An old police station has suddenly closed. The doors are boarded up, creating an impression of desolation and failure. We will be seeing more of this: necessary services shut up for the sake of satisfying the retirement coffers. The letters of the building are being picked over, as the vandals move in.
Celia communes
At night, a neighboring building becomes a black-and-gold scrim, bounding the set in which we live. Every once in a while, I look over at the lights, but can’t begin to make out what they illumine. I conclude only that the shape of home is rectangular, and the light given off can be taken for…
How we know we’re home
We enter an old wooden box made of mahogany, which carries us up several stories. In the garage, a nice man takes our suitcases and groceries out of our car and brings them up in the back elevator. We adhere to the rules of entry that announce our return from the country and govern the…
The forms of sleep
A walk in the winter woods brings on meditation. The sights are less enlivening, and small things loom larger in the experience. In the woods, the forms of the trees—often wind-mangled and mutilated—are easier to see, and the quiet eye settles on bark, dead limbs, and fungus instead of on the showy wildflower or playful…
The clay plain
In the middle of the Harbert Preserve is a plain where few trees grow. In the summer the soil is chalky, cracked. In the winter, it is a fine slippery clay on whose paths water collects. The preserve has wetlands and an oak grove, too, but I think the clay plain is my favorite. Each…
Once invisible
Winter makes the invisible apparent. The secret places where, in the summer, bird songs were manufactured are disclosed. I’m not sure which I like best: hearing the invisible birds in summer, or, in the winter, seeing their quiet clever nests.
Starry night
Out in Michigan, we can see the stars. On our dark street, cars seldom pass, leaving us free to stand out in the middle, craning our necks, slowly revolving, in awe of the starry skies we can see through the trees. Last night, I took my camera, feeling I was foolish but knowing it does…
Ganglia
Do you think that they feel?
The colors of winter
The dearth of snow has made me nostalgic, so much so that I’ve taken to lingering over old photographs of the properly wintry scenes we’ve often enjoyed. Winter has many colors, but, if white isn’t among them, the others are less lovely. Snow is necessary to the beauty of the blotched and riddled bark on…
Winter reality
Chicago is in the grip of a winter drought. The landscape looks barren and forlorn. The other day, snow fell for just a few minutes. Out in the country, too little snow is falling on the fields, and even the great Mississippi is drying up.
Winter delicacy
Mr C and I are heading out to Michigan tomorrow. There’s a reason Chicagoans cross the Skyway: to get to New Buffalo, Union Pier, or Lakeside—Michigan towns on the other side. That’s where we go to relax, hitting the beaches in summer, walking the woods in winter and spring. It’s a good place for antiquing…
