Letter

The move went as smooth as a move can go. Even though I cursed the three flights of stairs every time I had to carry boxes of books or frames up over the last five-and-a-half years, I somehow forgot how much they sucked until Saturday. Mike and Brian did all the heavy lifting, but I helped as much as I could. Going up and down carrying an envelope got to be a burden after a couple dozen trips. I was glad to hear those guys huffing and puffing. Made me feel a little less old and broken down.

Unloading was a breeze by comparison. Still, watching the mountain of book boxes rise inside made me daydream about taking up a racket that involves fewer physical objects. But what would that be? There’s still a large part of me that thinks the internet is make-believe. Even words don’t seem quite real until they’re on paper. I’m not suited for the future at all.

I took a shower after the guys left and was half-hypnotized by the little circular tiles. They make an op-art effect of vibrating and floating in space away from the grout. Washing will never be the same.

I cleared away enough boxes to put my armchair where I think it will go. Straight ahead is the wall where art-in-progress will go; to the right are the windows to the street; to the left is the long open space of the rest of the apartment, ending with the doorway to the bedroom. I can’t recall living in a place with this much open space since the loft in Allston in the early-90s. Unlike there, I don’t have to share a shower down the hall or have to put up with a roommate who used to be my best friend until we lived together.

I set up my bed and lay down early. It took sometime to fall asleep. I could hear the crazy weekend racers on Archer Avenue half a block away. Footfalls upstairs were new too after living on the top floor. The dog trotting the length of the house, barking occasionally. One time, I looked up at the little bedroom window and caught a glimpse of my new neighbor’s meaty thighs flicker by the thin slit of outdoors the drawn curtain left visible. Being on the ground level will take some getting used to but I sure as hell won’t miss those three flights of stairs.

Sunday morning I walked back to the old place and spent a couple hours dusting, sweeping, wiping, and moping. It’s not pristine, but it’s about as good as can be expected from someone like me, also taking into account five-plus years of wear and tear. After I was done, I took a last walk through. I think the fact I’ve been preparing to leave since last July contributed to the lack much feeling. I had some good times here but I’ve been emotionally removing myself for almost a year. I was ready to move on.

I hope to get the new place into working order over this week. I wonder how many books schlepped here will go in the donation pile? No matter. My easel fits upright with less than an inch to spare, for which I’m thankful. Been lugging that thing with me for twenty-seven years. Truly my cross to bear. In the old place, if I wanted to use it in another room I’d have to lean it sideways and drag it behind me. Here I can roll it the length of the place. Feels like a big luxury. In fact, everything about this apartment does. There’s a kitchen table here. Haven’t had one in many moons. Turns out I like it. Much easier to eat at than in an armchair, holding a plate on my lap. Who knew?

Though the house was built in 1875, this lower level was totally rehabbed a few years ago. I’ve never lived in a place so new. Looking at all my old things, I wonder if they’ll fit. I think they will. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I won’t ever have to move again.

—I contributed a design for a set of Hideout postcards. Sales benefit the employees of that great bar, as well as the artists.

—I wrote a review of Sam McPheeters’s great book about how underground music formed him.

—RIP Tony Allen and Bohannon.

I made a mask from an old ripped up Roky Erickson t-shirt. It was in the pile of rags destined for wiping brushes with, but now I’ll wear it near people in public. It makes me look ready to rob a stagecoach. My childhood dreams of becoming a highwayman can finally come true.

My apartment is mostly empty now. I’m bringing some fragile stuff over to the new place right after I send out this letter. My record player, the TV, a bunch of clothes. Shit that’s easier to carry unpacked rather than stressing out the movers on Saturday.

The fewer souvenirs and decorations there are here the more removed I feel. My landlady called to ask if I was still moving and to ask what the place needed in terms of repairs. She’s elderly, locked in in the ‘burbs. Who knows when she’ll make it here to see the place for herself. I hope to leave it as clean as it can be, but I’ve been here over five years so there’s no way it can be restored to a pristine state without some serious effort. I’ll probably leave the keys with the downstairs neighbor and hope for a return of my security deposit sometime months down the road.

