Okay, seriously, this one is going to be short. I know I've said that before, but this time it's for real. Today is going to be a long and busy day. I would use some colorful expression to describe how busy, but I can't think of a good or funny one. No wait, I got one. I'm going to be busier than a cat covering crap on a hot tin roof today and won't have time for a substantial blog post.
There. See, I told you, shortest blog post yet.
Really.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Yards from my youth
I grew up in the rural areas of southern Illinois. I have lived most of my life in rural areas, including my time at a small, private college in Kentucky. And while I felt like Springfield, Illinois was the "big time", it still had a very "rural juror" (30 Rock reference) feel to it. With the exception of the years spent being an apartment tenant, I have always had a yard to look out onto. If the view was not immediately from my living room window or bedroom window, there was a way to go to some porthole and view a lake, sea or ocean of grass, trees, and whatever else was out there. And then there were the drives to pretty much anywhere. Wide open spaces filled with corn fields, prairie grass or tress existed almost everywhere. It was very easy to get visually lost in the wide open spaces.
Since I've moved to the Chicago area, I have missed taking all of this for granted. Thankfully, I first lived with my wife in a dorm on the campus of Trinity International University in Deerfield. My drive every morning and evening took me by open fields, forest preserves (almost like preserves in a jar when you consider it's only seconds away from a gated community or shopping mall) and generally some untouched areas. I would often see coyotes, deer, various birds and quite a few trees. In a way, I was eased into the absence of wide open spaces. In another way, I was gently lowered into the terrarium that is living in the suburbs and/or metro city area.
Because that's really what it is. A terrarium. Well, I should say it's mainly just city and the organic areas are preserved in terrariums of tamed wildness. If that makes any sense. I don't even know if the people around here realize how neoclassical and old this idea is. I believe it was in the 16th century when poets and philosophers were writing about their gardens, mazes and long hedgerows because it was a relatively new concept or idea. All of this was cultivated landscape just outside their mansions or castles. They were domesticating wildness as well. At any rate, it's so absurd to me at times. I walk in a concrete, glass and metal jungle downtown only to come across lovely potted plants on street corners. On the 21st floor of my building at work there are long rows of windows decked with ferns and various other plotted plants. And the men and women water and care for them like we have a nursery. Well, I guess it really is a nursery.
So what's your point Jason? Well, Heather and I bought a house over six months ago in Skokie, very near Chicago. A much more crowded community. Fewer wide open spaces. And compared to southern Illinois standards, the house is small. I like to think of it as cozy. Comfy. Cuddly, if you will.
Built in 1938, it's made of beautiful brick, has wooden floors, and is generally well made. And the basement...man-cave...is fully finished. We pretty much knew the first time we visited the house that it was exactly what we wanted.
And we loved the yard. We both love to sit and just look at our small yard. Thankfully a previous owner built on this small addition to the back of the house that opens up onto a deck/porch. It's just large enough to fit two chairs, a book shelf and a few end tables with a lamp. It's great for our quiet time in the mornings, visiting with people and my mother-in-law loves it. Actually, every one who visits loves this small room. As I said, it's small, but everyone loves to go to this room and sit around or stand at the entryway. It's quite an interesting phenomenon. They say most serious discussions end up in the kitchen, but in our house most discussions about anything seem to end up in that little add-on room.
I think it might be the view, though. The view from both swivel rocking chairs is of our small backyard. The north side has a line of ferns with a small tree (not sure what it is) in our yard that branches into the neighbor's yard as well. Along the north side of the yard is our small garage. I mean very small. Small-European-car small. Along the garage are hastas (I think) and vining roses that snaked up the white trellis this past summer. It was neat.
And on the south side of the garage, the yard extends back farther to a taller fence. Along this fence is our majestic tree, the stalwart sentry of the yard. I believe it's a silver maple or some sort of oak. I really need to look this up. Its beautiful yellow leaves have blanketed most of the yard now. And honestly, its not the best sentry because it provides easy access for varmints to get into our yard as it branches into the alleyway and next to cable lines. We don't mind squirrels and chipmunks. However, rraccoon opossums and skunks seem to lack certain social graces, though. And they love the area underneath our porch. They do tend to make things interesting, at least.
