About

mother, daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter, niece. only child. curse in 2 languages. background is meridionale, terrona, pagana, tho’ i am mmericana. my people come from Sicily, up in the mountains where Hades captured Persephone. then they came to Ellis Island, Chicago, and points south…time doesn’t heal all wounds but music almost does…hyperbolic, hyperaware, hypersensitive, hyperactive…mind set to flowing all directions simultaneously, winding over and under and behind and through like Styx…snap reflexes ‘cuz i’m still a survivor, still know where the exits are, still look for weapons & the defensive position, still picking up the pieces…journeyman wireman, 5th generation trade unionist, rustbelt consciousness, old-school labor activist in the vein of Eugene V. Debs (“while there is a lower class I am in it, while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison I am not free”). visit the grave of Mother Jones once a year. lean hard to the left like the good end of the radio dial and the low end of the guitar…inveterate bookworm, lover of words written and spoken. savor the expressive cadence of the unexpected and mostly unsaid. feel the undercurrents and invisible turbulence, look beneath the surface, revel in the exquisite passion of what irish soulman/road opener Van Morrison calls the “inarticulate speech of the heart”. like to blow the dust off buried treasure/buried truth…been driving up/down I-55 between Chicago & St. Louis since some of it was still Route 66. been cooking sugu before there was “italian seasoning”. carry home in my heart, not under my feet. stamina and resilience. raw nerves and sore muscles. low voice and full-throated howl…….this is La Lubu.