It occurred to me the other day that I haven’t been inside a vehicle—car, bus, or train—since this thing began. On nice days I’ve taken bike rides. A few epic ones, but mostly within a couple miles of my place for simple errands. I’m renting a car Monday to move but wouldn’t be heartbroken if I never drove again. If there’s anything good that could come out of this plague time it’s some elemental changes to societal behavior. If it makes people walk and bike more, that can’t be a bad thing. But then again people are capable of forgetting catastrophe and strife of any scale. Forgetting is a proven coping mechanism.

Paul commissioned a painting of his son, Adam, at work at Blue City Bikes. It’s a few blocks away from my place and I’ve been a customer since I moved to the neighborhood. Designated an essential business, they’ve been open these past six unreal weeks. I stop by to see how Owen and Chris and the rest of them are doing every few days.

I met Paul while putting together an article about a documentary he and my friend John were making about the Roseland neighborhood of their youth. While interviewing him we realized that his son, Adam, had bought a painting of mine a year or two before. There’s a tragic backstory but it’s not mine to tell.

I’d planned to bike the picture Paul ordered to his Pullman home, but he insisted on driving over to pick it up. The back door of his SUV was open as I walked up, so I placed the painting on the seat. He gave me a check in an envelope and thanked me, said it was the first visual evidence he’d had of his son in a month. I went back upstairs to get ready for that day’s bike ride, which would now include a stop at the bank. I’ve been using the drive-thru (and its pneumatic tube) since the lobby’s been shut all this time.

The fact that archaic technology like the pneumatic tube is newly-useful is a comfort in a way.

Bill asked for a painting of the Jane Byrne Interchange. It’s the clusterfuck just south of downtown Chicago where the highways meet. It used to be called the Circle Interchange, then the “improvements” started and it was decided that the name should be improved as well. It was rechristened in honor of the city’s first female mayor. I think she was still alive when this happened. 

I stopped driving regularly long before the construction began and thank my lucky stars. The area where the Dan Ryan and the Eisenhower meet has always been a nightmare but since it became the Jane it has gone next level. Especially if you’re approaching it eastbound on the Ike, the lane configurations change seemingly day to day. It’s a standstill day and night. Yet construction crews keep adding looping ramps through the airspace above. Some even connect to the existing roadway.

I packed a fold-up chair, fastened it to my bike rack and pedaled north up Halsted to scout out spots to paint. The first day was windy and there were stray snowflakes but it was a joy to be out of the house for a few hours. I set up on the Van Buren ramp over the highway and got to work.

I’ve passed this area a million times over the last few years but rarely lingered. Until Bill asked for a painting there was no reason to. I wonder why he chose this as subject-matter for me. His big thing is infrastructure, that must be the connection. The part-formed steel and concrete parts in the process of becoming landscape is a thing to think about. If this project is ever completed (it’s estimated to be years from done) the way it looks now will be forgotten. If cars get through the loops and ramps without slowdown it will be taken for granted that it’s as it should be. But I’ll always remember Marie texting me at the bar that though she left her house an hour ago she’s stuck in gridlock and will be late to work. 

I do another painting looking north from Harrison and the last looking west from Des Plaines. I think about Jane Byrne and wonder if she was proud to have her name attached to this. I bet thousands of drivers curse her daily and will continue to for the foreseeable future.

After I got home from the first day of painting I looked her up. Her time in office was before I came to Chicago. The story goes that she got elected because the previous mayor failed to get the city open after a snowstorm. She looks defiant in most of her photos. It couldn’t have been easy to run this city. We have a female mayor now too. I wonder what they’ll name after her? Maybe by then the robot cars will have taken over and the Jane Byrne Interchange will be a public park. Here’s hoping.

—I reviewed The Dairy Restaurant.

—RIP Lee Konitz. 

—I made art for Joshua Benjamen Johnson’s The Radio Engineer. Listen and buy a digital copy or message him to get an LP or CD.