Along the south fence is a sidewalk that leads up to a latched wooden-door and kitty corner to the door is a small Joe-Pescia-in-Goodfellas-meets-Rasputin bush. Seriously, this thing is an unstoppable force of nature. When we first moved in, it was had covered over five feet of grass or so. With the help of a hedge clippers and other horticulture weapons mass cultivation, Heather and I reduced its Blago-hair to what we called the meth-head. That was a bit too far, so we decided to let it grow back to a good squarish size. We weren't sure it would grow back, but even with the horrible drought, it grew back to a nice size within a week. We have to keep it under very close surveillance.
Heather and I have worked on our yard a good amount. We have planted grass where the Blago-bush once lived, and it's already greening up the whole area. I must add, planting grass and seeing it grow and how that changes the landscape is a pretty inspiring thing. I felt so proud. I can grow grass!
I enjoy working in the yard, mowing and trimming bushes and the like. No, I don't always "like" it, especially when I have to do it after work, but there is nothing quite like that feeling afterwards. I often feel like the hard-working guy in a beer commercial who opens a beer and it makes that BUUUSSCHHH. Head to the mountains. Or to the deck chair.
The first time we really worked on the yard I remember thinking, "I get it now, Mom and Dad. I get it." When I was an insufferable jerk of a teenager, my parents had the toughest time getting me to help with the yard. I hated it. I didn't see the point. Just let it all go! Let it be wild. And while I wanted to sound philosophical, I really just wanted to be inside playing video games, watching MTV or hanging with friends.
And now I get it. I'm living in a suburb of Chicago with a small yard. Compared to the yards of my youth, it's a patch on a quilt. But it's our space with life. It's a small patch of earth where any sort of creature can sneak under a fence or crawl from a tree and play in our yard. The red, yellow and orange leaves are falling. And they will need to be raked because it will kill the grass. I get that now, mom and dad.
It will kill the grass.
Since I've moved to the Chicago area, I have missed taking all of this for granted. Thankfully, I first lived with my wife in a dorm on the campus of Trinity International University in Deerfield. My drive every morning and evening took me by open fields, forest preserves (almost like preserves in a jar when you consider it's only seconds away from a gated community or shopping mall) and generally some untouched areas. I would often see coyotes, deer, various birds and quite a few trees. In a way, I was eased into the absence of wide open spaces. In another way, I was gently lowered into the terrarium that is living in the suburbs and/or metro city area.
Because that's really what it is. A terrarium. Well, I should say it's mainly just city and the organic areas are preserved in terrariums of tamed wildness. If that makes any sense. I don't even know if the people around here realize how neoclassical and old this idea is. I believe it was in the 16th century when poets and philosophers were writing about their gardens, mazes and long hedgerows because it was a relatively new concept or idea. All of this was cultivated landscape just outside their mansions or castles. They were domesticating wildness as well. At any rate, it's so absurd to me at times. I walk in a concrete, glass and metal jungle downtown only to come across lovely potted plants on street corners. On the 21st floor of my building at work there are long rows of windows decked with ferns and various other plotted plants. And the men and women water and care for them like we have a nursery. Well, I guess it really is a nursery.
So what's your point Jason? Well, Heather and I bought a house over six months ago in Skokie, very near Chicago. A much more crowded community. Fewer wide open spaces. And compared to southern Illinois standards, the house is small. I like to think of it as cozy. Comfy. Cuddly, if you will.
Built in 1938, it's made of beautiful brick, has wooden floors, and is generally well made. And the basement...man-cave...is fully finished. We pretty much knew the first time we visited the house that it was exactly what we wanted.
And we loved the yard. We both love to sit and just look at our small yard. Thankfully a previous owner built on this small addition to the back of the house that opens up onto a deck/porch. It's just large enough to fit two chairs, a book shelf and a few end tables with a lamp. It's great for our quiet time in the mornings, visiting with people and my mother-in-law loves it. Actually, every one who visits loves this small room. As I said, it's small, but everyone loves to go to this room and sit around or stand at the entryway. It's quite an interesting phenomenon. They say most serious discussions end up in the kitchen, but in our house most discussions about anything seem to end up in that little add-on room.
