Not Cleveland

“America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans.
Everywhere else is Cleveland.”
― Tennessee Williams

New Orleans, Louisiana

View out of my son’s apartment window, New Orleans.

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No One Had Responded To Its Message

“On the prow of the wagon, in an attempt to attract business among the Quarterites, Ignatius taped a sheet of Big Chief paper on which he had printed in crayon: TWELVE INCHES (12) OF PARADISE. So far no one had responded to its message.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Saint Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, French Quarter, New Orleans

I’m getting packed, getting ready to drive to New Orleans for a week of this year’s Writing Marathon.

Songs About Broken Hearts

“People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.”
― Nick Hornby, High Fidelity

Kickin Brass Band, Arts District, Dallas, Texas

Expressing the Inexpressible

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.”
― Aldous Huxley, Music at Night and Other Essays

Kickin Brass Band, Arts District, Dallas, Texas

I remember, long ago, having an argument with someone over whether it would be worse to be blind or deaf. I said I would rather be blind and they couldn’t understand. Blindness would be a real pain, I’ll admit, but I can’t imagine living without music.

Invent the Reality

“We live in a world ruled by fictions of every kind—mass merchandising, advertising, politics conducted as a branch of advertising, the instant translation of science and technology into popular imagery, the increasing blurring and intermingling of identities within the realm of consumer goods, the preempting of any free or original imaginative response to experience by the television screen. We live inside an enormous novel. For the writer in particular it is less and less necessary for him to invent the fictional content of his novel. The fiction is already there. The writer’s task is to invent the reality.”
― J.G. Ballard, Crash

Woodall Rogers Expressway, Dallas, Texas
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