The Death of Imagination

With exquisite timing, the weather turned just after Labour Day. It had threatened to do so earlier--in fact, I'd turned off the AC Sunday in anticipation of not needing it again until next year and was forced to relent that very afternoon. But it's been consistently under 20°C since yesterday evening and that's where it will stay for at least a couple days. We'll probably get some glorious fall weather pretty soon, but right now it is grey and rainy and I'm loving it.

This is what I've been waiting for for weeks, where it actually feels like a reward to stay in and not a punishment. I'm wearing flannel pyjama pants and drinking tea and basically indulging in all the Fall Things again. One of those things is reading. My official Spoopy Book for Fall this year is something called White is for witching by Helen Oyeyemi; don't know anything about the book or the author except that I was intrigued to see what a British Nigerian's take take on the classic haunted house in the English countryside novel might be.

So far I'm still wondering. A hundred pages in and it feels like she's not done assembling the pieces for her plot. She's rather thoroughly introduced her main characters--including the house, which actually has dialogue (or rather, monologue, as it addresses the reader directly). Amusingly, she's just introduced a character with a Nigerian given name who seems like a cringeworthy cliché (she cooks for the family and practices juju) but I trust her to have some interesting twist in store.

COVID seems to be affecting my ability to concentrate, given my seeming inability to finish anything. I've already chronicled how Un nos ola leuad took me simply ages, despite being an excellent work, and the same thing is happening with El amor en los tiempos de cólera. I stalled out for a while about the same time as the juvenile romance did but then García Márquez surprised me by shifting the focus to a successful middle-aged marriage, which is much more my style. I've just crested the two-thirds mark and hopefully gathered enough momentum to finish it off before the end of the year.

Its latest competition is something called Sarmada by Syrian author Fadi Azzam. I think I may actually have ordered this because I was intrigued by a novel being told from a Druze viewpoint. Still very early days but I find his prose very readable so far. It will be a joy compared to the novel I just finished, Erhöhte Blauanteil by someone named Bruno Steiger (who's so obscure this novel wasn't even in Goodreads until I added it). A mere 126 pages, it nonetheless took me weeks to finish because there's no plot to speak of, just a Mary Sue Swiss-German author of obscure novels going on endlessly about Peter Handke (who I haven't read and don't plan to) and avoiding work. I can't even tell you why I decided to finish it, to be honest. I guess I just kept thinking there had to be something more to it than there was.

Today's depression caught me even more off guard by coming on the heels of a delightful weekend. Sure, Sunday I was moody and draggy, but that's typical when I've been out late. It usually doesn't carry over into the week.

It was also a beautiful day, so I wasn't the least surprised to find that I'd managed to schedule a four-hour RPG session for the heart of it. This was JB's idea, and I was looking forward to it. He told us to scare up some players, so I asked Sad Cub, who initially agreed, but never asked me the time and then informed me that he had to run errands.

I find it ironic that JB initially objected to him because he'd thought he'd be "dull" given that the player he did invite didn't seem to contribute much. To be fair, I don't think any of us was at our best. I even dozed off at one point. (In my defence, it was after the homemade apple pie with homemade ice cream.) The game itself was another PbtA, Zombie World, with the twist that it used cards as a mechanic rather than dice.

We ended with about an hour of fading sunlight left so I got to fit in a bit of a stroll. I suspected the leaves would be particularly striking after having been washed clean but the previous day's storms and I was right. Any doubts I had about how pretty this fall would be have been laid to rest.

It was a marked contrast to my stroll along many of the same streets the day before. Then it was pouring rain and so, despite being the same time of day, quite dark out. I was too stubborn to call a ride, a decision I came to regret almost immediately. Thankfully, I wasn't completely soaked when I got home and my friends came to pick me up for the next event.

The afternoon get-together was another wine-tasting at mikiedoggie's. It was one of the best yet: everyone agreed that there wasn't a stinker in the pack and the final tally was very closed. Yet again, I placed near the bottom, so I think my faith in Independent Spirits may be wavering. After the prize was awarded, I inadvertently started a run on Mikie's 12 year-old Yamazaki (which I would feel worse about if he hadn't been going around himself giving generous pours).

