CCLaP Weekender, July 3rd 2015

CCLaP Weekender

From the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography

July 3, 2015

New Fiction by Jim Wrona Photography by Gioia Zloczower Chicago Literary Events Calendar July 3, 2015 | 1

THIS WEEK’S CHICAG

For all events, visit [cclapce SATURDAY, JULY 4

3pm Paper Machete

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / Free, 21+ thepapermacheteshow.com

A “live magazine” covering pop culture, current events, and American manners—part spoken-word show, part vaudeville review—featuring comedians, journalists, storytellers, and musical guests. Hosted by Christopher Piatt.

8pm Blackout Diaries

High Hat Club / 1920 East Irving Park / $10, 21+ blackoutdiaries.info

A comedy show about drinking stories, a “critic’s pick” at Red Eye, MetroMix, and Time Out Chicago. Comedians share the mic with “regular” people, such as cops, firefighters, and teachers, all recounting real-life tales about getting wasted. Hosted by Sean Flannery.

SUNDAY, JULY 5 10am

Sunday Morning Stories Donny's Skybox Studio Theatre / 1608 North Wells / Free

We performers are pre-booked. We feature novice as well as seasoned storytellers. On or off paper.

7pm Uptown Poetry Slam

The Green Mill / 4802 N. Broadway / $6, 21+ greenmilljazz.com

Featuring open mike, special guests, and end-of-the-night competition.

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GO LITERARY EVENTS

enter.com/chicagocalendar] 7pm Asylum

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

lefleurdelischicago.com

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

7:30pm Truth or Lie

Firecat Projects / 2124 N Damen / Free

Five to six storytellers spinning true or fictive tales and leaving the audience to wonder, truth or lie? Hosted by Sarah Terez Rosenblum.

7:30pm Here, Chicago

Theater Wit / 1225 W Belmont Ave / $8 or dish to share, 13+ herechicago.org

The potluck reading series. Formerly Here’s the Story, each installment starts with dinner at 7:30pm, then continues with readings at 8pm—five featured storytellers and five sign-up storytellers. No pages, no stage, just “the kind of old-timey storytelling that is practiced under porch-lights and on street corners by people who have a truth to tell, whether through fact or fiction.” Everyone is encouraged, but not required, to bring a dish for the potluck. Hosted by Janna Sobel.

MONDAY, JULY 6 7:30pm Litmash

Haymarket Pub & Brewery / 737 West Randolph / $8, 21+ chicagoslamworks.com/litmash

Combining poetry slam, story slam, and live lit, Chicago Slam Works brings together the city’s “literary elite” for a battle unlike any other.

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8:30pm Kafein Espresso Bar

Kafein Espresso Bar / 1621 Chicago Ave., Evanston kafeincoffee.com

Open mic with hosts Chris and Kirill.

TUESDAY, JUNE 7 7pm Wit Rabbit Reads

Quenchers Saloon / 2401 North Western / Free, 21+ witrabbitreads.com

An inter-genre reading series showcasing poetry, prose (narrative or otherwise), drama, and other “text-creations,” particularly the earnest kind.

7pm Write Now

Cafe Lutz / 2458 W Montrose / FREE chicago-bakery.com

An open mic for comedians and live lit storytellers. Hosted by Danny Black and Anne Victoria LaMonte.

7:30pm Homolatte

Tweet Let's Eat / 5020 N. Sheridan tweet.biz

With Scott Free, featuring gay and lesbian spoken-word artists.

7:30pm Tuesday Funk

Hopleaf / 5148 N. Clark / Free, 21+ tuesdayfunk.org

Chicago’s eclectic monthly reading series, presented by the Gothic Funk Nation, and featuring a variety of fiction, poetry, essays, and other works in all genres. Hosted by Andrew Huff and Eden Robins.

9pm Two Cookie Minimum

Hungry Brain / 2319 West Belmont / Free, 21+ twocookieminimum.blogspot.com

Stories and cookies. Both are free, the latter vegan, too. The goal is to highlight new writers and the Chicago zine community.

Hosted by John Wawrzaszek, A.K.A. Johnny Misfit.

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WEDNESDAY, JULY 8 6pm Lyricist Loft

Harold Washington Library / 400 South State / Free youmediachicago.org

“Open mic for open minds,� presented by Remix Spoken Word.

Hosted by Dimi D, Mr. Diversity, and Fatimah.

