Back in the Burgh

I find it unfathomable that we are actually back in the Burgh. Yes, of course, I bought return tickets several months ago, and yes, of course, I told my chair to expect me. But there was a time there in mid-July, when we were in full Dome stride, scraggly and dirty and juggling 52 visitors and work and child care and an aggressive schedule of local exploration, there for one brief instant all thoughts of the Burgh had vanished, and life was exceptionally good. Pittsburgh had begun to seem like a formal backstory, a sinister hintergrund that existed only to explain the glorious vordergrund that was Life in the Mountains. We accepted it as we once accepted that Nostromo had dabbled in the African diamond trade, and that Marlowe had had dealings with the natives: a sketchy narrative hook, quickly skimmed and dimly remembered in the eager pursuit of the Next Thing.

But for better or for worse, the hintergrund has become the vordergrund, and we are back in the land of smokestacks. Which is actually damn beautiful this time of year, with an almost jungle-like lushness in the local parks and all manner of flowers bursting from the rather too-cultivated window boxes of the local kleinburgers. In our two-month absence a 10 foot tree seems to have sprung up in the driveway, and tomato plants have sprawled so aggressively that we can't find the basement stairs. The oaks are festooned with songbirds, and the white hum of crickets lasts long into the night.

So, barring the flight back, things are off to a good start. (The flight back could not have been worse: whether it was because or in spite of our disconsolate child and 100 pounds of hand luggage, we got stuck in Chicago and didn't pull in until 5 in the morning. Zoogle, needless to say, was delighted, principally because the delay provided an excellent excuse to wreck his already shattered sleep schedule. Last night he ran laps from 11 to 4, and he's wasted no time in breaking out into a full body flaming red stress rash. When do these creatures acquire normally responsive bodies?)

Aside from extinguishing Zoogle-flames, we're settling into what we hope will be a steady and productive routine. Miles to go in the next four months: Catalina needs to finish a chapter and half of her thesis and apply for jobs, while I need to finish at least one paper, apply for a grant, apply for jobs, and teach two or three courses (for which I have made not the slightest preparation.) Add to this the usual ratty social calendar, a teeming self-improvement agenda (yoga, bird-watching, reading: it's all there), and a growing need for downtime, and you have what is clearly an impossible set of ambitions. Our real ambition is to fail gracefully.

It has occurred to me that Zoogles' first birthday is less than two weeks away. The thought impresses itself for two reasons: one, that this means we engendered this creature almost a full two years ago, which is odd, since I have no memory of time moving since then, and two, that this blog, which has been a lovely but time-limited discipline, will need to wind to a close. Which is unfortunate, for where else will I vent my urban spleen?