However, the most interesting feature of the tasting from my point of view was a beefy daddy from Boston. He and his husband were friends of the organisers and in fact spearheaded a similar club in Boston. At first, I tried to be subtle in my appreciation, balancing my time between chatting him up and chatting up his husband. But after tasting a dozen wines, that caution went by the wayside.

Just before our outrageous flirting got too out of hand, I discovered that he was going to be at the same Halloween party that evening. I didn't know quite what to expect from it; I knew the crowd was mixed, so there would have to be some breaks on lewd behaviour. But I also knew how to get away with quite a lot even in an environment like that.

So I showed up ready, but even I wasn't ready for the Bostonians to arrive in TERRYCLOTH BATHROBES. It was only a wig party, but apparently their friends thought they needed to put in a little more effort. Although I appreciated the easy access this afforded, it did make it rather difficult to pretend to care about making conversation with everyone else.

Finally, after a couple hours, I invited Beefy to "tour the upstairs", which I'd seen once before. After a bit of Feydeau-esque comedy, we finally slipped out onto the upper deck for some hanky-panky in the cold rain which had thankfully slowed to a mere drizzle. He urged us back in before we got too carried away, but he connived with me to engineer a couple more opportunities over the course of evening. It probably ended up being more fun than a straightforward hookup would have been.

I ended up mooning over him a bit the next day. Besides being sexy and very into me, he was also smart and interesting, a prison psychologist who was happy to talk wine and gay media and probably a bunch more topics if only there'd been the opportunity. I was left with that familiar melancholy of being reminded how many supremely attractive men there are out there and, at the same time, how I don't have one to come home to.

At least I found a temporary respite from that in a three-way with my hosts. I'd had it in my head as a possibility ever since meeting them, so when it unfolded it did so very naturally. Given how drunk and exhausted we were, it was surprised we had as much fun as we did and we agreed to pick up again at more convenient time.

First order of the day was reporting to my doctor's office for tests, a flu shot, and retaking of my blood pressure. After fifteen minutes meditating in a quiet room I got it down to 111/86, which isn't great, but which does give me a pretty clear path forward for reducing it (in addition to getting back into the habit of exercising regularly again).

I've been feeling very listless lately and I'm not sure of the culprit. I thought I'd spring back after finally seeing off that awful cold on Tuesday but I still pretty much want to collapse in a heap every night when I come home. Today we had quick tours for the new students and I was able to cruise through three or four of those in short order, but once I had a chance to relax the tiredness returned.

I'm fighting to keep at bay memories of three years ago and the awful disappointment of finally bringing Monshu home only to see him sicken and return to ICU. I've always enjoyed the melancholy of this season--the nostalgic memories of going back to school mingling with the excitement of getting out and exploiting the good weather--but those recollections just lard it with so much regret that I start to retreat. My optimism seems so painfully naïve in retrospect and I don't know what to do with those feelings.

I'm really getting dispirited by the state of my place. In addition to the slow accumulation of small fixes, the fruit fly infestation is out of control and the cat still refuses to poop in his box despite my going back to the old litter he liked better. I've got a new hopeless crush; there's little chance I'd bring him back home, but if I did, I imagine he'd take one look and think "I can do better".

So even if part of me feels like it would be interesting to embark on a new relationship, it's clear I'm nowhere near ready. I want someone to come along who'll pressure me to fix myself, but that's not a healthy desire. I've got to want it for myself and find the motivation to take the hard steps. I guess I'll start with another walk outside.

At some point after leaving work a week ago Wednesday, I noticed that I was sneezing more than usual. It flashed through my mind that it could be the first sign of a cold, but I've been wrestling with allergies so much this past year that I didn't really have any clear symptoms. So I blithely ignored it and even went for a vigourous walk after dinner. I awoke the next morning having realised my mistake and immediately started zinc, but it was already too late.

