horse-head lamps and I guess he was looking to buy some horsehead lamps. We completed the sale and he shook my hand, firmly at first, then softer and when he released my fingers he asked for my number. I told him that he already had my number, but he wanted me to give it to him again, for real—for a date, not for horse-head lamps. And I said to myself, please god, please, let this be normal. He had a kind smile, small hands, doctor’s hands, which are kind. Or maybe dentist’s hands, which are accustomed to brutality. I can’t tell. Regardless, there was no way for me to give him my number without it being part of the transaction. So I told him I had his information. That I would call him. Please god, please. Let this be normal.

“The next day, I placed another for-sale ad. This time, for a picture of my socks. One pair of well-worn socks from my floor. Cash and carry, I wrote.”

Sheila bent closer to Mitchell, who hadn’t heard the last part too well. She repeated the last line to him in a hot whisper. “Cash…and carry.”

The train jerked to a stop, then slid forward into the station.

“Out please,” someone interrupted. Mitchell shot the man a dirty look, turned back to Sheila.

The voice came again right as Sheila opened her mouth to speak.

“Out please.”

Sheila turned her head and sighed like someone who just checked their Lotto ticket and found out they weren’t the big winner. Mitchell practically dove under his seat to retrieve her purse. He wanted to put it in his lap, but he wasn’t sure if it was okay with her yet. Sheila squeezed up against the luggage rack, trying to create a passing lane for a barrel chested guy in a pinstripe suit and camel’s hair overcoat. Others queued up as well, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

They had their coats already zipped up, heavy fur hats pulled tightly over ears, scarves coiled around the vulnerable, soft tissue of the neck. Most were already starting to sweat. They’d be cold outside now, despite their winter gear. He stood up, which really didn’t help things any.

Sheila swung her hips sideways, which forced Mitchell back into his seat.

Mitchell found that he had his hand on her ass, which was encased in soft, red corduroy pants. His mind immediately started up again with the ultimatum monologue.

“Will you shut up?” Mitchell barked. “Not you, Sheila,” he whispered, replacing his hand on her ass. “You go right ahead with your monologue.”

But she didn’t move or make a sound. The train hadn’t started moving again yet. They must have been waiting for people to transfer from another July 18, 2014 | 9

train pulling in. Mitchell patted Sheila’s hip twice with a flat palm. She was basically squatting directly on top of him.

“So what’s your audition for, Sheila.”

She stared contentedly at the luggage rack.

“I can’t talk right now, I’m in character.”

“Okay,” answered Mitchell, grabbing her ass again. “You wanna meet for a drink after your audition?”

No answer. Sheila peered at the luggage rack. All Mitchell could see were a couple of plastic shopping bags and a trench coat. He figured that there was really no chance of this going any further. But it took him another few minutes of trying to think of something funny to say before he really gave up.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Sheila.” He thrust his hand out past her shoulder so she could reach around and shake.

“Shh. Sheila likes your hand on her ass.”

“She does?”

“Shh! Yeah.”

So they sat there. After a while, Mitchell’s feet went numb and his knee joints started to ache. He examined her ass and slowly circled it with his index finger, searching for the panty line. Sheila kept remarkably still. The train had started to grope over the tracks again, more loudly than before, Mitchell thought. He couldn’t see the entire cabin, but no one else seemed to be around.

By straining his neck Mitchell could see out the window, his cheek resting on the side of her breast.

The Fifty Seventh Street station approached. A light fallout of snow drifted through the shallow sunlight and in the distance trees clung to their last leaves. Sheila’s body was warm, and Mitchell snuggled into her. They hadn’t made very good time. The train had been delayed at several stations.

They’d just sat there stewing, with the announcer every so often clicking on the intercom to announce the next stop, as if they were about to get on their way. But like with Sheila’s monologue or Mitchell’s relationship with Stacey, nothing else happened. Mitchell was late for work. He asked what time Sheila’s audition was scheduled for, but she didn’t answer.

A few seconds later, Sheila started moving her mouth silently. Mitchell tried to read her lips, but he was behind her, and gave up quickly. He jogged his knee and needles shot through his foot. He kept at it and Sheila balanced herself without missing a single mumble.

“Sorry,” he apologized.

Mitchell had tried just about everything he could think of to get her started back on the monologue. But the only time Sheila said anything was when he started feeling her up. She broke character only to offer him permission to fondle her. Now their relationship was at a standstill, as he’d done about all the fondling he was willing to do to a catatonic woman.

Mitchell thought of taking another stab at reading her lips. She wasn’t really moving them that fast. But since their bodies had shifted again and he could now peek out the window, he did that instead. Why bother? All he saw 10 | CCLaP Weekender

was another station approaching, a guy in a kooky hat on the platform. With her silent approval, he went back to fondling her, only this time somewhat bitterly. He was getting bored with her, angry, even.

What was expected of him in a situation like this? What else did she want?

“Rub my head,” she demanded.

Mitchell obeyed. As cramped as his lower back was getting, he didn’t want to lose her.

