It’s still cool and novel to me to be able to connect to the web while flying. I’m somewhere over … not sure where. Headed to Dallas, then a 10-hour haul to Santiago, Chile.
Mourning the firing of the entire Sun-times photography staff today. It is indeed a dark day for Chicago journalism — hell, all journalism. I mean, really S-T? When I worked at the now wheezing old girl, I always believed the photo staff was our MVP, particularly John White. I remember one photo of his in particular — A gas main had erupted sending a 100-foot pillar of flame licking into the air. John was there and his picture says everything you need to know about him, and why photojournalism is not just some luxury. It looks like a poster for a Godzilla movie, with people on the street running wildly toward the camera with terror-stricken faces. Indeed, in the background, the column of fire roars like a frightening beast, ready to bend and incinerate anyone and anything in its path. The thing that strikes you most, however, is that whoever took the picture (John!) clearly had to be turned toward the monster, which, of course, was the case. It was always the case with John. Like a first responder at a tragedy, his instinct was always to go toward the calamity, not from it. It’s no accident that he won the Pulitzer Prize in 1982 and every award in the book after that. Your work will be deeply missed John, as will that of the rest of the staff. Good luck to the reporters tasked with snapping — what — iphone pics? I feel bad for you, for S-T readers, and for journalism.
Sometimes it’s not insomnia. Sometimes I wake up at 3 a.m. and -well, it’s almost as if I want a break from the first few hours of sleep, to regroup from dreams, have a cup of tea, gather myself for the rest of the night. Of course it’s deliciously still, that kind of stillness where you hear ringing in your ears. Still, there are birds singing, a few of them. It’s a surprisingly active time for them, a secret time? One of my cats, Luna, is always up for a conversation at this hour. We talk–or rather, she does–frankly, easily. And then she hops up and on to her couch bolster and, with a practiced bit of ceremony, circles and curls back into her bed. I’m tired, too. Break time is over. Back to sleep.
Welcome to my blog. I’m about as late to the game as it can get with my own personal musings space, but glad to have a spot where I can spew my thoughts on everything from writing to sports, politics to crime, and, most of all, the topsy turvy vagaries of life. Enjoy. Or not.