I'm doing Chicago a disservice by writing about it so long after the fact; I had a great time, wandering around on foot and by El, having meals with fine folks, going to the Bookslut reading. Had a Tangtini and some excellent beer. Saw the Art Institute, and bought art out of a former cigarette machine -- the art came in a silver cardboard box that I have yet to open. It's very shiny. I have no idea what's inside -- pop photographs, allegedly. But are there several tiny prints, or one big one that unfolds? Shaking the box tells me nothing. And that's not how I'd want to learn, anyways.
I couldn't get a read on Chicago, the whole time I was there -- it was truly Midwest, I suppose, halfway between New York and California. Wide streets, plenty of cars, but public transit, great walking. Clear skies. Beautiful weather, the whole time. I walked around Millenium Park a few hours before my flight, got down to the lake. And the city right there, just within my reach, all those buildings. I get impressed by tall buildings. I saw so many skylines in a short space of time.
And now when I see LA's, it causes that same sort of sucker punch. It makes me think of the episode of Sports Night, when the homeless man splits a sandwich with Dan. "Look at what we can do." Sure, a 50-story skyscraper isn't quite climbing Everest. But it's still man slapping sky. Reaching up.
So I'm back in LA. A week starting tomorrow. And there's been very little sitting still in all of that week -- running errands, doing work, procrastinating work, writing. I need more time to read books and revise screenplays and start figuring out how the hell this play of mine is going to work. SMRT-TV is coming back too, and that needs a whole lot of attention.
This is my life as a freelancer. And I like it a lot, in some ways.