I think it might be the view, though. The view from both swivel rocking chairs is of our small backyard. The north side has a line of ferns with a small tree (not sure what it is) in our yard that branches into the neighbor's yard as well. Along the north side of the yard is our small garage. I mean very small. Small-European-car small. Along the garage are hastas (I think) and vining roses that snaked up the white trellis this past summer. It was neat.
And on the south side of the garage, the yard extends back farther to a taller fence. Along this fence is our majestic tree, the stalwart sentry of the yard. I believe it's a silver maple or some sort of oak. I really need to look this up. Its beautiful yellow leaves have blanketed most of the yard now. And honestly, its not the best sentry because it provides easy access for varmints to get into our yard as it branches into the alleyway and next to cable lines. We don't mind squirrels and chipmunks. However, rraccoon opossums and skunks seem to lack certain social graces, though. And they love the area underneath our porch. They do tend to make things interesting, at least.
Along the south fence is a sidewalk that leads up to a latched wooden-door and kitty corner to the door is a small Joe-Pescia-in-Goodfellas-meets-Rasputin bush. Seriously, this thing is an unstoppable force of nature. When we first moved in, it was had covered over five feet of grass or so. With the help of a hedge clippers and other horticulture weapons mass cultivation, Heather and I reduced its Blago-hair to what we called the meth-head. That was a bit too far, so we decided to let it grow back to a good squarish size. We weren't sure it would grow back, but even with the horrible drought, it grew back to a nice size within a week. We have to keep it under very close surveillance.
Heather and I have worked on our yard a good amount. We have planted grass where the Blago-bush once lived, and it's already greening up the whole area. I must add, planting grass and seeing it grow and how that changes the landscape is a pretty inspiring thing. I felt so proud. I can grow grass!
I enjoy working in the yard, mowing and trimming bushes and the like. No, I don't always "like" it, especially when I have to do it after work, but there is nothing quite like that feeling afterwards. I often feel like the hard-working guy in a beer commercial who opens a beer and it makes that BUUUSSCHHH. Head to the mountains. Or to the deck chair.
The first time we really worked on the yard I remember thinking, "I get it now, Mom and Dad. I get it." When I was an insufferable jerk of a teenager, my parents had the toughest time getting me to help with the yard. I hated it. I didn't see the point. Just let it all go! Let it be wild. And while I wanted to sound philosophical, I really just wanted to be inside playing video games, watching MTV or hanging with friends.
And now I get it. I'm living in a suburb of Chicago with a small yard. Compared to the yards of my youth, it's a patch on a quilt. But it's our space with life. It's a small patch of earth where any sort of creature can sneak under a fence or crawl from a tree and play in our yard. The red, yellow and orange leaves are falling. And they will need to be raked because it will kill the grass. I get that now, mom and dad.
It will kill the grass.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
File this under creative stealing.
From the Skokie News Police Blotter
A ravioli maker valued at about $150 was taken between 12:45 p.m. and 12:58 p.m. Oct. 8 in Williams-Sonoma at Westfield Old Orchard. Police said two females were seen standing by the appliances and one placing the ravioli maker in a bag. Police said the females were able to leave the store and elude a store representative.Like most people, I think stealing is wrong, but honestly, stealing a 150 dollar ravioli maker? That's awesome. And they were able to elude the store representatives. I mean, I am sure the reps are trained to look for thieves, but they probably expect them to steal CDs, DVDs, clothing, make-up, or maybe some food items. Certainly not a ravioli maker. There's so much I want to know about this story. So much.
Why am I doing this? Part 2
I talked about this in my very first post, but I realize now I only explained what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. There a lot of people out there who have started blogs for various reasons. And there are a lot of people who never started blogs for various reasons. Well, I will do my best to explain why I am blogging.
1) I love to write. I've been writing since I was in the third grade. My first story was what would now be termed fan fiction about Scooby-Doo. My third grade teacher let me read it to the class. I'm almost positive a vampire was staked. I continued to write short stories and more V, GI Joe and A-Team inspired fan fiction, short stories and novels through junior high.