“You know,” he said, gently circling his thumb over her temple. “We’re supposed to have this little Christmas party tonight. At my office. You can come if you want to?” She sighed to show how dark and foreboding her thoughts were. Her lips stuck together for a moment, but she pried them apart and ran her wet tongue over them.

“Yeah, I know,” he rubbed with his entire palm, then let his fingers sink into the intimate nooks of her skull. “When I was in college I dated this woman who had recently recovered from Hodgkin’s Disease. She was only about 5’4” and 100 pounds or so. She had this chestnut brown hair cut short and waved back over her head, and the skinniest little forearms. It was amazing just to watch her little tendons and muscles flex while she peeled an orange.

“She lived with two dorm mates in a tiny room that looked like it used to be someone’s foyer. It had these weird, very seventies looking floor tiles laid down over half of the floor. Just half. And they were irregular shapes. Nothing you could recognize. She and her two roommates hung sheets up over their beds, like little tents, outposts just kind of waiting for the spring thaw or for a buffalo to wander by. At night I would slip away from the guys and sneak over to her room. She always met me at the door rubbing her eyes, that chestnut hair snoozing on her forehead. Then she’d sweep it back with her hand. I’d start asking her questions and kind of apologizing for not coming over sooner, but she just led me to the bed and kissed me and put me down on it while she went to the bathroom. The other tents stood out in the room, making things somehow more intimate because you could look at them through the darkness. One of her dorm mates kind of snored, which was reassuring.

“Back from the bathroom, Stacey would start working the sheets around, pulling this and tucking that so the tent would stay up all night. The sheets were all variations of the color mauve. And when we sank into bed together it was like I was going to sleep for the first time, and I wanted to tell her that, but she was just kind of chewing her tongue, or giving me a sleepy kiss, or curling up, and I never could tell her about it.”

Mitchell broke off because he could see she wasn’t interested. There were a whole bunch of other things he wanted to tell her about that girl, but all he could see was the back of Sheila’s head. “It didn’t work out,” he finally mumbled, blowing a few strands of Sheila’s brittle hair out of his mouth.

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Mitchell didn’t sleep, but the train rocked back and forth. They’d passed his stop a long time ago, and he had no idea where they were. Every once in a while the conductor came through and Mitchell updated their tickets, paying a small surcharge for doing it on the train. For a long time Mitchell watched the trench coat and plastic bag on the rack. He read the label that said, ‘London Fog,’ over and over, until Sheila spun her shoulders, stretched her lower back and yawned her tender arms over his neck. Her cheeks spasmed from time to time, and Mitchell stroked them with his thumbs, feeling her wounded heartbeat, encouraging it.

It had grown chilly and Mitchell’s nose started to run. He wiped it on his sleeve, figuring he’d save his hanky in case Sheila needed to blow her nose.

He’d had a hard time getting the damn thing out of his pocket, but when he put it to her nose she refused to blow.

Sheila began to rock back and forth and to shiver. It wasn’t really that cold, but Mitchell wound his scarf around her head as best he could. The part that he usually let drag on the ground while he fished around for his bus pass was always too close to her mouth, though, so he took it off and rubbed her upper arms vigorously.

Sheila was like a doll. Mitchell placed her in a new position whenever he needed to shift his weight. Her joints unlocked when he went to move them, locked when he had her in position. Mitchell hadn’t fondled her for quite a while, although they were the only ones in the car. Occasionally he blew air in her face in order to watch her crinkle her nose.

“Sheila’s cold,” she mumbled.

“She’s supposed to be,” Mitchell answered. “All stars are cold.”

“I want to be star,” she whined. “Touch me.”

“You can’t reach the stars,” Mitchell sighed.

“Touch me anyway.” Mitchell did, and after a while she started moving her lips again. Mitchell thought he understood, and pressed his lips to hers.

“I used to kiss myself,” Sheila gagged. “All over, but mostly on my hands and feet. I don’t know why, exactly. It just felt good. Especially late at night, when I would toss the covers over my head and bring up my knees. I could always hear the wind in there, no matter whose bed I was in.”

Mitchell busied himself with her ear. The lobe was fantastically soft.

Behind it thin hairs curled up like dust bunnies.

Mitchell kissed her lips and she swung her face from side to side, holding her breath. She draped her arms over Mitchell’s shoulders, ran her fingers up the back of his ears.

“You have big ears,” she said.

They moved onto the luggage rack. It was surprisingly sturdy. Sheila hung the coat over them kind of like a tent. Mitchell ripped off the tag that said ‘London Fog’ and tossed it to the first floor of the compartment. Underneath them small lights glowed near the walkway.

“It’s not that we have to do it,” Mitchell said, pressing his lips to her cheek. “It’s just that, well, I knew this girl for like ten years. We grew up 12 | CCLaP Weekender

together in Ohio. She had seriously curly hair. Black. Tight. She also had these huge boobs. I was a little intimidated by them. Okay, I was scared and I kept my distance from her for years.

