Aubrey’s blog

"Welcome to Chicago.
This town stinks like a whorehouse at low tide."

No it doesn't.  It's muggy and close, yes.  But the trees are tall and broad, like the buildings.  Much of it reminds me of London, or even New York.  The buildings are big and sepia stained.  There is sidewalk greenery and mini-fences of black metal.

It keeps its age and builds on it.

There is crime, murder and naughtiness in its past:

there are slaughterhouses, industries too.  I dared to walk on Michigan Avenue and was nearly bowled over by the foot-traffic.  The skyscrapers overlook a LAKE.

 

I'm rather taken with the place.

Sunday morning we assembled in the hotel's restaurant, The Pump Room (so very Jane Austen), for breakfast.  We took pictures of our elegant breakfasts,

discussed the bird I saw yesterday, which excited me very much becuase it wasn't either brown or gray (L.A. bird colors),

and talked about our plans for the day and our pending travels back home.

Today would be art day for me - I had big plans for the Art Institute of Chicago.  Arbed, Michelle and I went together.  Now I don't know if Michelle realized she would be our unofficial Chi-Guide, but I bless her for being so.  I bless her and bus #151.

Michelle knows her city - she knows its events, places and directions.  Do I know my city?  No.  And I don't really want to.  L.A. quite often simply gives me the pip.

The AIC had many pleasant surprises - Spanish (Cotan, Goya) and Dutch (Terborch, Rembrandt), for instance.  There was a lovely Moreau, and I sat in front of it, drinking in its shadows and jewels.  A woman sat beside me, and wanted to know what I saw in the painting.  I  said that Moreau was a symbolist painter, which was a mammoth mistake as I really don't have a good definition of symbolism...but I did what I could for her.

The Beardsley drawing which I thought the museum housed I couldn't find.  He must be looking down on me, tormenting me, coughing into his cloudy sleeve, my poor TB boy.  No matter.  It's a fine museum.

Eventually our group came to a parting of ways.  Mariser and Lord K. were driving home - I will treasure my wee amber bourbon bottle - Valerae drove as well:  we left the maid a proper tip, plus a couple of handfuls of chocolates.  I'll get the DVDs to you - oh, and payment for the room.

Arbed, our clever leader, Peg (no one took the left-over pizza?), Laurie - tiny but with a powerful hug (yes, I got writer cooties) and the Cap'n - a kinder hugger - left for their planes in the afternoon, and I hope no storms shattered their itineraries.  Brown Amazon traveled with me to the airport.  Michelle, our local, went home to do her laundry.

Everyone I know is mad at me for not taking pictures that included myself in them.  Please don't hate.

"Here endeth the lesson."

(note:  all quotes courtesy of 'The Untouchables', 1987)

"I do not approve of your methods!
Yeah, well...you're not from Chicago."

Saturday:

Late breakfast at a place which will forever be remembered as the restaurant-whose-owner-ran-after-us-to-claim-a-gratuity-which-he-said-we-never-left-although-Michelle-said-otherwise-and-was-about-to-smack-him-down-for-his-troubles.  A weird situation.  It made our visit to the Shedd Aquarium even more urgent.  We needed to see belugas.

I don't know what our Saturday schedule was precisely, but I'm pretty sure it didn't involve spending ALL DAY at the aquarium.  And yet we did.

Anyway.  The Shedd was built in 1930; its interior is a divine mixture of art deco and maritime.  A zodiac of sea creatures swam above me:

There were plaster turtles...

and marble whales:

...all decorative enough to stay safe within their media, but realistic enough to threaten to break through their aesthetic dimensions.

We all wandered where we pleased.  AmyH and I saw beluga whales

and dolphins.  We were watching the tank, waiting for whales - I'm sure many of you have been in the same position - and were about to leave when we saw them.  They had such a calming effect - we were so comforted by the belugas' white grace.  A microphone picked up their clicks and singing, sounds that might have come from dead mariners, tapping out messages from their buried grottoes.

