Boldt Words & Images: Gate of Ivory Gate of Horn (a poem revised)

(“Glad I was Chicago born”)

By Bob Boldt

[Editor’s Note: Earlier version appeared on November 16.]

For Deborah, whom I knew long before we met. A famous Yogi (I think it was Yogi Berra) once said, “Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.” What started out as a love poem to the past turned into a love poem to my ex-wife...To be read over music background:

It’s 1954. Dearborn and State. Gate of Horn Saturday night.

My best friend, Tom Clemens to my right, and to the left of me,
standing at the bar, Roger McGuinn¹.
I have no idea who he is, just another pair of ears listening:
                        “That old Bilbao moon,
                        I won’t forget it soon.
                        Just like a big balloon.”²

Boldt Words & Images: Gate of Ivory Gate of Horn (a poem)

(“Glad I was Chicago born”)

By Bob Boldt

For Deborah, whom I knew long before we met

To be read over music background:

It’s 1954. Dearborn and State. Gate of Horn Saturday night. My best friend, Tom Clemens to my right
and to the left of me, standing at the bar,
Roger McGuinn¹. I have no idea who he is, just another pair of listening ears...
“That old Bilbao moon, I won’t forget it soon...
Just like a big balloon.”²

Movie Review: Nelson Algren: The End is Nothing, the Road is All

My lost Chicago: Reflections on the film

By Bob Boldt

Nelson Algren is regarded by some respected critics and authorities as one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century, certainly the greatest American writer. In spite of that, his career was dogged by censorship, slander, and worse of all, neglect. He was the quintessential modern, existential man, a mixture of light and dark. A devoted womanizer who seemed to be unable to sustain long-term relationships and an inveterate gambler, he wore his vices like badges of honor.

Third Monday with Bob Boldt

This was the end – Chicago 1968

By Bob Boldt

The tear gas canister landed barely four feet from me. Its dark gray hull came hissing past like some small, badly piloted extraterrestrial craft spewing white toxic fumes. I watched as the lake breeze moved the alien cloud away. I remained seated, head bowed, pretending to pray, in deference to my Christian friends.

Photographs from "Youie" year

Today I changed my profile photo, from the one on the left...to the one on the right.

The two photos were taken within a few weeks of one another about seventeen and a half years ago. The one on the right was taken at the 36th International Technical Communication Conference, May 14-17, 1989, in Chicago, the month before what I know as "Youie Summer" began—and during which the photo on the left (that's a Stetson) was taken. In retrospect, I could see signs in Chicago that something like "Youie" was coming. I remember sitting in the lobby of my hotel meditating and feeling tingly premonitions.
A lot has happened since 1989, since that manic summer. My journal, Youie: You Must Change Your Life (the subtitle taken from the last line of Rilke's poem, "Torso of an Archaic Appolo"), consumed my manic energy and, its central "prophecy" unfulfilled, left me depressed and vulnerable to a half-year bout of chronic fatigue syndrome. Followed by a heart attack (apparently provoked by an allergic reaction to a powerful antibiotic). Toastmasters and a run at public speaking. Brain surgery for a pineal tumor. Hurricane Fran and a dozen big trees down in our yard, all close enough to have hit the house if they'd fallen differently. Retirement after employment with one company for thirty years. Brief but interesting stint as a telemarketer of pre-paid cremation. New job in public postsecondary education administration. Literary agency. Web design. The Moristotle blog. Encounter with the writings of Sam Harris. Awareness that the foregoing list is arbitrary. It mentions no dogs, leaves out my wife of almost 41 years, doesn't mention my dear son or my dear daughter, or any of my wonderful friends. Nor the death of a sister, or of our mother.
Must stop. Becoming too emotional.