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Finally settled into Fort Worth
Jul. 13th, 2015 07:28 pmI'm finally settled into the hotel here in Fort Worth after a long, long drive from Evanston. My parents went out grocery shopping (we have a fridge and microwave here in the room). I was going to go with them, but on further consideration I decided that a little time to myself would be really beneficial. I had a better time on the trip than three people in a car for most of a day probably have a right to, but I was getting a bit grumpy and snippy as we unpacked bags. A little decompression time is good.
We stopped a few times on the way for interesting things. My parents indulged me by stopping for a photo-op at the world's largest ketchup bottle in Collinsville, IL. The ketchup company is out of business and the building and bottle are for sale. This felt odd to me in a way similar to the way I felt seeing an amazing historic public office building in Detroit, bedecked with marble and monumental sculpture, for sale. It's something so iconic, so embedded in history and place, that commodifying it seems bizarre. The town still has a ketchup bottle festival; signs indicated we'd only just missed it, sadly.
We stopped at the Pensacola Dam near Disney, Oklahoma. It's the mile-long dam that Lisa and I stopped at on our trip. She and I were there in the daylight. My parents and I saw it at three in the morning. We drove across the structure and parked in the gravel turnout alongside the spillway. We looked out at the dam and up at the stars, listening to the raucous screeching of insects.
To my surprise, most of my feelings about being there were subdued by a primary emotional response of sadness. This is a place I associate strongly with Lisa, and it was strange not to be there with her. I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of being far away from her, not being able to share new experiences and wonder with her. In a certain way, it's harder to move away from Lisa than from Danae; with Danae, I know we'll be together again in a few years. With Lisa, I don't know when or if I'm going to be back living in the same region. Nostalgia and some melancholy crowded other thoughts out of my brain as I stood listening to the quietly rushing water. I was glad to get back in the car and drive back across the dam.
On the way over, my mother suggested stopping on the dam at a point where we could see the sluices and generating equipment. At that time of day, there was essentially no traffic, and the idea was really appealing. We stopped and turned the blinkers on while I walked back and forth from one side of the narrow concrete dam to the other. We were still far from the generators at the west side, and looking down I could only see a tree-filled park-like area that Google Maps had told me was a nature preserve or golf course.
We got back in the car and parked at the far west end and, still feeling like exploring, walked a distance out along the pedestrian path on the north, upstream side. I hadn't done this while there with Lisa; I didn't think there'd be anything to see on the upstream side, and there were too many cars to safely look from the downstream edge. With no cars, I wanted to do the latter. As it turned out, the former was just as amazing.
I knew that there were large concrete semi-circles on the upstream side of the dam, holding water back. I didn't realize though, until I was standing above them and looking down, that they opened into cavernous spaces full of stairs and platforms above pipes of a size that made the human-scaled walkways look like toys. Looking down into the workings of the dam was like looking into an inexplicable cavern in the middle of the river, a void surrounded by huge volumes of water. The sight didn't seem to make logical sense; it was markedly disorienting in a way that reminded me of standing on a catwalk above the tremendous, pitch-black coal hoppers in an abandoned power plant. Looking down felt like staring into an otherworldly void. I had to lean over the dam in short spans to avoid a gut-wrenchingly immanent feeling of falling.
I loved it. And I regretted not having packed my tripod. A small part of me wants to come back with an A-frame ladder to compose more interesting views of these disconcerting spaces. Honestly though, I don't think I could overcome the vertigo and fear that would come with such a view.
As well as the upstream side, my mother and I got to see the downstream side from a vantage point I'd never had before. Leaning over from the edge of the roadway, we could watch the humming generating station, thrumming with powerful vibrations that I could feel in my feet and chest where the touched the concrete. Beyond the building, a wide torrent of water, paradoxically turbulent and orderly, rushed unendingly southward.
The whole set of experiences helped me accept and release the sadness over feeling Lisa's absence. Metaphorically, symbolically, I like the reminder that there are new things to be experienced and new ways to have those experiences, even in the context of a place that has strong existing associations. Nostalgia for an experience means that something made me feel strongly, and that's good as long as I continue to explore and feel strongly. There's so much life out there not to be open to new takes on old experiences.
Anyway, I drove most of the way to Oklahoma. Not quite as far as when I drove Lisa to Tulsa this past August, but it was a long way. I've known for a long time that I tend to want to be in control of things. I realized this trip that I had just a touch of anxiety about going to sleep in a car, late at night, with someone else driving, even when she'd had more recent sleep than I had.
Finally, around one o' clock today, we made it to my dad's sister's place in White Settlement. (This is, in fact, a holdover name from when this was a White settlement in, essentially, Indian Territory.) We spent a few hours talking to her. Or my parents did. After an hour or so, I gratefully fell asleep in her recliner. Around four, we said temporary goodbyes and drove over to the hotel.