I got the story on Nickel the Snapping Turtle from AmyH (which didn't surprise me, as no on can resist talking to an outgoing strawberry blonde).  Hit by a car (the turtle, not AmyH), she was rescued and given a home at the aquarium.  X-rays revealed that she had swallowed a nickel, which must have added to her problems.  But it also gave her a name.

A small, lush aquarium.  There were penguins, which I said were like banjoes:  one you couldn't be sad while listening to it, the others you couldn't be sad looking at them.

And there were many other characters, besides:

 

Eventually we returned to our Palatial Suite to meet up with the others and decide on dinner.  It was a vexing topic:  some for pizza, some not.  I'm not fond of Chicago-style pizza, so I went with Brown Amazon and Valerae to Spring - a former Russian bathhouse from the early 1920's. 

Spring retained the old outer facade, and inside still had the tile that once housed sweating Russians.  The food was excellent; I forgot the cocktail that the others had, but it was strawberry-based and looked crisp and refreshing.  I had a sazerac - because it is an old classic, and because it had absinthe.  BrownA tried some rather toxic white wine ("This is horrible - try it!") as well.  

Back home.  Time for presents!  Arbed made post-its and refrigerator magnets for everyone to commerate our weekend.  She also brought some goodies to be given to whomever asked first.  The suited rabbit suited me, and the pancake pin I thought Boyfriend would appreciate.  The mini-whiskey came courtesy of Mariser, Milord and Kentucky:

For the tacky gift exclange, I claimed for myself a pair of Philadelphia socks from the Cap'n.  They hide my large feet admirably:

I brought a trio of gifts, the most successful being a bottle opener in the shape of a bikini-clad woman.  Milord asked for her immediately.  But first, she was passed around for everyone to observe (the destiny of many an unfortunate woman) and when she came back to me, all warm with everyone's fondling, she was finally given to the lucky Lord K.

By this time people were sinking fast.  Thick, humid weather, tons of walking, Vox excitement - it takes a lot out of a person.  And yet, Valerae and I stayed up talking until past 1AM.

(end of Part Two)

Non sequiturs.  They're fun:  tiny morsels of nonsense that were once in context, but once taken from that safe haven, become examples of Silly, although they are representative of actual conversations.

The title of this post was spoken by Valerae while describing her stay at Indy House.  The events behind that statement, well, I am not at liberty to reveal.  Val is small, but she will hit me, because she told me so.

Anyway.  I heard this quote, and many others, on Friday afternoon, in the grand, muggy, smudged,

tall

city of Chicago.  A selection of Vox friends had gathered there for "Squee 2009".

Squee.  Not a noun.  Occasionally an adjective.  Quite often a verb.  Always an exclamation.  Its origins come from http://www.cuteoverload.com.  When a person is overloaded by The Cute (KITTENS!!!)...squee is the type of nonsensical yelp one will exclaim.  Try it:  look at a kitten and see what happens.

"That's the Chicago way."

Chicago weather all this past week had been rather aggressive.  Arbed, AmyH, Laurie, Cap'n - all their flights had to be diverted or delayed, poor children.  My flight was a 4.5 hr. non-stop (bless you Southwest!) flight from Los Angeles.  LAX was surprisingly calm at 9AM, and the only thing of interest I saw was a rabbi standing at the window, reading his prayers, and bowing to the cloudy sky.

Still, as I later told Arbed, I hope never to travel with myself again.  My worrying was a revelation - I don't think there was a single thing that escaped my anxiety.  All quite for nothing.

Arbed, through threats of violence I think, got us into the poshest hotel (Ambassador East):

in the poshest part of the city (The Gold Coast - a name that made me expect to see either Andrew Carnagie or Blueboard walking through our neighborhood).

Valerae and I had The Frank Sinatra Suite.  Oh.  Hell Yes.  How deluxe was this place?  our extra roll of toilet paper was gift wrapped.

By the early afternoon, Valerae, Michelle, Mariser, Milord, Peg o' T. (is the magneta cap finished?), Arbed and my good self had gathered in our suite to talk, discuss, converse.  We are, of course, an abundantly witty group.  We were concerned about the thunderstoms that kept BrownA, AmyH, Laurie and the Cap'n grounded.  But then we also had our concerns about where we should have our dinner.

