The city at night

[lhexa]

I remember these things...

During one of my visits to Arlington, I waited until everyone else was asleep, and left the family house on a rickety bicycle. It was something I often did, though this was not to be a journey to chronicle. In the park, the fireflies luminesced. I came to the overpass, thirty feet up, and decided to ascend from the paths by the stream. The strip mall there was mostly closed, but I think I was able to find something to eat before moving on to the hilly, challenging residential areas. At every intersection I paused for a moment, looking down each road, and asked myself which appealed to me the most, which seemed most mysterious, before choosing. This method often led me to cul-de-sacs. I flattered myself, thinking it a marvel that something profound would have its origin in these zig-zagging rides. At a late point, in attempting to articulate a certain feeling, I imagined myself laying my hands on something ceramic, a sculpture maybe, which somehow represented language, and softening it with my touch, then reshaping it. I didn't develop this piece of imagery any further, though I've since come to wonder at its strangeness. How can one soften back into clay, what has already come from the kiln?

Twice in Chicago, due to mistiming and lack of money, I had nowhere to sleep. One of these times, I made my way by bus and then foot from the university to Midway Airport. (This airport had, in fact, been the midpoint of an earlier journey, at whose far end I asked myself, "Do I lick my wounds?" But that story's already been told.) I found, in a parking garage, a dusty little space between two concrete walls, and wedged myself in there to sleep uninterrupted. The other time did not go so well, because the place from where I was to depart the next day was Union Station, located downtown. I dozed briefly on the wooden benches in the Great Hall, but had to leave when the station closed for the night. I wandered vaguely west in the hours before dawn, occasionally stopping in some corner to sleep, but something (the March cold, namely) or someone (an offended guard) always forced me to move on. It felt odd, because it was the first time I had ever felt a city to be a place where I was not welcome, despite having moved through this nighttime city and others numerous times. When I'm moving through those streets for my own unique purposes, I am not unwelcome, but when I am there with a basic need not satisfied through normal means, I am an intruder.

Another time in Chicago, I travelled south until I came to a forest, which I took as a sign to head back. The university is an exception in south Chicago. A more common sight, and one that struck me deeply on this particular ride, are the crammed-together little dwellings, narrow but deep, and two or three stories high, which struck me as somewhat representative of humanity. On first sight they all appear identical, meek and run down, but a closer inspection reveals unique qualities in each one. This pattern I've noticed before, however; what struck me here was that, riding in front of a row of such dwellings, I would suddenly come across a gap. Two healthy buildings would be on either side, but between them rubble, nothing more. I pushed forward, and found a neighborhood where the gaps were the rule, not the exception. And further on, the relative darkness of a factory area. When journeying through the city at night, the dark stretches have a special value for me, but for the most part I prefer to be under the streetlights; fluorescence may not make me warm, but it does light my way.

Unless the trip is on another's time, I only read maps once I return; instead of reading it, and telling myself, "There is where I'll go," I prefer to read it, and tell myself, "This is where I went." This tendency reminds me of an ambition I once had, briefly; I would get a fresh map of Dallas, then explore the city street by street, and whenever I found a location of special beauty (like my shrine, which I had already discovered), I would mark it on the map with a colored dot. I planned to mark bookstores and video game stores, too. To this day, I have some derision for those who bemoan the disappearance of new territories to explore.

Back when I was filling in the details of my last fantasy world, and planning novels to be written in that setting, I wanted to make a prequel, called "The City at Night," which described the transition from a world of technology to one of magic. In this novel, there was a philosopher (employed as a professor; I would give the name, but for the fact I use it as a password) who, through years of self-discipline and study, had learned to do a small amount of magic. However, she was deeply troubled by the epistemological problem of magic: she had experiences which indicated its existence, and could relate these experiences to the stories of other mages, but however much devotion she put into the task, she could not work any magic that could be verified by another person. She couldn't even do any magic that would affect anyone but herself. Thus she lacked the critical piece of evidence that would do away with her ingrained fears of solipsism and delusion. The only solace she found was in wandering through the city, at night. Eventually she did find a way to bring magic into the awareness of humanity, though she died before she could see the chain reaction she started, which inverted the order of the fantasy world.

I dislike the idea of having a grave when I die, or any sort of monument to my death. "Here Lies Lhexa" is too alliterative, anyway. Instead I would like to have a number of stones (they'd be small ones), to be placed in various locations where I experienced an important beginning, or even rebirth; on each would be inscribed, "Here Rose Lhexa." The list of places is currently: the University of Chicago (anywhere on campus will do), my father's house in Virginia, Southern Methodist University (near a certain dormitory), and... Inspiration Point, in the Ozarks. That last one puzzles me whenever I think about it, actually. I think I would have to write something different on the stone that would go there. I set out yearning to explore Dallas, and I found a love for the nighttime city, sometime before SMU, but after Inspiration Point. And I don't see these passions ever going away. But... before there was the city, there were the mountains.

Comments

[lhexa.livejournal.com]

There're laws against vandalism, but I'm sure you could get someone to flout them. And heh, to throw in a religious aside, maybe it's better to throw the rock, rather than wonder what the hell Jesus is talking about.

[wickedorin.livejournal.com]

Hey, that's a good one... *jots notes*