The Unknown: The Red Line.
  Cincinnati. The name speaks of modern gothic architecture rearing up on hills built on mounds of the bones of Native Americans. Her taxis weave through the city’s nightlife, her charm and sparkle. She is a city with a firm handshake but bad eye contact.

Seven hills. Flying pigs. Grease and laughter and pockets everywhere. Pockets too deep for the mind to process. Of time and division.

Appalachia and Harriet Beecher Stowe and the Klu Klux Klan and Citizens for Decent Literature. The center of it all, all removed from it. Time trapped in a bottle: the 1950s, waxed seal affixed. We will go to the Serpentine Wall this afternoon, though we are too old to drink Boone’s Farm.

Cincinnati, how did they name you? And why did people then stay here?

Audio Button
Brochure Attempt
Read 4/20/99
at Illinois State University
147K RealAudio Clip

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