We ate at Carmine's - a good, Mafiatastic name.  We couldn't decide on the nationality of our waiter - certainly not Italian, though he put on a good show ("Yes ladies, you have a good conversation?").  We were later joined by the charming and devastating Brown Amazon. Our group was slowly becoming a complete one.

Afters, we stopped to buy a few nibbly bits, for our late-night talkiness:

This, plus a glass of merlot at dinner, and many refills of peach-apricot chardonney, courtesy of Valerae, led to a tiny bout of queasiness on Saturday morning.  I staggered into our living room for a handful of pretzals to sop up all that naughty liquor.

(end of Part One) 

Many years ago - apparently 'a few' has been forever replaced by the 'many' - I bought a book on a whim.  Whim purchasing is not a thing I indulge in often, but this was such a charming thing, I couldn't pass it by, leaving it open to the desires of another, lesser buyer.

This book made no attempt to save space or material - the margins are wide, woodsy spaces.  The print is deep and black, the tiny indentation of words creating dimensions of thought beneath my fingers.  The edges of the pages are thick and rough, presenting a gentle confrontation as I turn each page.  It has been said that the essence of the aristocracy was waste and languor.  If that is so, than my little book is an aristocrat.

It is titled, 'The Diary of a Young Lady of Fashion in the Year 1764-1765'.  The writer's name is Cleone Knox, a 19 year-old Irish girl:  romantic, flippant, shallow, delightful.  Fortunately there is no portrait of her, leaving me free to imagine a dimpled, rounded girl with pink cheeks and a snowy skin.  Her hair is piled high with a white frosting, contrasting prettily with her dark eyebrows.  She wears lace at her elbows.  Her dainty hands are endearing and expressive.  She is like scented power, ready to be blown away by the next ill-advised breath.

Cleone, not surprisingly, is in love - with Mr. Ancaster, bold and irresponsible, "the indiscreetest young man alive".  Her father disapproves of the affair, and she argues with lively, teen-aged dramatics.  She is spirited away from Mr. Ancaster's dark temptations, and taken on a 'tour' of England and Europe.  And there commence her adventures - flirtations with young men who gaze at her with superficial admiration.  She receives lively compliments ("Pert little Miss", "Sly little Cat", "Dear sweet adorable little monster!"), and is pulled onto more than one knee, but this is an amorous age ("he touched my shoe softly under the table with his foot"), and Miss Cleone is very patient with these foolish men.

This book is full of secret languages, fluttering fans, raised eyebrows, scandal, gossip, parties and fashion ("Tried on my new striped silk gown which becomes me excessively well").  Cleone misses her Mr. Ancaster, but she still can't resist a comely young man who takes her hand - lightly, significantly - this little girl is a light-hearted coquette.

I really did want to believe this story.  But unfortunately Miss Cleone Knox was the creation of another 19 year-old.  Magdalen King-Hall, no doubt possessing an imagination that strayed great distances and many decades, was bored one summer in 1925, "living at a select seaside resort, the inhabitants of which seemed...to consist mainly of formidable old ladies being dragged along the 'front' in bath chairs by ancient men...".  She sought to rectify this problem with this vicarious 18th century romp.

Very often one is displeased with the century in which one was born.  But while there is fantasy, there is never a need to despair. 

I wonder what it felt like:  the prehistoric DNA that curled through its reptilian veins, twisted and full of knowledge.  I wonder what its dragon's spines felt like, dwindling from the mold of skin that once outlined a slow-moving mountainside - a rough, breathing country.

I wonder what it was like, to see inside the eyes that had blinked through the birthing lakes of a green age, to witness the lifting of a planet's sleep.  I wonder what it was like, to feel the bony architecture of claws and teeth growing out of its body, blueprints for unimagined generations.