Thursday wasn't that bad in retrospect but, reasoning that I was at my most infectious, I decided to take the day off anyhow. I slept away the morning and rested in the afternoon, having made my mind up to go in the next day regardless how cruddy I felt. I did feel cruddy and I did make it in, but I only lasted half a day.

Incredibly, I still thought I might make it to the "Fall Bear Mixer" that Saturday if I just rested up the whole day and then drugged myself up in the evening. Up until my afternoon nap, I was still encouraging friends to join me there. Fortunately, I realised in time what a terrible idea this was.

Sunday it really kicked my ass. Headaches, chills, nausea--it began to dawn on me that this could even be the flu. I tried taking my temperature but I couldn't find the instant-read thermometer and I couldn't figure out how to read the older one. That came the next day, and I was startled to see it at 104°.

Don't worry--this turned out to be a false reading. But I still felt terrible. Tuesday morning, I had a previously-scheduled doctor appointment in E-town. I also had a terrible night, waking a little after 2 a.m. and struggling to fall asleep again before dawn. Whatever I had, it was making me terribly hungry and I was running out of food in the house.

I'd left an update on FB Monday morning with my false fever reading that open a floodgate of good wishes and several sincere offers to bring me food. I eventually allowed JB to bring me soup for lunch and the neighbours to bring some crackers for dinner. But my options were dwindling.

Taking a Lyft to the appointment turned out to be a good idea, not least of all because of the interesting chat I had about navigation with the young driver. (He was as appalled as I was at his age by the general level of geographic ignorance in society.) My doctor pooh-poohed the idea of the flu but indulged my desire to put off my tests for later when I felt better.

Wednesday began with another terrible headache but an ibuprofen dispensed with that and it was fairly copacetic. The market was surprisingly busy at 4 p.m. and I forgot some basics I'd been pining for (like English muffins) but still felt good enough afterwards to cook my first proper meal in a week, finally run the dishwasher, and even invite one of my neighbours in for a chat.

Which brings us to today. Despite a rocky start (more insomnia), I was determined to make it in in the morning, leaving at midday if need be. But I've managed to power through and might even be up for a little dinner out this evening. Honestly, though, I don't feel one bit better now than I did a week ago (albeit a real improvement over the weekend). Let's hope that this is not only the first but also the worst.

Thursday morning I did the last of the gardening for the season--and by that I mean I took last-minute measures to spare a couple plants from the impending hard freeze. The geraniums came in and the perennial mums went in the soil, in the same spot where mums have died two previous years. (A gardener pal says those might not have been perennial but I'm not expecting these to live in any case.)

And the freeze did come, accompanied by some surprisingly rich and persistent lake-effect snow. I expected a dusting; I came home to an inch over most of the lawns. There were still patches in shady areas as I went into work today, despite the fact that it was above freezing much of the weekend and even rained overnight.

The reason I had the morning off on Thursday was that someone I know in the neighbourhood, ChiBareBear, was having a colonoscopy and needed someone to pick him up. I agreed before I realised it was at Weiss, the hospital I learned to hate over the past couple years. At the same time, I do miss some of the folks. I decided not to visit Millie at Radiology (partly because I was running late, partly because I couldn't bear it) but I ran into one of my favourite transporters in the hallway, who recognised me immediately even without my hair. "How's my friend?" he asked and when I told him, he said, "Come here, I'm going to give you a hug."

Getting into the elevator, I saw one of the nurses from the 8th floor who didn't recognise me. But I knew they'd all been told, so I could just exchange pleasantries with him. It was a different story with the attendant in the surgical waiting room, who was solicitous almost to a fault. Fortunately CBB was all ready to go, so I was able to get out of there with nothing worse than a brief flashback to that awful hour in the consultation room with Witch Hands. (As I was psyching myself up to come, I actually told myself, "At least Witch Hands won't be there.")

