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One of my rules when I first moved to Chicago was that if I want to see or do something in this city, the only thing holding me back should be my time, money, or energy. I regret that, in my marriage, I would often not do things simply because my husband didn’t want to. After we separated, I vowed not to stay unhappy to sustain a future relationship.

When I moved here, I let Mitch know that he is welcome but not obligated to join me on my outings. While he was at work, I’d hop a train or bus and go exploring. I’ve visited an insect sanctuary, toured the Puerto Rican and Swedish heritage museums, lost my way in Humboldt Park, ridden bicycles along the 606, photographed Tiffany lamps in a 19th-century mansion, and eaten in a falafel shop in the back of a jewelry store. I know how to show myself a good time.

But I also enjoy spending time with Mitch, so when he asked if I could save my plans to visit the Art Institute of Chicago until he could join me, I happily agreed. And then came the holidays, the flu, and below-freezing weather. But last Sunday, we made good on our plans, and it was well worth the wait.

I’d been champing at the bit to go because I didn’t want to miss their Bruce Goff exhibit. Many years ago, my interest in unusual houses led me to discover Goff, an architect who studied with Frank Lloyd Wright, but whose aesthetic sensibilities seem to come from outer space. If I believed that extraterrestrials have lived among us, Bruce Goff would make my shortlist of suspects.

“So, uh, I’ve started a blog again,” I said. “The audience is old friends who met me through online journaling and chat rooms.” (I didn’t want to explain what distinguished a talker from other forms of chat rooms, but I thought fondly of lively conversations on Somewhere Else and Cirrus Nebula.)

“That’s good!”

“I may write about you. Nothing too personal, definitely nothing intimate. But I can’t think of a good pseudonym for you. And you will likely appear in parts of my life I want to write about, so…”

“This is for your friends?”

“I have no plans or illusions about amassing tons of followers.”

“Just use Mitch,” he said, easily solving the dilemma I had created.

Mitch and I were having dinner at the counter of Little Goat Diner, our current favorite place to eat before and after seeing movies at the Music Box. We bought tickets to see Lady Windermere’s Fan, a 1925 silent movie directed by Ernst Lubitsch. The 35mm film was accompanied by a live pianist.

I’m not going to become a film purist — purism can quickly become a synonym for unreasonably high expectations — but after years of digital projections, it’s fun to observe the subtle differences with film projections. There’s a shimmery quality as the frames flicker past. Shadows are richer, because you’re seeing the physical impediment of light through a substance rather than an absence of HSV values. And, particularly in the AI slop era, the crackles and imperfections are pleasant reminders that human beings touched every part of the process. I enjoy pristine digital restorations, too, though, and appreciate the work that people put into preserving movies.

The movie, based on an Oscar Wilde play but completely rewritten for silent film, was an enjoyable, humane comedy about misunderstandings and reputations among British society members. Irene Rich was the standout as the maligned but effervescent Mrs. Erlynne. And, yes, the fan does feature prominently in the story.

This is only my second Lubitsch movie, following 1933’s pre-Code film Design for Living, where Miriam Hopkins forms a throuple with Fredric March and Gary Cooper. Pre-Code movies are interesting.

Mitch and I take turns playing the straight man and the comic. Last night, The Chicago Film Society had a slideshow before the movie, promoting their upcoming films for the season, one of which was for Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin.

“Did you know 1925 Soviet audiences ran out of the theater because they thought the baby carriage was coming at them?” I asked.

I thought he was going to tell me that accounts of people running from projections of oncoming trains were most likely apocryphal stories spread by early 20th century marketing folks, but instead he said, “That poster was totally made with AI — look at that unreadable text!”

He won that round.

Blogging is back, baby!

Since I moved to Chicago in September, I’d been thinking about starting an online journal not unlike the one I kept while living in St. Louis. In the 2000s, I used to describe my outings around the city. I’d share photos, talk about my relationship, think aloud about politics and culture, and wrestle my as-yet undiagnosed mental health issues. But what if I could do that now, when one of these situations is undeniably worse, but everything else is better?

I’ll acknowledge upfront that the current government and everything it ruins is going to influence what I write. I can’t ignore what’s going on, but I couldn’t ignore the Bush II administration, either – and I believe their decisions and policies laid the groundwork for where we are today, so they don’t get credit for being less overtly awful – and yet I still managed to find space to write about going to movies, eating at restaurants, taking public transit, and working on crafts. I’d like a space where I can write about these things.

And I’d prefer it be semi-private. I kept an online journal of some kind for over a decade. I flirted with the idea of amassing thousands of readers when I discovered the online journal community in the late ‘90s. Now I’d be content with tens of readers, especially in era where online fame is a minefield. Fame of any kind was alluring in my 20s, but as I near 50, I take comfort in obscurity. You attract fewer creeps, and you rarely worry about your personal brand.

I know the pressure to attract and retain subscribers is real if sharing online content is your primary means of support, but I’ve felt a version of that pressure, worrying about a minus-one in my Instagram subscriber count –– who did I lose? Was it because I haven’t posted in a few weeks? Was it because I haven’t engaged enough with their posts? Was it because I keep posting CTA train reels? Do I actually care? Am I trying to achieve Instagram fame?

No. I’ve just conditioned myself to measure my value in three-digit numbers, knowing I won’t see a comma in my subscriber count unless I go viral, which would most likely happen for the wrong reasons.

I don’t feel authentic online lately, and that bothers me. Facebook feels overwhelming. Instagram is overwhelming. Chats with friends have become overwhelming. And I’ve got an ongoing job search in a shitty economy to keep me overwhelmed, so I’ve withdrawn. I understand that feeling of overwhelm comes from within. Nobody is putting pressure on me to respond every day to current events, and I’m not expecting my friends to do that, but when I tap blue f on my phone, I instinctively hold my breath, because chances are high that the first thing I encounter will anger or sadden me.

(Oh dear, am I sounding like Barbara Bush wanting to protect her “beautiful mind” from thinking about displaced Hurricane Katrina survivors?)

I’m going to see if I can be authentic here. I’m going to try to remember what it’s like to write without minding my follower count (“Back in my day, you had to do some homework to figure out who’s reading your shit!”). Here’s the newest addition to my decades-old blogography, joining Mental Sewage, Bring on the Loser, Meanwhile, This is Frippy, and the handful of Columbia-era blogs whose names I’ve forgotten.*

And yes, I’m done with the “serial, life-based non-fiction” nonsense I used to weakly differentiate myself from bloggers in the 2000s. It’s a blog, and I’m okay with that. See? I have grown!

Also, I am disabling comments. This is a one-way signal, just like it used to be.

*If none of this makes sense, you either don’t remember or you’re new here. None of old journals are online anymore, so don’t worry. There’s no required reading.