I wonder what the cold blood was like - Arctic blue and ice - resting in pools inside of muscles and tendons stretched like yards of living fabric.  These yards wove a Mesozoic tapestry that nurtured prehistory's secrets within its threads.  An embroidery of nerves, with synapses glowing like bonfires, urged the sinews into movement - shifting the plates of a protesting earth, challenging its young geology.

I wonder what it felt like, the tornado of years spinning down paths of extinction and exhaustion.  I wonder what it was like to evolve to this final place, to be a dinosaur, full of memories, warming itself on a brick one sunny afternoon.

I'm a day late announcing it, but I have all year to repeat it.

"It's my party and I'll lie if I want to

Lie if I want to

Lie if I want to

You would lie too if you'd turned fifty-two"

I will continue to be Father Time's most embarrassing child.

"...in that stern Ligurian district up above the seacoast, where angry Neptune beats against the rocks.  There, like Venus, she was born among the waves."

Her profile was like a coastline, offering both dangers and havens to the hand that caressed it.  The fingers would hold the memory of the lines, curves and soft plateaus of her face - and the skin would be pierced with burning recollections.

Coiled and curled about her neck like amber vipers, her hair writhed down her back.  Her flesh was pale and warm - marble that had melted under an Italian sun and then poured into a shape rivaling that of Venus.  Some said she was born in Portovenere, where that most voluptuous of goddesses was born; where she combed her gilded hair inside a pillared temple.

She was named Simonetta Cattaneo, and was born in 1453 or 1454.  During this time the roles of women were obvious, yet hidden:  prostitutes lounged in churches; the beauties of the day wove amongst their admirers like fish; they were exquisite blurs, eluding the many hooks laid out to catch them.

But Simonetta was caught when still a child - adulthood came quickly to claim youth, innocence had few defenders.  She was married at 15 to a Florentine, Marco Vespucci.  Within a few years, every nobleman in the city was watching her, catching his breath at the sight of her creamy skin and wild, auburn braids.  Each one saw his desire reflected in the pearls ascending her brow.

In 1475 one of those men, Guiliano de Medici, entered the lists of a jousting tournament carrying a banner that bore the image of Simonetta dressed as Athena.  In the soft, golden breezes her figure rippled and beckoned; beneath it was written La Sans Pareille, "The Unparalleled One".  Guiliano won the tournament and Simonetta was named "The Queen of Beauty".

Sandro Botticelli decorated the banner.  Her face floated throughout his paintings, a ghostly feminimity that chained them together in unrequited ardor.  She was Flora, Goddess of Spring; She was Venus, gazing serenely on the sleeping Mars, lying naked an defeated next to her; she was Venus emerging from the sea, her hair unlocked and alive in the rose-scented air, balanced on a shell that curled at her feet. 

But these veiled tributes were painted after her death, when grief drove Botticelli's limbs and creativity to recapture an unacceptable loss.  Simonetta died in 1476 from tuberculosis; her beauty shining with a sickly glamour, her blankets sprayed with blood, like scarlet mists from Venus' sea. 

It was Botticelli's request to be buried at Simonetta's feet, a request that was honored.  He lies there as a victim of beauty's tyranny, a symbol of humility and exhausted passion, beating against distant shores.

I have become reconciled to Spring.  Even though it puts the soft chills of Autumn and Winter to flight, I do not resent that pastel-colored season.  If Summer is a lazy voluptuous woman, immobile in her thick and fragrant bower, then Spring is blithe and slim: as changeable as sunlight under water, breaking into watery prisms, impossible to count.

Spring is busy.  Nature's offspring are born during that verdant time, when the earth becomes lush again and the air is blue and spinning.

During these months, birds become loud, reckless and bold.  Where I live, real estate is at a minimum, and the days are strident with their arguments.  Gables, street signs, garages, rooftops - all are populated with perfect creatures that maneuver through the air with a mathematical ascendancy.

Their songs pierce the sunlight until the golden fabric becomes a pattern of their febrile joy. 