9pm

In One Ear Heartland Cafe / 7000 N Glenwood https://www.facebook.com/pages/In-One-Ear/210844945622380

Chicago's 3rd longest-running open-mic show, hosted by Pete Wolf and Billy Tuggle.

10pm

Elizabeth's Crazy Little Thing Phyllis Musical Inn / 1800 W Division

An open mike for poetry, music, comedy, performance, and whatever else. Featuring Andy Karol.

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

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ORIGINAL FICTION

THE

FARM

BY JIM WRONA

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Standing in my driveway today, you would see a large, grassy lot sprinkled with crushed gravel and a few old, lonely-looking trees. To me, though, the memories of the house I called home for years and the life I once had there are still as real as the empty field you would see now, with only time separating these two realities. I can see it all in my mind, like an after-image of a ceiling fan blade, moving too fast, blurred and semi-opaque, but there nonetheless. I can see what was there, and what was dismantled in hopes of turning a profit—torn to pieces, the assorted parts long since taken to their respective resting places to rot and rust away anonymously.

“DSC01426 - Ross Farm� by Dennis Jarvis [flickr.com/archer10]. Used under the terms of her Creative Commons license.

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It was a two-story farmhouse with chipped, white paint and weathered, green shingles, crowned with lightning rods perched on its peaks. A halfwraparound porch was in front of the house that I occasionally used to watch storms as they rolled in or just hide from the sun on bright summer days. An old, oak bench swing hung from the porch and a jagged, black-and-white address sign was pinned to one of its square pillars like a sheriff’s badge, proclaiming its numbers to any passersby. It sat on three-and-a-half acres of land, dotted with trees, and kept company by two sister buildings: a small, tin-roofed equipment building and a large, red, weathered barn with my great grandfather’s name in great, white letters above the double doors. In 1931, the farm’s boundaries stretched much further than they do now, supporting my great grandparents as well as their four little girls, one of which would grow up to be my grandmother someday. Years went by and the girls moved out, and one by one, they got married, having kids and grandkids of their own. Time moved on and my great grandfather passed away in the 1980s, which left the greatly reduced property to his wife. She may have lived alone, but the house was never empty.

For many years, the house’s retro-wallpapered surfaces were filled with laughing families gathered together for several holiday celebrations each year, with Christmas and the 4th of July being the biggest events of the bunch.

Even without the colored lights and large spreads of food, someone was always visiting with great grandma at the farm. An aunt or a daughter would drop by with children in tow to say hello or play a hand of cards at the kitchen table. I still remember days when my mother would pick up my brother and me from school. The pair of us would jump into the white Ford station wagon, faux-woodgrain panels forming a shell around the maroon interior of the car, bound for a visit to great grandma. The driveway would crackle as we pulled in the drive, and we would sprint from the car door to the house, excited to get into candy jars full of gumdrops kept on a 60s-era, green-tiled counter-top. Great grandma was always at her kitchen table with cards and crocheting tools at the ready, along with a smile under her large, pink-tinted eyeglasses as she waved you in.

When she passed away, the house stood in empty mourning. The house now belonged to the daughters it had raised, but who now lived elsewhere having started families of their own. It was silent for a long time; the quiet became a thick presence that reminded everyone exactly how much a tiny old woman could light up a home now that she was no longer there. No one really knew what to do with the house—not until one day, when a cousin and her family were in need of a new home. The house seemed revitalized now that it served a purpose again, no longer a looming, grim reminder of loss. The house became a much needed relief for several relatives and their families over the years, 8 | CCLaP Weekender

offering not only shelter, but a home for however long or short you needed it.

Children ran and chased each other inside again. They played together out in the yard and came back in to gather around the kitchen table for meals. Fresh breath was given to the house again; people had movie nights, card games, BBQs, and out of town guests would stay overnight.

Luckily for me, my cousin who was living there had just gotten married, and she was moving into her new home right as I was out of my apartment.

My daughter and I didn’t know where to go next. I was looking into some apartments in the area when my grandmother suggested the old farmhouse as a solution. We were ecstatic at the possibility of moving out of a cramped, shoddy, one-bedroom apartment and into a huge, three-bedroom house. My grandmother and her sisters discussed it among themselves briefly before they pulled me aside at a family party to ask me if I’d like to move in. I quickly answered, “Of course, and as soon as possible!”

