The Physical City
Summer 2009
I began to inhabit the city more physically.
Running became part of it — loops around Lake Calhoun, Lake of the Isles, sometimes alone, sometimes with Eric when he was in town. We’d fall into that quiet rhythm of running side by side, not always talking, just syncing pace, letting the lake carry the conversation.
Biking stretched further.
Long rides around the chain of lakes. Down Minnehaha Parkway. Across the Stone Arch Bridge at dusk when the skyline caught the last light.
Some nights it was just me. Other nights it was Jesse and whoever else was around — Joe sometimes, Ted on occasion — loose formations of bikes cutting through the city, no strict destination. Someone would suggest a bar, someone else a show, and we’d just drift in that direction, weaving through traffic, taking side streets, doubling back if something looked interesting.
There was a kind of unspoken trust in it.
You didn’t need a plan. The city would provide one.
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The Social Fabric
The social life settled into something steady but unstructured.
Jesse was one of the constants — the kind of friend you didn’t need to schedule with. You’d text, or just end up in the same place, or decide last minute to grab food or a drink and see where the night went.
Joe had a different energy — more spontaneous, sometimes pushing things further than planned. Ted drifted in and out depending on what was going on, but when he was there, it always felt like something might happen — a longer night, a stranger conversation, a shift in direction.
Eric’s visits were more punctuated, but meaningful. When he came through, it felt like reconnecting to an earlier version of myself — Green Bay, shared history, something more rooted. We’d pack a lot into those weekends: biking downtown, walking the bridge, grabbing breakfast somewhere simple the next morning like it was a ritual.
A typical night didn’t announce itself.
It started small — meeting at Muddy Waters, or grabbing a drink somewhere that wasn’t too crowded. Then it stretched.
Someone would mention a show. Someone else knew about an opening. Or we’d just walk — from one place to another, letting the city dictate the route.
Sometimes we’d end up at a concert — a small venue, nothing formal. Other nights it was just bars, or someone’s apartment, or a late-night conversation that drifted into nothing and everything at once.
Not every night was memorable.
But enough of them were.
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Friends as Movement
The thing about those friendships is they weren’t static.
They were tied to movement.
You didn’t just “hang out” — you went somewhere. Even if that somewhere was vague. A show. A ride. A neighborhood you hadn’t been to in a while.
Jesse might suggest biking downtown just because the weather felt right. Joe might push for one more stop when it was already late. Ted might disappear for a while and then reappear with a new idea or place.
Eric, when he was there, made it feel grounded — like you could compress a lot of meaning into a short stretch of time.
Each person shaped the city differently.
And through them, the city kept expanding.
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Art Nights
The art scene wasn’t something I entered alone for long.
After that initial period of hovering, I started going with people — Jesse most often. Sometimes Joe would come along. Occasionally Ted. It changed the experience.
You’d arrive together, but not stay together the whole time.
Someone would peel off into a conversation. Someone else would get pulled into a different room. You’d regroup later, compare notes without saying that’s what you were doing.
“Did you see that print?” “Did you talk to that guy?” “There’s another thing happening down the street.”
And then you’d move again.
There was less pressure when you weren’t alone. You didn’t have to prove anything. You could just exist in the space, absorb it, react to it, talk when it felt natural.
Sometimes the best part wasn’t the art itself.
It was leaving.
Walking out into the night, decompressing, deciding what to do next. That moment of transition — from event back into the city — where everything felt slightly heightened.
That’s when the conversations got good.
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Experiments and Drift
There were stretches where I tried to pull things together more seriously.
Start a project. Commit to a direction.
Sometimes I’d talk about it with Jesse — ideas for prints, websites, things I wanted to build. He had a way of listening that made it feel possible without forcing it.
Other times it stayed internal.
I’d sit at home working through something — code, layout, a design idea — and feel like I was on the edge of something real. Then it would stall. Or I’d shift to something else. Or the energy would dissipate.
Occasionally I’d show something to someone — Jesse, or Eric when he was around — and get that brief moment of external perspective.
“Yeah, that’s good.” “You should keep going with that.”
I rarely did, at least not in the way I intended.
I kept moving.
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The Stone Arch
There was one night that felt like a distillation of all of it.
Jesse and I biked downtown — no plan, just movement. We ended up at a small show, something half-advertised, half-discovered. Stayed for a while, talked to a few people, looked at the work.
Joe showed up later, already mid-conversation with someone else, pulled us into it. Ted drifted through at some point, then vanished again.
At some point we left — not because it was over, but because it felt like time to move.
We rode across the Stone Arch Bridge. The city lit up, the river below just a dark mass reflecting pieces of it. No one said much. Just the sound of tires on wood, the occasional click of a gear shift.
We stopped halfway across.
Looked out.
Then kept going.
Nothing about that night was exceptional on its own.
But it held the whole shape of that life.