Lunch Saturday at Dolce Arte, a bright and airy Italian restaurant at 3622 S. Morgan in Bridgeport, attached to an enormous art gallery space. My meatball sandwich was just so-so, but the pastries we had were first rate. Afterward, we poked around, looking at the enormous photographs of David Yarrow — I liked his shots of animals; less so, the staged tableaus of Wild West models and wolves on LaSalle Street.
Above one door was the sign at top. Not sure if it was an artwork or mere decoration. Moreover, I'm curious as to whether what stopped me, reading it, will also stop you. "My world is full of possibilities."
What's your reaction to that? I instantly, well, not took offense, but found fault. It seemed needlessly reductive. I'd have gone with "The world is full of possibilities." There is a stench of ego to "My world is full of possibilities." My immediate reaction was along the lines of, "Fuck you, buddy, everybody's world is full of possibilities."
Am I wrong here? Maybe I was feeling unusually touchy. But it reminded me of the taint of ego, how it can poison an otherwise positive thought. Of course, there's a lot of that going around lately.
Sounds like a mantra tossed out by a two-bit shrink.
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