Then I moved to another town and got distracted by girls. Anytime you are the new kid, it's a lot like being the latest iPhone. Everyone wants you because you are shiny and new, but later on, when the new one comes along, they are ready to move on. It wasn't that devastating to my self-esteem, and I did make some nice girlfriends out of the experience, but the point here is that it distracted me from writing.
I resumed writing in my Junior and Senior years of high school. And it was mainly poetry. A thesaurus rex of angsty poetry heavily influenced by Poe, Frost and the made-up tragedies of youth. My writing went into dormancy until intermittent periods in college. I was pretty much always a journaller, though. Well, an intermittent journal. And by intermittent, I mean, journal steadily for a few weeks and then pick it up again 4 months later.
Then my Creative Writing - Poetry - class reawakened the writer in me. I found my voice. It was awesome. Then over the next several years up to the present, I lost my voice, neglected my voice, abused my voice, threw my voice to the pigs and dogs, suffocated my voice with a novel of the French Revolution, left my voice in a road-side ditch, and finally found my voice all over again. However, I'm still not sure what to do with it. Next point, please.
2) I have almost no discipline. This is where the idea for forty days seemed like a good idea. I think I could do this for forty days. Just forty, I said to myself. But I must say, it worried me. Could I really do forty days? Forty days!?!? That's a long time. Every day!! Oh no, it's perfect because it's symbolic and I love symbolic stuff.
I am ashamed to say this, but until I write the blog entry for the day, I am internally (sometimes externally to my wife) whining about having to write. It's not as much fun as it used to be. It seems like work. In fact, it is work for me: I write for a living now. Sure, it's boring, technical instructions on how to use software, but I'm writing 8 hours a day, five days a week.
Still, I fear the blog post. I think all day about what I will write. Really. Before I started doing this SIX DAYS AGO, I would occasionally journal. I would write down sermon notes, great quotes and great experiences, and my reflections. I also would write down my creative ideas, usually an idea for a poem, short story or novel. And there were many of these ideas, sadly, that just disappeared into the fog of my brain before I got around to writing them down. It really does make me sad to think about that.
Why wasn't this good enough? Well, it was really just for me. Sure, like all writers, I half-hoped someone would discover my journals after my death and be able to form some brilliant and probably embarrassing bio about my life. Or at least I would be worthy of some Phd candidate's 20-year long a dissertation. Ultimately, the journals were for myself, and unfortunately those creative flourishes never took root. Which leads me to my third point.
3) I need an audience. I don't know how many people read this blog. I thought I would care a lot, and in fact this kept me from even starting one for quite some time, but really it doesn't bother me that much. That's the personal and emotional side of me.
The writer side of me needs an audience. As I learned in creative writing class, a writer operates as if someone is looking over their shoulder. This is how it is for me. Writing a public blog forces me out on the stage. I have to attempt to edit, proof and rewrite things. The nice thing is that since it's a blog, I can go back and edit anytime I want. Recently someone told me they liked my post but I made a grammatical faux pas. It was nice to know I could just go in and edit the document and click Update.
The blog form is liberating and vulnerable at the same time. I want to become a better writer. I know I can't really become a better writer by just journalling. I'm aware a blog is not the best answer for receiving criticism and feedback on my writing, but it helps me begin the slow and steady journey to joining a writer's group or taking some classes.
4) I feel like I have something to say. When it comes to writing about one's life, I still feel very young. I have not had enough life experiences to justify an autobiography or even a memoir. And I am not a fan of online catharsis just for the sake of vomiting feelings.
However, I feel like God has give me a unique perspective on life. This perspective was largely shaped by my beliefs, relationships and experiences. Some of these experiences are worth sharing. Some of my insights may be worth sharing too.
I'm not sure if anyone out there was wondering why I started a blog. As I said before, people start blogs all the time. It's staggering to think about how many blogs are out there. This is mine, though. This is my attempt to figure out what to do with my voice. Thanks for reading.