I'm not really sure why I agreed to pick him up, really, except that he asked. It was a general call and he didn't have to choose me. If he hadn't made an overture recently by inviting me to a get-together at his place the same weekend as HiBearNation I probably would have ignored it. But I keep thinking about all of us growing old alone in our individual apartments and think we have to do more to be there for each other.

Yesterday evening I had amazing CTA karma, narrowly catching a northbound Howard train before it went express at Bryn Mawr. (I paid for it this morning, narrowly missing the last northbound train before an express. C'est la vie.) As a result, I was sitting at the computer typing away my monshu digest when I heard the tremendous crunching sound coming from the back of the apartment. I didn't want to look; I figured if another pot had gotten smashed, finding out the following morning was soon enough.

A couple hours later, I was preparing to got to bed and overheard a conversation on the sidewalk just outside. "Holy shit, you're not getting through there!" said one of the two men. So I sprinted upstairs to check and saw what they were talking about: an enormous tree branch blocking the sidewalk. I was actually relieved to see it there and not on the hellstrip, crushing the plants which have defied the odds (and my neglect) to stick out this blistering summer.

It's still windy again today, but not like it was yesterday when I could almost lean into it on Sheridan road. And warm. And humid. A true summer's day in the second half of October. But because this is Chicago, tonight's low (11°C) will be Friday's high. I doubt I'll see another scene like I did last Saturday: a projector set up in the middle of a side street so the neighbours could gather outside to watch the opening game of the NLCS. Ever. (I mean, think of the confluence of factors: Cubs in the postseason, a block party planned for the middle of October, and unseasonably mild and calm weather.)

We're smack in the middle of an All Saints summer here and I never want it to end. But given that it's already past the date of the average first snow in Chicago, I'm just trying to enjoy it for the miracle it is. Just today monshu brought in the azaleas from outside. They've been sporadically trying to bloom over the last couple months. Maybe the warmth of indoors will convince them to give it another go.

Meanwhile, I'm still struggling to get everything in the ground soon enough for them to get established before the ground freezes. I made another big push on Sunday but still have a spiderwort, a fern, and a trip of flowers whose names I forget from Fig to plant. At least all the Rudbeckia, Echinacea, and Aquilegia is taken care of. Well, except for the seeds I new to strew.

That was the weekend's major project: digging up the parkway corner one last time and prepping it for spring. The guy at the hardware store made me a deal on tube sand because none of the tubes were intact, so if I wasn't willing to take them, they'd just "go to waste". And it was a good thing, too: one tube's worth would not have sufficed. Still, it makes a world of difference. It was so much easier scooping everything up again to work in more sand than it was digging it all out the first time.

After everythings in the ground, the last order of business will be ordering tree seedlings for spring now that I know how the process works. I still plan to get dogwoods and witch hazel, but I wonder if I shouldn't review the list one last time to see if there's anything else that would improve the understory. Meanwhile, the Old Man has found a shrub he likes in a neighbour's yard, but we haven't managed to ID it yet.

For a while, it looked like we would have the cooperation of the weather for Saturday's leafing trip. A narrow band of storms blew through midmorning, soaking the landscape (and poor Fig, as he was just arriving at Home Despot), but it was forced on by a high pressure system and brought cloudless skies in its wake. The first hour of the drive was gorgeous. Then, out of nowhere, low-lying cloud cover swept in and stayed with us the rest of the day. Shortly after we made it to Wisconsin's one-and-only Apple Holler, they began releasing a fine drizzle.

That was our first stop and we were all a bit peckish. We were just going to get some food from a grillstand, but it lay only steps within a ticketed area, so we were politely asked to pay admission. We all bridled at the thought, since our interest in the assorted amusements was effectively nil, so we ended up in the sit-down restaurant at the very tail of the lunch rush. To our surprise, it was actually decent. Yeah, my potato pancake was undercooked on one side and the appled-studded coleslaw was too mayo-heavy, but the fried fish Fig and I shared was quite respectable, firm and not greasy nor too heavily-breaded.

