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02/06/05 12:32:31 pm
I have finally gotten the ftp to work from my computer. It has been very frustrating the last couple of weeks. Trying to get this whole project going again and at the same time, hitting a brick wall when it comes to updating the site. But it appears that the pain is over. So, in the next few days, I am going post my new journal entries on the web. Unfortunately, not as many new entries as I would like. Still, it is something.
Chicago went from blizzard conditions a couple of weeks ago to perfect spring weather this week. And it's only the second week of February. Weird. Phil, groundhog in Pennsylvania saw his shadow and said six more weeks of winter. Apparently, Phil has not consulted with Mother Nature. It seems like she might have other plans.
It's an interesting tradition. Watching a rodent, waiting to see if he might be scared of his shadow, then using that to predict how much longer winter will last. On hand, judging the length of seasons by an animal's hibernation makes some sense. However, maybe he is not scared of his shadow. Maybe the poor thing is just scared of the crowd of people gathered to watch him.
And what if, instead of a groundhog's burrow, people stood outside a monster's cave? When the monster came out in the morning, judging how much longer winter would last based on how scared of the crowd he was.
I went to visit of friend of mine last night. He lives in central Illinois. Driving home late at night, I was struck, again, by the site of the oil refineries. At night, they look like miniature cities, lights scaling the structures, looming there above the farm land. It's like seeing the skyline of some vibrant city in the middle of a wasteland. I remember the first time I drove to visit Jerry at college. Driving the highway at night, never having passed the refineries before, I got lost. I couldn't reach my map. Nor could I reach my directions. Suddenly, I had no idea where I was. Did I miss the exit? Did I miss a sign for the town? I pulled of the highway, thinking I was exiting for the college. What a mistake. I finally figured this out as I found myself suddenly on a dark rural route. No signs. No houses. No businesses. Not even a gas station for another five miles for me to turn around in and ask directions.
Yes. It was stupid. I realize that now. But then I was only eighteen and had never driven downstate by myself. I wasn't even halfway from home to the college and should have realized that there was no way I could have gotten there that quickly, even going well over the speed limit.
Every time I drive past the refineries, I remember that first trip. Every time, I wish that I had a camera with me. That I could pull over set up a tripod and take some pictures. Then drive a few hundred feet, take some more, another few hundred feet, and take a few more. Get around the bare, winter trees and weather beaten brush. I'd like to capture that site, the lights, bare farm fields, the smoke and steam billowing into the sky.
Now, I don't think that I can ever do it. Not after September 11, 2001. I know there's more than enough written about life post that tragedy. I'm not going to harp on it either. At the same time, it makes me sad. We've become so paranoid, so scared of the shadow that we cast, that we can't poke our heads out of our burrows long enough to stop and take stock of the amazing sites around us. If I were to pull over on the shoulder of the highway one night, break out a camera and a tripod, what is the likelihood that someone would call the police on me? Pretty high. And how hard would it be to convince the officer that I was a law abiding citizen only interested in capturing something that fills me with wonder on film? Honestly, I'm not sure.
Since I started thinking about Walter again, things like this keep popping into my head. What would he have thought? Would some latent part of his brain, his old self, remember the scene, the lights, and file it aside as insignificant? Or would he too be caught up in the wonder of the site, also losing his bearings and his way?
As usual, these notes seem to pose more questions than answers. I can share these thoughts with you, reader. But I can't share them with my friend.