And he’s hitting the town in style!

He does feel a bit naked without some nice UV mapping, but that will be soon.
For now, let’s cruise!

I’m thinking of Arlington, not in any kind of sentimental fashion, but instead in the most empirical way that I can. I spoke recently with a friend from the DC area about the transient nature of that part of the world. She offered the idea that the flux and change of the DC metro area could ideologically be extended to a greater American architectural/landscape context; the impermanence, the need for re-imagining American visual iconography, hyper-history (end of History, hystory), confusion/disassociation, postmodern iconography dominating social relevance. Our conversation lead us to thinking of how this dilemma is manifested in Chicago.

One way that Chicago seems to demarcate it’s identity is through the obsession with the monumental. Being the “Third City” in the American urban repository, the city combats re-imaging itself through outdoing it’s previous feats; it holds records, defined by constant improvement/embellishment. The skyline competes with the stars at night. Chicago is a cityscape of experiment and incongruity. The Chicago School has yet more phases, in a state of constant preparation for some consolidation of it’s image/presence. It faces the task of Midwestern representation by being an amalgam of lofty pillars and small-town neighborhoods; a paradigm that is not an easy fit, as evidenced by the amount of self-conflict, (historic) racial tension/segregation, and powerful grass-roots organization to challenge local political corruption/mismanagement.

I counter these thoughts of transience with recent memories and feelings towards somewhere that I should typically consider “home.” The moments and locations of my childhood one would normally fixate on are fuzzy, distant, and in some-instances physically demolished or covered by the urban blossoming of Arlington. Instead, I’m drawn towards more recent memories of being back there (about 3 years ago now). The first picture above is of a park off of Kirby Road in McLean. When home, I would often take my folks car out late and drive very purposefully to this park, often having several cigarettes in brisk fall nights. I have more certain memories of this park, and the slow, winding road of Old Dominion Drive, than other moments and histories. This park was often overgrown during the fall, letting thousands of dandelions and daisies spread their last pollen before winter. Fortunately I recently found pictures of this field – capturing the memory of the small yellow and green pasture – and turned them into a repeatable texture to put into SketchUp.

These landscape move; the fractures and glitches are now metaphors for how, “Space, place, and landscape… denote not a fixed static object, [but] an ongoing process.” (Postmodern Cartographies, Brian Jarvis). This video, and others from previous posts are recapitulations of personal identity through further abstracting the idea of landscape and space in virtual environments. The “realness” of these places is no longer relevant: “Space needs to be made visible by foregrounding its ideological content,” (Jarvis). I’m opting to take the public/social politics temporarily out of this space in order for me to have a little home.

I called a friend. She didn’t pick up nor did she return my message; I didn’t expect that she would.

I went down to the train. It was airy and silent, but suddenly filled with a trumpet practicing scales; fumbling through the arcs, diligently repeating the notes. It echoed in the massive cavern of the station, leaving a more brilliant silence in its wake. The brass toiled, fell out of key, started over, and blew empty with the sound of cleaning the spit valve.

The trains came – both north and south bound at the same time – and I bored a nearly empty car. I sat alone, facing a man with a broken rosary. He cleaned his fingernails with the broken bits of holy beads in a gesture that seemed both hallowed and guilty. He wouldn’t look up, and I watched the outside below speedily staring back at me (or at least to the train). I nearly couldn’t get off due to a crowd on the platform. They seemed cold and distant, all watching their feet, bowing their heads in a sullen half-drunk shuffle, pulling their hoods tighter over their ears, and reluctant to make room for me to exit the platform.

I walked home, with gestures similar to my train waiting captors except my intoxication came from absence and reconstructing the day. I felt like running to shake and sweat away my thoughts of the evening. I thought of the show I was coming from; my ears rang and my feet felt heavy. There were mysterious women there. They came to me in my walk home; tights wearing ghosts with dark halos of hair cropped short and precise. Some looked immensely happy, very present in their moments and their friends, highlighting my distance and preoccupation. They moved casually, briskly floating like shadows of a breeze; gliding over the ash ridden cement, unaffected by their surroundings, looking through me – making me the ghost.

I couldn’t remember where Wabansia was when a stranger asked me for directions. I told them north, and I’m almost certain I led them in the right direction. They seemed satisfied with any guidance I would give, much preferring to continue on then allow me to give them proper assistance. The boy of the pair said, “What you’re saying is fulfilling all the fantasies I had expected.” I thought it was a lavish statement, but continued to let them stagger on, clenching their hands in tight pockets.

I saw a tree with it’s bark peeling like paper. I heard a man on a bike say to his companion behind him, “I live here,” pointing to the large housing project @ 1414 Damen. “JK,” he said, and she laughed while riding steadily south past me. I heard men talking about buses, but for unknown reasons. I thought of cigarettes. I listened to the roar of people inside Rainbo as the doors opened as I passed. I thought of the cold, and how it had been much warmer during the week. I met with a friend today and talked about living in DC. I saw someone knocking on a glass window to try and wake the occupants. There was a man looking up into his house, watching a light go off, he then looked at his feet. I remembered sad music.

As I came closer to home, I wondered about the day. I saw a former neighbor on a bus and I had forgotten how blue her eyes were. She is living with an acquaintance of mine now, enjoying their company, but I don’t think in a romantic fashion. I was started by the eagerness of her giving me her phone number. I had reached my stop as soon as she had handed me the torn receipt with her contact information scrawled on it with my pen. It was nice to see her, but I wondered whether I would actually get in touch. I fear, however, that I enjoy the idea of seeing her more than the actual process of doing so.

During my last steps down my street, I thought of the plaguing affect I have on myself during moments of prolonged personal silence and reflection. I do no good thinking the thoughts of pain and passion right before retiring into a weekend, and in doing so, I rekindle fears and doubts of my mind and body into the time when I should be trying to relax the most. I couldn’t concentrate, I wanted to be overwhelmed, I could bear the cold. I sat down to write.

Love you mom!