Fickle February

February weather has been predictably erratic again this year. The first week of the month brought the third worst blizzard in Chicago history, during which time the city was hit with over 20 inches of snow. Most of it fell in under 24 hours, and we didn't leave the apt for two and a half days. Here's my take on the blizzard, written on Feb. 2:

The snow has piled up on the outside windowsills, obscuring the view of the flakes continuing to fall. It snowed all night long, and we’ve found it thrilling to watch the accumulation from the warmth of the apartment. We have been humming Christmas carols, and enjoying the excuse to stay in, cook, and enjoy each other’s company (well, when we aren't working anyway).

They’re calling this the blizzard of ’11, and, so far, it’s only the fifth worst blizzard in Chicago history, but the snow is still falling. We have been in since about 1 pm yesterday, an hour before the snow started falling hard. By 3 pm, most people were emailing with messages that they were leaving the office. Crashes on Lake Shore Drive started around 7 pm, last night. WGN has been interviewing stranded motorists this morning, who had driven onto LSD at about that time. A jack-knifed bus blocked the northbound side, and commuters found themselves stuck, running out of gas, batteries dying, and completely immobile through the early morning hours. This morning, the city is towing the 100 plus cars parked on LSD.

We were like school children last night, running to the window every half hour or so to track the storm’s progress. Thunder and lightning pierced the sky through the snow clouds; I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced lightning during a winter storm before. The wind was so loud, we often thought that an El train was approaching, only to find out that wind gusts were responsible for the racket.

Then, of course, two weeks later, we had two gorgeous days in the fifties. The heat, thankfully, melted away six-foot piles of dirty snow that had been shoveled or plowed up during the weeks before.

I didn't take a whole lot of pictures, but here are a couple:

This is my guy covered in snow after a lot of hard work.

Here's a picture of the street, covered in snow.

Living and Reflecting

"An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual world." - George Santayana

There comes a point when your life is so busy that you simply don’t find the time to reflect and document. It has always been a pleasure of mine to document life, particularly Chicago life (hence the blog, of course) so that I could use my experiences to remind myself of the past, and save them perhaps to incorporate into one of my novels someday. Yet, as much as I love writing, and introspection, and sharing my life in Chicago, life in Chicago can be so fulfilling and I become so consumed by all the pleasure of living that I deny (or maybe even lose) the urge to document it.

It was easy to write when I was lonely (Henry Miller once wrote that "what the artist needs is loneliness," and this is true). I would come home from work many days, and indulge in my solitude, where jazz music and blogging provided great sustenance. As I have settled into my life in the city, however, I have become less lonely. I have made more friends, discovered more paid writing gigs, and found someone completely amazing with whom I love to spend my time. And, as a result, I found myself with fewer free hours for reflection. And it’s really only a slight twinge of regret that I feel toward this loss of solitude, but I do feel the need to strike a balance between time for unpaid, pleasure writing, and the active living of life.

I believe this is a dilemma faced by most writers. Whether simply opining, or working on a novel, poetry, or non-fiction, most of us are not gainfully employed by our passion. And so we work a 40-plus-hour/week job, and then we have friends and families and errands and chores, sleep, exercise, etc. In the end, our writing becomes constrained by the activities of life, which consume our minds even when we’re trying to clear them out and allow the imagination to roam. And our writing becomes confined to a few hours a week, maybe, during which time we fight to block out reality and tap into this thing called “inspiration” that doesn’t just come when you call it.

You cannot write anything worth reading without living life. But you can’t write without stepping out of reality for a bit. It’s kind of a lovely dilemma. I may sometimes find it frustrating that I don’t have hours to sit and ponder and write, but I’m grateful for the challenge. I will continue to do my best to reflect, document, and share my experiences, if only for my friends, family, and self.

Eek! Bookless Borders!

Last Friday, Matt and I decided to do a little window shopping along Michigan Ave. to kill some time after we'd arrived about half an hour early for our reservation at the Rosebud restaurant on Rush. Strolling down Chicago Ave., then turning north toward the Godiva store, I stopped dead in my tracks. I guess I hadn't been over that way in awhile, because I experienced a sudden wrenching in my heart as I saw the full display of empty bookshelves through the windows of what used to be Borders. I gasped audibly. (Apparently, I'm completely behind the times, because news reports in 2009 announced that Borders would be closing its "flagship Michigan Ave. store" in 2010 because it was not meeting its profit goals.)

It's not that I'm particularly attached to that Borders (although I do have an affinity for Borders, in general). In fact, there's one conveniently located just up the street from my office, and it appears to be firmly in tact, at least for awhile. But that empty store was a stark reminder that the world is going digital, and that, well, bibliophiles like myself are growing fewer and farther between. I expressed to Matt that I'd been clinging to the hope that the physical book--the smell, the pages, the writing in the margins--would hold its own in the battle against digital, despite the fact that we've seen print newspapers and magazines hanging by threads (if not disintigrating altogether) for many years now. Come to think of it, I now see far fewer books in the hands of commuters each morning than I did when I first moved to Chicago a little over two years ago.