I'm so glad we're here now. The weather is bad. As bad as I remember southern Mexico feeling in Winter. I may drive around and see a few things now that it's late. Or I may go to bed early and get a fresh start tomorrow. Regardless, once my parents are back from shopping, it'll be time to find some food.
We stopped a few times on the way for interesting things. My parents indulged me by stopping for a photo-op at the world's largest ketchup bottle in Collinsville, IL. The ketchup company is out of business and the building and bottle are for sale. This felt odd to me in a way similar to the way I felt seeing an amazing historic public office building in Detroit, bedecked with marble and monumental sculpture, for sale. It's something so iconic, so embedded in history and place, that commodifying it seems bizarre. The town still has a ketchup bottle festival; signs indicated we'd only just missed it, sadly.
We stopped at the Pensacola Dam near Disney, Oklahoma. It's the mile-long dam that Lisa and I stopped at on our trip. She and I were there in the daylight. My parents and I saw it at three in the morning. We drove across the structure and parked in the gravel turnout alongside the spillway. We looked out at the dam and up at the stars, listening to the raucous screeching of insects.
To my surprise, most of my feelings about being there were subdued by a primary emotional response of sadness. This is a place I associate strongly with Lisa, and it was strange not to be there with her. I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of being far away from her, not being able to share new experiences and wonder with her. In a certain way, it's harder to move away from Lisa than from Danae; with Danae, I know we'll be together again in a few years. With Lisa, I don't know when or if I'm going to be back living in the same region. Nostalgia and some melancholy crowded other thoughts out of my brain as I stood listening to the quietly rushing water. I was glad to get back in the car and drive back across the dam.
On the way over, my mother suggested stopping on the dam at a point where we could see the sluices and generating equipment. At that time of day, there was essentially no traffic, and the idea was really appealing. We stopped and turned the blinkers on while I walked back and forth from one side of the narrow concrete dam to the other. We were still far from the generators at the west side, and looking down I could only see a tree-filled park-like area that Google Maps had told me was a nature preserve or golf course.
We got back in the car and parked at the far west end and, still feeling like exploring, walked a distance out along the pedestrian path on the north, upstream side. I hadn't done this while there with Lisa; I didn't think there'd be anything to see on the upstream side, and there were too many cars to safely look from the downstream edge. With no cars, I wanted to do the latter. As it turned out, the former was just as amazing.
I knew that there were large concrete semi-circles on the upstream side of the dam, holding water back. I didn't realize though, until I was standing above them and looking down, that they opened into cavernous spaces full of stairs and platforms above pipes of a size that made the human-scaled walkways look like toys. Looking down into the workings of the dam was like looking into an inexplicable cavern in the middle of the river, a void surrounded by huge volumes of water. The sight didn't seem to make logical sense; it was markedly disorienting in a way that reminded me of standing on a catwalk above the tremendous, pitch-black coal hoppers in an abandoned power plant. Looking down felt like staring into an otherworldly void. I had to lean over the dam in short spans to avoid a gut-wrenchingly immanent feeling of falling.
I loved it. And I regretted not having packed my tripod. A small part of me wants to come back with an A-frame ladder to compose more interesting views of these disconcerting spaces. Honestly though, I don't think I could overcome the vertigo and fear that would come with such a view.
As well as the upstream side, my mother and I got to see the downstream side from a vantage point I'd never had before. Leaning over from the edge of the roadway, we could watch the humming generating station, thrumming with powerful vibrations that I could feel in my feet and chest where the touched the concrete. Beyond the building, a wide torrent of water, paradoxically turbulent and orderly, rushed unendingly southward.
The whole set of experiences helped me accept and release the sadness over feeling Lisa's absence. Metaphorically, symbolically, I like the reminder that there are new things to be experienced and new ways to have those experiences, even in the context of a place that has strong existing associations. Nostalgia for an experience means that something made me feel strongly, and that's good as long as I continue to explore and feel strongly. There's so much life out there not to be open to new takes on old experiences.
Anyway, I drove most of the way to Oklahoma. Not quite as far as when I drove Lisa to Tulsa this past August, but it was a long way. I've known for a long time that I tend to want to be in control of things. I realized this trip that I had just a touch of anxiety about going to sleep in a car, late at night, with someone else driving, even when she'd had more recent sleep than I had.
Finally, around one o' clock today, we made it to my dad's sister's place in White Settlement. (This is, in fact, a holdover name from when this was a White settlement in, essentially, Indian Territory.) We spent a few hours talking to her. Or my parents did. After an hour or so, I gratefully fell asleep in her recliner. Around four, we said temporary goodbyes and drove over to the hotel.
I'm so glad we're here now. The weather is bad. As bad as I remember southern Mexico feeling in Winter. I may drive around and see a few things now that it's late. Or I may go to bed early and get a fresh start tomorrow. Regardless, once my parents are back from shopping, it'll be time to find some food.
