Diary 52

12.18.24

It’s moments like these when the ether lays exposed
in winter light. The hounds gathered at the edge
of the woods. A freight train cutting through
the middle distance where the men and
women forget themselves. A sense of
great beauty and stillness. When
for a moment we assume
our correct size. For a
moment we trust
the framework
will hold.

12.20.24

There’s a cat that’s been visiting the house. Looks like a lynx, with black striped fur and pale green eyes. It sits on the stoop mewing at the front door, then once it’s let inside, moves between rooms in that quiet, agile way that cats do. I’ve been allergic since I was a kid, so I’m decidedly tempting fate, hoping some exposure therapy will cure me. But it’s too beautiful not to pet, anyways.

12.23.24

Flew into Chicago yesterday. Snow on the ground. Before bed last night, around midnight, my little brother goes “look how bright it is outside,” and sure enough the snow, reflecting the light of the moon, had made the night brilliant. Everything glowing slightly.

There’s been many instances like this over the course of the year— glimpses of nature that, if only briefly, seem to reinstill my faith in the future.

ATTENTION INVENTORY: Poetry / Essays

- Two poems by Kai Carlson-Wee
- Patrick Fealey, “The Invisible Man”
-People’s Paradise on substack, “Dover Street Farmer’s Market”

“Oh, man is a god when he dreams, a beggar when he thinks; and when inspiration is gone, he stands, like a worthless son whom his father has driven out of the house, and stares at the miserable pennies that pity has given him for the road.”
—Friedrich Hölderlin, Hyperion

12.30.24

Went to the Art Institute to see a collection of works by Paula Modersohn-Becker, a German artist from the late 19th century known for her candid portraiture (and to have painted the first nude self-portraits made by a woman). The exhibition, titled “Ich Bin Ich / I Am Me” contains paintings, charcoal drawings, & prints Becker made between 1898-1907, all of which depict the human form in a tender, yet unembellished way, lending the body a certain gravity. From these works it’s clear Becker preferred pith over ornamentation. Grit over gloss. Illustrating the way a body displays affection, displays grief, displays stoicism, without offering any situational context. She often harnessed subdued, if not entirely blank backgrounds to accentuate wrinkled skin, a wisp of hair, gnarled fingers, a hand gingerly placed underneath a pregnant belly; the corporeal details of her subjects that, isolated like this, seem to function as clear-cut windows to their spirit.

Arthur Lubow, “Illuminating a Trailblazing Artist Who Died Too Young,” The New York Times, 8/19/2024.

She looked hard at her sitters, rendering roughened knuckles and dirt-encrusted fingernails as lovingly as a court painter did bridles and breeches. She recognized that hands can divulge as much as faces.

12.31.24

Spent New Year’s Eve at an old blues club. Then ventured out to the street where it was sheer fucking mayhem— fifteen minutes to midnight which meant fifteen minutes to the fireworks show over the Chicago River, everyone drunk and eager, running around looking for a good vantage. We muscled our way through the current and ended up finding a spot down on the riverwalk right next to Merchandise Mart, a ten-minute countdown projected on the face of the building. From here I could see thousands of silhouettes on every street across the river, all packed together like one living, breathing organism, and every so often the crowds would erupt, shouting and cheering, the sound carrying like a tidal wave throughout the city. I started thinking about how everyone was here in the same place, for the same reasons. How we all were celebrating the end of another year, the start of a new one. How we all were hoping for a better future, hoping for a government that would create the kind of world we want to live in. Maybe we all had something we wanted to leave behind in the previous year.
When midnight finally struck I had tears in my eyes.

Back at our place, around 12:45, we started hearing ambulances and police sirens. Downloaded an app that lets you tune in to the local police scanner. Every second they received a different call.

Possible assault, girl bleeding from the face, looks like her boyfriend may have beat her.
Woman threatening to jump off the bridge on Lake and Wacker.
Disturbance on the 61st floor of the Trump Hotel.
Intoxicated driver in a black subaru.
Potential overdose.
Domestic violence.
Three shots fired.
Auto burglary.

And just like that, the despair settled back in.

William Bronk