1) I love to write. I've been writing since I was in the third grade. My first story was what would now be termed fan fiction about Scooby-Doo. My third grade teacher let me read it to the class. I'm almost positive a vampire was staked. I continued to write short stories and more V, GI Joe and A-Team inspired fan fiction, short stories and novels through junior high.
Then I moved to another town and got distracted by girls. Anytime you are the new kid, it's a lot like being the latest iPhone. Everyone wants you because you are shiny and new, but later on, when the new one comes along, they are ready to move on. It wasn't that devastating to my self-esteem, and I did make some nice girlfriends out of the experience, but the point here is that it distracted me from writing.
I resumed writing in my Junior and Senior years of high school. And it was mainly poetry. A thesaurus rex of angsty poetry heavily influenced by Poe, Frost and the made-up tragedies of youth. My writing went into dormancy until intermittent periods in college. I was pretty much always a journaller, though. Well, an intermittent journal. And by intermittent, I mean, journal steadily for a few weeks and then pick it up again 4 months later.
Then my Creative Writing - Poetry - class reawakened the writer in me. I found my voice. It was awesome. Then over the next several years up to the present, I lost my voice, neglected my voice, abused my voice, threw my voice to the pigs and dogs, suffocated my voice with a novel of the French Revolution, left my voice in a road-side ditch, and finally found my voice all over again. However, I'm still not sure what to do with it. Next point, please.
2) I have almost no discipline. This is where the idea for forty days seemed like a good idea. I think I could do this for forty days. Just forty, I said to myself. But I must say, it worried me. Could I really do forty days? Forty days!?!? That's a long time. Every day!! Oh no, it's perfect because it's symbolic and I love symbolic stuff.
I am ashamed to say this, but until I write the blog entry for the day, I am internally (sometimes externally to my wife) whining about having to write. It's not as much fun as it used to be. It seems like work. In fact, it is work for me: I write for a living now. Sure, it's boring, technical instructions on how to use software, but I'm writing 8 hours a day, five days a week.
Still, I fear the blog post. I think all day about what I will write. Really. Before I started doing this SIX DAYS AGO, I would occasionally journal. I would write down sermon notes, great quotes and great experiences, and my reflections. I also would write down my creative ideas, usually an idea for a poem, short story or novel. And there were many of these ideas, sadly, that just disappeared into the fog of my brain before I got around to writing them down. It really does make me sad to think about that.
Why wasn't this good enough? Well, it was really just for me. Sure, like all writers, I half-hoped someone would discover my journals after my death and be able to form some brilliant and probably embarrassing bio about my life. Or at least I would be worthy of some Phd candidate's 20-year long a dissertation. Ultimately, the journals were for myself, and unfortunately those creative flourishes never took root. Which leads me to my third point.
3) I need an audience. I don't know how many people read this blog. I thought I would care a lot, and in fact this kept me from even starting one for quite some time, but really it doesn't bother me that much. That's the personal and emotional side of me.
The writer side of me needs an audience. As I learned in creative writing class, a writer operates as if someone is looking over their shoulder. This is how it is for me. Writing a public blog forces me out on the stage. I have to attempt to edit, proof and rewrite things. The nice thing is that since it's a blog, I can go back and edit anytime I want. Recently someone told me they liked my post but I made a grammatical faux pas. It was nice to know I could just go in and edit the document and click Update.
The blog form is liberating and vulnerable at the same time. I want to become a better writer. I know I can't really become a better writer by just journalling. I'm aware a blog is not the best answer for receiving criticism and feedback on my writing, but it helps me begin the slow and steady journey to joining a writer's group or taking some classes.
4) I feel like I have something to say. When it comes to writing about one's life, I still feel very young. I have not had enough life experiences to justify an autobiography or even a memoir. And I am not a fan of online catharsis just for the sake of vomiting feelings.
However, I feel like God has give me a unique perspective on life. This perspective was largely shaped by my beliefs, relationships and experiences. Some of these experiences are worth sharing. Some of my insights may be worth sharing too.
