And the skyline will be our home
From the end of my street I can see all the skyscrapers of Minneapolis. If that isn’t evidence of what a big small city Minneapolis is, nothing ever will be. There are about four or five real skyscrapers in that city across the river. The whole mass of big, shiny glass buildings occupies only a few degrees on the horizon.
Think of it this way: fall has not yet taken all the leaves off the oaks and elms that hang down low over the intersection of Fulham and Hendon. That leaves me with a small window to the west, about the size of a compact car. And yet through it the whole city is visible.
There’s a reason you don’t often see postcard depicting the great Midwestern skyline of Minneapolis. But we’re working on it; lots of construction going on. Mostly lofts, but some big buildings, too. Soon we’ll be the largest metropolis in the Midwest north of Chicago.
OK, we’re already that. And also we’re the only metropolis in the Midwest north of Chicago. And we will never surpass the windy city. The Sears tower alone would make our loftiest edifice tremble and squirm.
Not that I mind. There’s nothing wrong with being mid-sized. We can legitimately pretend to be big, and legitimately pretend to be small. Neither is accurate but neither is incorrect. For what it’s worth I like being able to see both edges of the city without moving my head. Makes it easier to get oriented.
If you’re ever in Minneapolis, don’t open your eyes until you’re standing to the northeast. That’s the best view, in my view, although that’s where I most frequently view it from. So maybe I’m not trustworthy. Or maybe I’m _extra_ trustworthy. You decide.
Last night the buildings sat blinking, silently, and I realized there’s nothing more empty or alone than an empty city. How many human beings could be counted inside those swaying towers at 9:30 at night? 500? 2000?
And at 3:47 in the morning? 20? 7?
Think of all that empty office space; stories upon stories of cold, dead volume. And from my street, between the oak branches, it all looks so small and fragile. As if it really were made of glass.
By contrast the houses on my block show all kinds of signs of life. Rooms shimmer in the blue glow of televisions. Chimneys cough politely, like babies, in little puffs of white. Bathroom windows bead up with steam; putting the kids to bed.
And what do we look like to someone at the top of the IDS tower? There’s nothing to obstruct the view up there, except perhaps an occasional cloud. But last night was flawless; one of those October skies made for full moons and bare branches. So what do they see?
I know what they see. And you do to, if you’ve ever been on a plane at night. It’s a mossy bed of yellow lights, growing haphazardly mold. From the towers of Minneapolis my block is, at best, a ridge of darkness. At worst it’s indistinguishable from the others.
How many people are in the houses on this block at 9:30 pm? 50? 100? So why is it we are the symbol of life and vitality, while poor old Minneapolis must not only stand empty, but also stand for emptiness.
Right, sorry. Why, beside because I said so?
They are so quiet, those skyscrapers. They sleep so peacefully. You’d think for all that cost and all that trouble they’d keep them running round the clock. But no, the tallest buildings in the upper Midwest shut their eyes just like the smallest.
And who knows, maybe looking down on us from way up there, we all look peaceful too. Twinkling away the last few hours before we go to sleep, and only the darkness and the streetlights remain.