This week has been filled with odd occurrences cast against extreme atmospheric abnormality; the weather has been downright balmy. This city had highs in the upper 60s, which is unheard of in January—a month that usually leaves us cowering under woolen layers, hiding the smallest patches of skin from an unrelenting razor wind. I’ve heard some people mutter forebodings about global warming, while others are left speechless.
Almost no one seems to have enjoyed the unusual foggy warmth. Rather, it seems to have made the population uneasy and wary. “What does this mean?” I heard an older man ask someone on the train. “It’s got to mean something,” he asserted. His acquaintance, another old man, this one wearing a checkered beret, slowly nodded his head and turned to look out the window. He stared into the gray distance for a minute, letting the haze into his eyes, losing focus as if absorbed in a dream, or an antiqued moment. The ambiguity of his gaze lasted a full minute before he checked himself, the lines around his eyes tightening, snapping back into focus. “I just don’t remember anything like it,” he whispered reverently.
I had Monday afternoon off work, so I went for a long walk along the north branch of the Chicago River. I wanted to walk over to Lake Michigan, but the weather stopped me sooner with the clammy closeness of an ill child’s hand. Lots of snow had melted and the world was muddied and mottled. Strange, not-quite-Spring smells rose from the dirt, the pavement and the river, all caught off-guard by the premature thaw. All entities, pedestrians included, looked worse than usual—dirty, grimy, polluted. It was as if a million little processes had been arrested at their most embarrassing mid-transformation moments, and all was incomprehensible; no longer one thing, not yet the next. The day’s acrid scent caught in the back of my throat and bothered me with its unnamable familiarity. I couldn’t place the smell until the next day when I realized that the entire city smelled pungently of the subway tunnels.
After walking along the river, I decided to catch a movie. The film I chose was The Rape of Europa, an excellent documentary about the Third Reich’s plundering and destruction of great Western works of art during WWII. Art world ethics have become a recent and almost obsessive interest of mine, so the movie held great allure. I was, however, the youngest person in the audience by approximately four decades. I guess that is bound to be so when one catches a 4:45 p.m. art documentary on a preternaturally warm Monday afternoon. I did enjoy hearing an older couple directly behind me (incorrectly) repeat lines of dialogue to one another, prompted by hissed, “What did she say?” and “Robert! Who is that man? Is he with the Getty?” My favorite moment was when the man said to his wife, “Cheryl, give me a piece of that Nicorette, will you? I’m getting the dropsies.” (I do not know what it means to have “the dropsies,” but I suspect I too have fallen victim.)
The weather is cooling off nicely now, curbing Monday’s atmospheric oddness. Other curiosities have risen with the lifting warm front, though. My poor brother, for instance, suddenly came down with Scarlet Fever. I thought that was only a childhood illness, but he is 23. He says that he is 90% red now, and that his tongue is swollen past recognition. I am moved by his illness, but it’s possible that a lot of my emotion is tied to the Velveteen Rabbit, a book that made me weep as a child.
Another strangeness: I’ve dreamed that I am getting married for the past three nights. The first night, I had no idea who I was marrying, but I was in a white dress, standing in a barn at night, far out in a recently-harvested field. The second night, I was once again in a white dress, anxiety-stricken and running through a hotel, trying to find my mother so she could tell me that this would all be okay. I was to marry an old friend’s brother, but I barely know him and haven’t spoken to my friend in years. The third night I dreamed that I was simply standing in a white dress before a wooden platform that was an altar of sorts. I was alone, but I felt peaceful.
A co-worker who fancies herself a dream expert told me that to dream of a wedding signifies personal transition and change, which seems reasonable enough to me. I told her that I was afraid my third dream (alone and peaceful at an altar) indicated a forthcoming call to the Nunnery. She laughed, but I remain slightly worried about the possibility of being “called.” As if there are not greater worries to be turned.
Almost no one seems to have enjoyed the unusual foggy warmth. Rather, it seems to have made the population uneasy and wary. “What does this mean?” I heard an older man ask someone on the train. “It’s got to mean something,” he asserted. His acquaintance, another old man, this one wearing a checkered beret, slowly nodded his head and turned to look out the window. He stared into the gray distance for a minute, letting the haze into his eyes, losing focus as if absorbed in a dream, or an antiqued moment. The ambiguity of his gaze lasted a full minute before he checked himself, the lines around his eyes tightening, snapping back into focus. “I just don’t remember anything like it,” he whispered reverently.
I had Monday afternoon off work, so I went for a long walk along the north branch of the Chicago River. I wanted to walk over to Lake Michigan, but the weather stopped me sooner with the clammy closeness of an ill child’s hand. Lots of snow had melted and the world was muddied and mottled. Strange, not-quite-Spring smells rose from the dirt, the pavement and the river, all caught off-guard by the premature thaw. All entities, pedestrians included, looked worse than usual—dirty, grimy, polluted. It was as if a million little processes had been arrested at their most embarrassing mid-transformation moments, and all was incomprehensible; no longer one thing, not yet the next. The day’s acrid scent caught in the back of my throat and bothered me with its unnamable familiarity. I couldn’t place the smell until the next day when I realized that the entire city smelled pungently of the subway tunnels.
After walking along the river, I decided to catch a movie. The film I chose was The Rape of Europa, an excellent documentary about the Third Reich’s plundering and destruction of great Western works of art during WWII. Art world ethics have become a recent and almost obsessive interest of mine, so the movie held great allure. I was, however, the youngest person in the audience by approximately four decades. I guess that is bound to be so when one catches a 4:45 p.m. art documentary on a preternaturally warm Monday afternoon. I did enjoy hearing an older couple directly behind me (incorrectly) repeat lines of dialogue to one another, prompted by hissed, “What did she say?” and “Robert! Who is that man? Is he with the Getty?” My favorite moment was when the man said to his wife, “Cheryl, give me a piece of that Nicorette, will you? I’m getting the dropsies.” (I do not know what it means to have “the dropsies,” but I suspect I too have fallen victim.)
The weather is cooling off nicely now, curbing Monday’s atmospheric oddness. Other curiosities have risen with the lifting warm front, though. My poor brother, for instance, suddenly came down with Scarlet Fever. I thought that was only a childhood illness, but he is 23. He says that he is 90% red now, and that his tongue is swollen past recognition. I am moved by his illness, but it’s possible that a lot of my emotion is tied to the Velveteen Rabbit, a book that made me weep as a child.
Another strangeness: I’ve dreamed that I am getting married for the past three nights. The first night, I had no idea who I was marrying, but I was in a white dress, standing in a barn at night, far out in a recently-harvested field. The second night, I was once again in a white dress, anxiety-stricken and running through a hotel, trying to find my mother so she could tell me that this would all be okay. I was to marry an old friend’s brother, but I barely know him and haven’t spoken to my friend in years. The third night I dreamed that I was simply standing in a white dress before a wooden platform that was an altar of sorts. I was alone, but I felt peaceful.
A co-worker who fancies herself a dream expert told me that to dream of a wedding signifies personal transition and change, which seems reasonable enough to me. I told her that I was afraid my third dream (alone and peaceful at an altar) indicated a forthcoming call to the Nunnery. She laughed, but I remain slightly worried about the possibility of being “called.” As if there are not greater worries to be turned.
posted by Erin at 9:41 PM
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