Walk, Don’t Talk

Well, here’s the thing: I’m back in Chicago for a long while, and back into a situation where I can’t really blog about most of my present, nor my future possibilities.  That leaves only the bits of my life that currently look like this:

which has me feeling, blahg-wise, like this.

I mean, do you really want to know that Paul and I spent yesterday finally removing the last of the former owner’s wall-to wall carpet from the staircase in our house? It was actually rather satisfying: slashing through thick ugly beige pile, disposing of the powdery black dirt that had accumulated (for years!) beneath it, wrenching thousands of little tiny deep staples out of what proved to be lovely oak treads, and above all, making a measurable, pleasurable difference.

In many ways, it’s very good to be home and centered and not living out of a suitcase for awhile, even though I will have to keep reaching for things to write about, while keeping a lid on the things that I’m excited about till they can’t be damaged.

Folks in Chicago are still talking about The Rain; chances are, if you run into someone you haven’t seen for a week or two, they’ll ask, “Did you flood?”  On Monday, while the waters receded and some streets were still closed, I had a good time installing more copies of (S)Edition, a work dealing with the covert spread of ideas, at the Noyes Center.

On Tuesday, I received some exciting e-mail, and a gift from the flooding: two gorgeous huge parasol fungi sprung up in the back yard, popping up just like a fantastic idea.  All week, they unfurled, grew to be eight and nine inches wide, fascinating me.

Yesterday, alas, I had to uproot them, so the overgrown grass could be cut.  I got to study them in detail, photograph them in ways that I don’t when I find fungi in the woods, because I rarely disturb those, due to respect for their environmental function. While doing that, the bad, bad rain suddenly gave me a beautiful answer to a problem I was having with one of the new artworks. At the same time answers to other uncomfortable, seeping situations began to form.  Life does imitate art. And that, alas, is all I can say, for now.