Is it my age that has me clinging to the feel of paper, the scent of fresh pages, creased spines, and margins full of notes from the first, second, fifth read-through? Am I hesitant about the digital revolution because I am a creature of habit, resisting the way my grandparents resist the cell phone my concerned uncle bought for them? Honestly, how could an e-reader chock full of digital books ever trump the satisfaction of stuffed bookshelves? I think I'm becoming even more stubborn about my books because I know, deep down, that I, too, will eventually shed my stacks of paper in favor of the ebook revolution. Someday soon, it will be as passe and ridiculous to carry a stack of books as it was for Ron Weasely to wear his hand-me-down robes at Hogwarts in Harry Potter.

Practically speaking, digital books do make sense. To think that I could have gone to grad school without the horrendous neck and shoulder pain from carrying all those books around in my bookbag! Yet, I can't imagine writing a thesis without all the books strewn across my living room floor, flung open to all of the "important pages" whose exerpts would wind their way into one of my chapters.

Practically speaking, though, I start to wonder if maybe I shouldn't really sell all those lit and theory books I've been hesitant to part with (just in case I should ever decide to return for the PhD). You know, while they'll still catch a few bucks on Amazon...

Packing Snow

It was quite a squeeze today on the El. A bit of a rude awakening, as well as a reminder of why I don’t ride the El anymore. It snowed all day today, which doubled the number of public transportation riders, as commuters traded driving on treacherous roads for an easy swipe of their CTA cards. It wasn’t really that bothersome to me to hang out in the tunnel on the crowded platform watching the mêlée of man vs. train. I couldn’t believe the risking of limbs and cramming of briefcases I saw as commuters literally smashed themselves in to the “ding-dong” of the warning bell, and the swooshing of doors closing shut. I determined that I wasn’t in that big of a hurry.

Three packed trains stopped by before I and the cluster of bodies around me could squoosh ourselves into a car. I was experiencing that empty-stomach/end-of-workday/zombie state of mind(less) that usually hits me around 5:30 or 6 pm. So I just kind of zoned out and tried to keep my balance. I was conscious of profuse apologies as the doors swung open at Grand, and Chicago, and Clark/Division. It seemed that at every stop, some Chicagoan was apologizing for the state of the CTA to some unnamed non-Chicagoan.

“I’m sorry. I hope you don’t have any place you have to be in the next hour.”

“You’re not from Chicago, are you? I’m sorry this sucks.”

Anyway, like I said, I was in a bit of a fog, so I didn’t really see what the big fuss was about. All I could think about was dinner, and that maybe those visitors to Chicago should come back in June.

When we got to my stop, I slushed my way home, noticing how warm it actually felt outside, and how the fresh air had awakened me. Once again, I found myself enjoying my winter walk. I wasn’t wearing proper boots, and could feel the moisture of the slush sneaking up against my toes. But I didn’t really mind, because home wasn’t too far away.

And as I walked I got to thinking that we’re almost halfway through January already. Which means that we’re that much closer to springtime/summertime in Chicago. And I admit that on many of these brisk but sunny days, I’ve been gazing out the window imagining it were summer. Looking down over the city, I’ve been recalling what the view will look like when brick, stone, and steel aren’t the only colors on the horizon, when the lake will shine bluer, and the green of vegetation will snake its way between the buildings…

Then, of course, I tried to be practical and remind myself not to ignore the pleasures of winter. And so I continued sloshing home in the snow.

Winter Walks

A few nights ago, I went for a walk in the cold. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m so easily amused, but it’s always kind of thrilling to me to put on my heavy boots (which make me invincible, you know), and tromp through the slush and snow. I like the way it feels bundled up inside my hood, my own body heat held closely between the layers. I like how ridiculous it feels to be all wrapped up in some amalgamation of winter gear. I watch other people rushing around, shoulders hunched up against the cold, pink faces, clouds of breath in the air. It always makes me laugh, although I’m not quite sure what it is that I find so ridiculous about the whole thing.

But in the moments where the people are gone, it’s really rather peaceful, like pockets of solitude. In the city, people are always out and about, even in the wee hours of the morning, so you’re never really alone unless you’re at home (and even then, you hear your neighbors in the apartments adjacent or above). But in the wintertime, the pedestrians thin out in the evenings, so you can go whole stretches without seeing a single person headed your way. No, it’s not silent, because there’s still traffic—so, you know, it’s not perfect stillness. It’s certainly not akin to a walk in the woods. But I can liken it to how I feel when I walk down by the lake, away from the beaches, during the summer. You can have whole moments to yourself, even though the city is moving at a rapid pace to your west. It’s refreshing.