A Brazilian Stampede_The Perfect City_Because Monsieur Proust Said So | Section A_La Tempestad
Catalog Guide:
A Brazilian Stampede
“The plan, if you can believe it, is to sleep on Copacabana beach on New’s Year’s night,” Samy chuckled to the stranger. The stranger who might have been processing the words slowly because it wasn’t spoken in his native language furrowed his brows to form a teepee on his forehead. But when he responded it was clear he had understood, “That is not a good idea. It is quite crowded there, not safe to sleep.” Samy shrugged her shoulders and responded in her usual nonchalant tone of deferring problems to later in time, “Yea we will figure it out. Thanks for the drink, keep the change.”Samy and I g...
The Perfect City
That’s the thing about this city, it’s everything an urbanite could dream of. A sprawling city crawling with persity of all kinds. The people come from all walks of life, from everywhere in the world, all bustling about the city and heading to their set destinations. Stop and talk to any of them and you will learn something new and hear a new perspective. The people here respect persity of thought too. Everyone has a voice and everyone can voice opinions without fear of being shouted down or harmed. The buildings are as perse as the people, from towering skyscrapers to futuristic looking muse...
Because Monsieur Proust Said So | Section A
The Los Angeles writer, after stepping over a pigeon that was plopping its body about by the bus-stop on its one leg (the other fowleen appendage, a pink, rattail-ish trunk, hung down, tapping like a broken stick onto the sidewalk, rhythmically, as if it were scratching a little pigeonitch on the tiny stump-tip), boarded the outgoing bus and took his seat. The writer stepped over the pigeon. The Los Angeles writer stepped over the blarmey pigeon that was hopping and plopping itself about here and there, meddlesome and unmerry, in front of the writer's path, blocking, most unceremoniously (for...
La Tempestad
Spring, 2021 The end of the day begins when the roar of the vacuum starts up in the back rooms of Lakewood Library. It blends into the familiar sounds of the two librarians on the last shift reshelving books and swiping old cards, before locking the glass doors behind them. It blends into the sounds of rush hour passing by and heading home to dinner or to night shifts. It signals to my brain that the day is over and there is one last thing to do before I can go home, fold the laundrywww.onedoor.cc, count the bills, and make dinner.The vacuum is old and weak; it no longer pulls as strongly as it should. I ha...