When I walk to work, I always pass by a row of decorative shrubs: prickly, tropical and dense.  Once, I heard in their sultry depths the plaintive pwee-pwee of a newborn bird - too childish to realize the danger of its voice.  I stopped, hoping I could discern where the nest was.  It was then that I saw a peculiar machine perched on top of the shrubbery.  It was a mockingbird, rising its wings up and down like an automaton, a heraldic toy.

It was trying to make itself as intimidating as possible.  But despite this whimsical masquerade, I moved closer.  It was the sight of its needle-like beak, ready to embroider the skin of any intruder, that finally gave me pause.  I spoke a few calming words, all the while waiting for the gasp of wings: the impatient breath in my ear should I not be retreating quickly enough.

I have often thought about the words I spoke to that angry parent.  Mockingbirds are famous mimics, and I imagined this bird measuring my voice, analyzing its tonal equations.  And I hope to hear it again one day, coming back from its green, concealed places or floating down to me from the sky.

It is a symphony of sickly colors.  A random collection of rich, carved things painted with an understanding that is dour and cold.  It has the strange, reflective glow of a world beneath the sea - colored with pastes of seaweed, shells and yellow, altered light.  It could be the remains of an underwater meal, where Neptune had just risen from the table, blue and sated.

It is this altered light, as controlled and understood as a domestic animal, which has made this painting famous.  Light's subtle movements are calculated, traced and pinned to the canvas like butterflies stolen from the air.  It travels in thin, hot rivers along the edges of a glass, pooling in the concave base of a chalice, and is still and green like a mossy lake at the bottom of a wine goblet.  Reflections of window panes, portals of illumination, float through these murky waters.

One expects such clear and inquisitive lighting to emanate from the sun - the most perverse star of all:  bright during the day, covered and silent like a child at night.  Instead, it reclines in a globule of tinted oil, poised at the end of a paintbrush - a daytime star ready to fall.

Hidden in this landscape of food, glass and silver are signs of momento mori: reminders of the vanities of life in the midst of this tranquil luxury.  These are subtle warnings:  the broken timepiece - its winding key dangling helplessly in a black, empty space.  A glass has fallen on its side, the broken pieces scattered on the plate where the slice of pie waits to be finished, rendering dangerous a symbol of the lush, satisfied life.

Across this scenery - a map of extravagance and admonition, mountainous with fine linen, mysterious, dark and flourishing - light falls with its myriad definitions.  Walls and glasses drip with the ocean's wavering reflections.  Silver melts into a luminous shadow.  Fabric breathes like a sleeping animal.  Darkness becomes a recluse and retreats into its resentment, as light spreads across the inanimate country, particles of the atmosphere touching angles, curves and corners - a life-giving invasion.

The neighborhood where I work is an assertive one - a person cannot walk through it unknowing, for it dares to prey on the imagination.  Vines leap over walls like sleek, chlorophyll-ridden animals.  Stone fountains, small imitations of ancient indulgence, stand behind black gates.  Flowers embrace homes in a blooming grip, their discarded petals turning the sidewalk into a slowly dying tapestry.  The fragrance of growing things, of distant acres, colors the breezes.

Taking all of this into consideration, it is no wonder why I don't mind walking through this fancied countryside.  I always take my time, observing the shapes and colors that surround me, varied and charming.  Nature's creativity extends before me like a map, guiding me into a foray on her wit and vision.

Last week, when I traveled down this path, I saw something that I swear I had never seen before.

It was a door, closed and inscrutable, and unexpectedly blue.  For some reason, it pleased me.  It might have been the color:  it was not garish or unprincipled; it was not an invasion of this flourishing country.  It might have been the vines that surrounded the doorway, green palms facing outward as if they were introducing me to this cerulean entrance.

I wondered what was beyond it.  A depthless garden, its shadows dark and twilight, lined with starry flowers?  Indigo streams, lined with silver reeds that swept and glistened like a satin dess?  Pebbles from the ocean, in maritime hues, tinted by fogs and watery horizons?  Or landscapes of Renaissance sfumato, melting into a turquoise dusk?

I looked and wondered, until the thoughts and phantoms became unendurable.  So I continued walking, leaving behind the door with its locked, azure secrets.