“Then I went away to college and she had gone to the same school. Instead of making tents she tossed her mattress in the closet and let her roommate have the main room at night. We used to lie there on the floor of the closet and kiss, and I would reach around her and touch the walls, you know, that thick molding that goes around doors? Her digital alarm clock gave off just a tiny bit of light. But when she got on top of me her boobs were in the way. We couldn’t kiss. When she tried to lower herself they would scrunch up into this bulge just under my chin. My neck muscles always tightened. She could sense that kind of thing.

“When I was on top they went into my armpits, stuck in there and tugged clumps of my hair. Eventually she would just roll over onto her side.”

Mitchell wiped his eyes, although he wasn’t crying. Sheila had her hands on his shoulders, as if she had just finished shaking the hell out of him. Her eyes had a kind of liquid look to them, not crying, but just sort of shifting in the light. Mitchell lowered his head and she pulled him closer. She was sitting Indian Style, had taken her shoes off. Her socked feet were cute. He wanted her to wiggle her toes, but didn’t feel like asking her.

“I’ve never really owned horse-head lamps,” she whispered, sliding her elbow around his head and tightening her grip until Mitchell’s ears rang. “I just said that because it’s, you know, intimate.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mitchell answered. “I can’t help missing her.”

He tried to raise his arms, to give her a hug, but because of the way she held his head, his neck extended, he couldn’t raise them very far. He swiped at the air a few times. Sheila rested her cheek on the top of his head.

“Touch me,” she said to Mitchell’s head. He obeyed blindly. C

Daniel Gonzalez graduated from the MA English/Writing program at UIC, where he was the recipient of the Goodnow Award for fiction. His stories can be found in Pravic vol. IV, Hobart, The Fiddleback, Mobius, Icebox and Defenestration, among other places. Daniel teaches in Illinois and sometimes brews his own beer. He is currently working on a novel involving home brewing beer and other feats of bio-engineering.

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Featuring

Eric Charles May plus six open-mic features

The CCLaP Showcase A new reading series and open mic

Tuesday, July 22nd, 6:30 pm City Lit Books | 2523 N. Kedzie cclapcenter.com/events

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To sign up in advance for an open mic slot, write cclapcenter@gmail.com

Heather Killion

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE Originally run February 2014 July 18, 2014 | 15

Location: Sacramento, California

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Line features heavily in your work. Do you have a design or architectural background that draws you to it?

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I don’t have an academic or professional background in design or architecture, but I do have a lot of interest in both of those fields. My parents were very into Art Deco design, and I was raised with a great appreciation for design and form. Over time I my taste has shifted and I have developed a affinity for Mid Century Modern architecture and design.

I am very drawn to it, I really love the clean lines and simplistic beauty of it. It has definitely been an influence on how I take photographs.

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You have a gift for framing picking and framing signs to photograph in such a way that they take on perhaps unintended meanings. Is finding these little verbal/ visual quirks merely an issue of keeping one’s eyes open to the world around you, or do you actively seek out signage to photograph?

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I have done photography thoughout my life, but had stopped for many years.

When I picked up my camera again I started photographing primarily signs.

There are a lot of people out there that photograph old signs so it’s a challenge to try to find a way of doing it and making it unique. My approach is to find signs that are unexpected or humorous.

I struggle a bit, and sometimes for me photography seems so heavy and serious, so finding subjects that are funny is a good way to keep it light.

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What is your relationship with light as a photographer? I hate to lead, but you seem to take joy in its ability to illuminate and sparkle rather than merely its ability to light a subject; in a lot of ways light is your subject in its capacity to color, to expose, and to reflect. You don’t seem interested in manipulating it.

It’s pretty recent that I’ve started experimentng more with light. Of course I know that light is a huge part of photography, and it seems like there are a lot of rules about what you should and shouldn’t do with it, but I think it’s sometimes fun to ignore the rules and just play. I understand that light is a tool, but I also love the idea of light being part of the art, or being the subject of the artwork itself.

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flickr.com/atomicrat

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CCLaP Publishing

An official painter for the Lithuanian Communist Party, Martynas Kudirka enjoys a pleasant, unremarkable life with a beautiful wife and all the privileges that come with being a party member. Yet in the summer of 1989, his ordinary world suddenly turns upside down. Political revolt is breaking out across Eastern Europe, and Martynas comes home to find his wife dead on the kitchen floor with a knife in her back. Realizing the police will not investigate, he sets out to find his wife’s killer. Instead, he stumbles upon her secret life. Martynas finds himself drawn into the middle of an independence movement, on a quest to find confidential documents that could free a nation. Cold War betrayals echo down through the years as author Bronwyn Mauldin takes the reader along a modern-day path of discovery to find out Martynas’ true identity. Fans of historical fiction will travel back in time to 1989, the Baltic Way protest and Lithuania’s “singing revolution,” experiencing a nation’s determination for freedom and how far they would fight to regain it.

Download for free at cclapcenter.com/lovesongs

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The CCLaP Weekender is published in electronic form only, every Friday for free download at the CCLaP website [cclapcenter.com]. Copyright 2014, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editorin-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Allegra Pusateri. Layout Editor: Wyatt Roediger-Robinette. Calendar Editors: Anna Thiakos and Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@gmail.com.

Did you like this? Pay us 99 cents and help us keep them coming! bit.ly/cclapweekender

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