The last time I saw Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski was at the Bucktown Arts Fest in August. Shufflin’ around, looking at artwork, he had a journal in one hand, and after he sat down with me, a beer in the other. Some folk band was playing a song about a girl, a farm and the smell of earth after rain. Or something like that. I first met Clive at Mickey’s, the saloon down the street from my apartment (mentioned in an earlier post). He lives and writes above an area bar (not Mickey’s). He doesn’t drive and rarely goes out, and when he does, it’s usually within a several block radius of his home – which includes Holstein Park, home of the fest.…