I'm not sure if anyone out there was wondering why I started a blog. As I said before, people start blogs all the time. It's staggering to think about how many blogs are out there. This is mine, though. This is my attempt to figure out what to do with my voice. Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Red Rum
I'm reading the Shining by Stephen King. According to Kindle, I am 40% through the novel about Jack Torrance, a disgraced school teacher, who takes a job as a caretaker of the Overlook Hotel in Colorado (really called the Stanley Hotel, built around 1909). He takes his timid wife and eccentric but wise and psychically gifted son with him during his stay over the winter months. It's his last chance to complete his great novel and a chance to get his life back in order after he was fired for hitting a boy at a private school back east. He is hoping for time away, to work on his novel, his family, and enjoy the mountain air. Nothing says writer's retreat like being secluded in a snow bound mansion emptied of all tenants and workers, right? That seems like a good plan, right?
I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.
It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.
See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.
Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.
My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.
When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.
I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.
It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.
I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.
I can't imagine that ever being a good idea for anyone, especially a recovering alcoholic with anger issues. It's almost as if the house and its history beckoned the writer and his family to come to the hotel. Or perhaps the idea of being alone or almost alone in large houses, hotels, etc is relatively scary, lonely and overwhelming to me. As I read about the labyrinthine halls, basement rooms, huge dining rooms and lounges I'm reminded of a short period of time in my life where I stayed in a manor in England.
It was the summer of 1998, I believe. My girlfriend suggested we take summer classes in England that were offered in conjunction with another university in Indiana. The place was called Harlaxton Manor, and it was located near Grantham in Lincolnshire. The manor was actually used in a few films, most notably a remake of The Haunting. And let me tell you, this house was an actor in its own right.
See, we didn't stay in a normal looking manor that you might imagine in some British novels. No. We stayed in this mid-19th century mansion-manor-castle that was a blend of Elizabethan, Jacobean, and Baroque styles. The architect was named Gregory, I believe. It was beautiful but incredibly ornate. And unlike some ornate objects, it dominated its environment. It sat like an elaborate crown on the earthen horizon. When you turned into the long drive to the manor, its points and lines always seem to draw your attention first. And as you got closer, the golden hue of the stone structure shimmered in the evening sun. There were stone lions positioned at entry areas near the gardens. As there should be, right? And there large glass paned windows in the front and small cups and half moon windows on each column or minaretesque spire.
Once you entered the structure, it was immediately pedestrian. There were retired policemen as guard, a card swipe system and a room converted into the cafeteria for students. But later we were assigned our rooms.
My room was towards the back and middle of the manor, I think, and had a window looking towards the storage shed and back gardens. It seemed there many halls and stairways to take me to my quarters. I had a roommate, but I hardly ever saw him.
When the place really took on a role of its own, at least for me, was at night. The halls were lined with oriental rugs, large mirrors and occasional paintings of unknown lords and such. And yeah, their eyes seemed to follow me. I was really pretty scared walking alone in the halls at night. And often, I admit I was scared of my reflection. Honestly how often in America are you walking in a hall and see a five foot tall mirror? You really don't. So since I wasn't used to this, I would often scare the crap out of myself. The years of filling my head with horror movies didn't help, no doubt, but still.
I don't have a ghost story to share. I just had this overwhelming feeling of dread or loneliness in such a large place. I felt small. Yeah, I have expected to see some sort of phantasm, but in truth, just wide open halls and high ceilings were enough to frighten me back into my room. Oh, and there were trapdoors and secret stairways, too.
It's not hard to understand how a place like the Overlook hotel could drive a person mad. I think we aren't meant to be so isolated in such large places. I think the architect of Harlaxton might have gone crazy. And of course there was the Winchester widow who kept adding and adding onto her house in California up until her death. And wasn't Howard Hughes going crazy when he made the Spruce Goose? I suppose there is a lesson in here about hubris, but I'm just interested in the idea of a man made construction making humans feel small, lonely and scared. And at the same time, we are drawn to things that are much larger than we are.
I still think of wandering those Harlaxton halls late at night. The gaudy trim and vaulted ceilings with peeling tapestries normally inspire and peak interest. But at 1 am they become scary and grotesque. Eyes of chubby angels looking down from high ceilings. They hold banners with Latin phrase. It's maddening.
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