When I got home that night, and once my daughter was in bed, I continued my nightly ritual of boxing up the apartment, but now I knew where I’d be unboxing it. It had been years since I’d been to the house, but it was all just how I remembered it—only it seemed smaller somehow. The porch still smelled like crocheted afghans that’d been kept in a cedar chest and the kitchen floor still announced your entry with a creak. The dining room floor was clad in wild blue-and-brown shag carpet, stark in comparison to the pastel pink shag that covered the stairs and landing of the second floor.

The master bedroom had exceptional wallpaper; it was cream colored with scrolling, light blue, floral patterns that were similar to a pink version on the landing walls just outside the door. The décor throughout the house matched, or rather mismatched: a collection of quirky choices from another time that, given the opportunity, not many people would embrace again. I lived there for six years, adjusting to its quirks, and fixing what needed to be fixed. When those six years were over, it was what I pictured as my home.

In the end, our country’s economic situation took its toll on the nation, which in turn hurt my great aunts. The land was right off of the highway and a main road, which made it quite valuable, so they deemed it necessary to sell the property. The lot was put up for sale as I continued to live there, and I was given a warning that I may have as little as thirty days to find a new place to live if the property were sold. Everything was fine as the years went by, with prospective buyers coming and going, none of them serious enough to make a commitment to buying. But my family’s financial situations didn’t improve, and so they felt driven to change their approach. They decided that the house would be demolished, and they would rezone the property for commercial use to save any future buyers the hassle, making it clear that the land was ready for a new purpose.

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Things rarely go as planned in my experience, and this was no exception. A deadline was put in place; I had to be out by the first of July. It was plenty of time to find a new place to live, but I had little desire to find a new home.

The months went by, and I finished moving with thirteen days to spare. The days dragged on as we anxiously waited for our treasured memories to be dismantled by strangers in heavy machinery. The skies were clear and bright, belying the dark mood we all felt. When the destruction crew came, they were ready to do the job they were hired for, mostly oblivious to the tearyeyed and mournful family members gathered on the outskirts of the yard to observe the spectacle. The scared, yellow backhoe growled with diesel-fueled hunger and advanced on the house, ready to gorge itself on the wooden feast before it. In the end, it took two days and the promise of a large check to tear down the house that had played such a prominent role in the lives of my family for the last eighty years. Their pockets remained empty though, with the land nothing more than a grassy field and a tractor shed waiting to be sold. I can still hear the hole it left in peoples’ voices, unsaid and in between their words when they mention that old farm, even after two years. The house maybe gone, splintered, crushed, and hauled away, but sometimes, I stand in the vacant unsold lot. I stand on the crushed gravel driveway with weeds coming up through the stone, and I see the ghost of my home lit up by one of the many bright, sunny summer days I spent in it.

James Wrona works and resides in the suburbs of Chicago. He loves creating stories and characters in his head throughout the day. James is currently working on putting together a collection of these tales and people. He can be contacted at jwrona@jbind.com.

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GIOIA ZLOCZOWER

“nutrient ii”

PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE

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I don’t eat the Nutrients, the Nutrients are not to be eaten.

Food these days is man-made, fake, carefully placed together.

It looks beautiful; it has wild colors and shapes and is topped off with that irresistible smell only toxic hormones and fatmakers can create.

I photograph avid contrasts smitten by an innocent hand. The beauty I see lies between the fine lines of shock and mundane familiarity. My street and human photography document such moments in my daily adventures.

The work in this publication was just featured at Bread in NYC.

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“Chelsea, NYC”

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“Malevern, Pennsylvania”

“Schillers, NYC”

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“Raanana, Israel”

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“Exton, Pennsylvania”

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“Amalien Bad, Vienna”

“nutrient vii”

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“Oma with Lemon”

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“Jimmy, NYC”

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“La Esquina, NYC”

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“nutrient 24 | CCLaPiv” Weekender

“nutrient ix”

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“Chinatown, NYC”

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“sol”

“Party, Brooklyn”

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“Fashion”

“Street, Bushwick”

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“nutrient vi”

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“nutrient viii”

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“nutrient v”

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“Shira”

www.blondebundle.com instagram: @blondebundle

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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 2015, Chicago Center for Literature and Photography. All rights revert back to artists upon publication. Editorin-chief: Jason Pettus. Story Editor: Behnam Riahi. Photo Editor: Melissa Jean Birckhead. Layout Editor: Wyatt Robinette. Calendar Editor: Taylor Carlile. To submit your work for possible feature, or to add a calendar item, contact us at cclapcenter@ gmail.com.

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