Meanwhile, the drizzle was intensifying, so our shopping coincided with a rush indoors, leading to long lines and a struggle to find products. (For an apple-themed establishment, they sure make their apple butter perversely hard to find.) Happily, though, this concluded with the acquisition of--among many other things--a dozen apple cider donuts still warm from the fryer. At this point, we concluded that the rest of our day was simply gravy and retreated to the car to formulate a plan.

Fig had a comically vague hand-drawn map from a coworker listing various attractions nearby. We decided to turn back and then off onto C to check out a few. The first was a ramshackle horror of a place called Happ's Pumpkin Patch. Fig described it as "the kind of place I would've loved if I was six" but I think at that age I would've found it terrifying. It was littered with refuse of all sorts--old machinery, strange statuary, weatherbeaten sheds--including two old schoolbuses which looked like exactly like the sort of place you would get murdered in a slasher film.

In fact, it dawned on us that the entire scenario--three city slickers heading down a shabby rural to a location recommended by "this woman I know from work"--was straight out of the Big Book of Horror Movie Clichés. Then when we saw signs advertising the "Pumpkindaze" festival in the neighbouring hamlet of Salem (whose hair salon is intriguingly named "Headhunters"), we just lost it. And that was before we found that one of the two restaurants at the end of the road in tiny Wilmot was a rambling house on the hill above town attached to a bunker-like cement building of uncertain function.

Of course, having just filled up at the orchard, we were in no mood for dinner. Despite the coworker's description, there was little of picturesque interest in little Wilmot and no cute shops (but both a dance and a yoga studio), so we decided to get the hell out of dodge before nightfall. The day concluded with a visit to the worst laid-out and least bargain-driven outlet mall any of us have ever been to. I walked away with $200 in clothing I desperately needed, but at the cost of our dinner hour, leading to a hurried cheese sandwich at home before I headed out to my first party of the evening.

Last year I pledged that we'd make more of an effort to take advantage of Open House Chicago next time around. But everything was different last time. None of the locations really spoke to the Old Man and memories of last year's epic line put him off trying for any of the more popular ones (like the Rookery) anyway. We did make an attempt to view a church near us, but it turned out to be closed all afternoon for a wedding.

So we headed down to Andersonville to try out the hot new restaurant in the 'hood, Cantina 1910. It's been getting amazing press and looks as beautiful inside as it did in the photos. We were disappointed to find, however, that it only has a limited (and very eggy) brunch menu on weekend afternoons. That put monshu off his feed, but I opted for some chilaquiles which were mighty tasty, if not half as interesting as some of the selections on their dinner menu read. So worth a return in the evening sometime.

The next day, I was hosting the game, but that didn't prevent me from also finishing laundry, shuffling around the plants in front a bit, and even baking a bread pudding for my guests. I wish I were more inspired to work outside. It's great weather for it and there's lots to do, but I start thinking how sore I'll be and lose my inspiration. More than that, I think, it's the raft of decisions to make--where to plant what, all why trying to work towards some grander design. It does my tiny head in.

The weather definitely took a turn last night. Earlier when the temps officially dropped below freezing, the plantings around our building looked unaffected, leading me to believe that our microclime had mitigated the effects. But the fennel has definitely had it and possibly the catnip as well. The upstairs couple's poor dahlia was caught in the middle of putting forward a blossom that will never open now. The remaining leaves on the maples around us are all dropping as if on cue. monshu bought a new space heater for the sunroom and he's been reading there in the comfy chair. This morning I found him there with the bright sunshine behind him and yellow leaves raining down like ticker tape.

Yesterday morning was dim and overcast. If not for the narrow strip of greenish grass between the road and the sidewalk, the view of the lake from Sheridan could've been a sepiatone landscape. But this morning, there was no sign at all of the huge flock of geese who'd been resting there for the past week, presumably because they've continued south. Even so, perhaps because there's been so much chatter about the falling temperatures this week, I found the air less brisk than expected. A healthy stroll at lunchtime even sounds like an enticing prospect.