Two days in one!
Yesterday: The House on the Rock
Well, between one thing and another, bearmum and I didn't actually hit the road out of Madison until nearly noon. The sky was busy, alternating low shadows of cloud and sun across the roads and occasionally spattering our little rented car with rain. At last, dutifully following the arcane directions I'd printed off of google, we drew up to a dark wall of trees, forbidding and gloomy against the scattered sun of the road. To either side of the one-lane entry, huge Lovecraftian urns reared skyward. I'm not making this up; I have pictures. They were covered with disturbing little pustules and dragonish lizard-things, and each one was capped with a single ribbony, crepuscular tentacle that writhed upward about a story and a half. We ignored the obvious warnings and entered the forbidden grove.
As it happens, my initial comparison to Lovecraft was disturbingly apt. The House on the Rock is just about as non-euclidean as architecture can get without suffering major structural failure. It is a cramped, bizarrely organic warren of fieldstone, steel and cement, that appears to have grown, fungus-like, atop a towering chimney of granite that looms ominously over the wooded vale below. Living things do not inhabit this dwelling; instead, it is infested with artifacts, machines and assorted statuary. As the collection of the original owner has grown, other buildings and gardens have erupted, a veritable faerie ring of structures and objects that oscillate wildly between the beautiful and the terribly, terribly tacky.
We opted for one of three tours, and thus saw only a fraction of the eldritch splendor available for perusal. The ceiling, never more than a few inches above my own short height, was carpeted a brilliant red, presumably so normal human beings wouldn't injure themselves more than once every few feet. It was fairly obvious even from the very beginning of the tour that while the builder of the House may have fancied himself a collector of art, he wasn't a connoisseur. And while he may even have fancied himself an artist, he certainly wasn't an architect. Counters were high, ceilings and couches low, shelving too deep. Not a single plane of that space was within ergonomic parameters. Really, it reminded me continually of H. P. Lovecraft's description of the Forgotten City, so much so that I began to consciously look for scurrying reptile-men out of the corners of my eye.
As to the “collections” enshrined within, quantity seems to have been the order of the day. Rows of tin cups and ceramic moonshine jugs vied for attention next to priceless ivory figurines and dancing geisha dolls with very little in the way of a unifying theme. It was as though, far in the future, a colony of sentient insects had built, without really understanding it, a shrine to humanity and its cultures, and filled their hive with shiny bric-a-brac dredged from the ruins.
Overall, a day well spent. I'd go again.
Afterwards, we returned to Madison, puttered about and checked email, and then went out to dinner. I showed Mum the State Street District, our local equivalent to Telegraph Avenue, and we amiably browsed our way up to Buraka, which is an East African restaurant of excellent repute, located in a concrete understory below street level - in short, a basement. Dinner was pleasant and spicy. We returned to street level to find a surprise thunderstorm in full roar, rain pouring in a torrent so heavy that the far side of the street was occluded. We prudently retreated back into the restaurant and ordered coffee to wait it out. The next day we learned that nearly three inches of rain fell in that short hour, causing massive street flooding and tree damage. After a good half-hour, we returned to our parking spot, giggling like fiends, where our rental earned its current sobriquet, “the Blue Ghost”, after the Duesenberg “Silver Ghost” of the twenties. Y'see, our rental runs so quietly, that you can only barely hear the engine running if you are standing in front of the vehicle, and inside the car (or to the side) you cannot hear the engine at all. This caused a few awkward moments and one fairly awkward hour, since Mum left the keys in the car with the engine running not once, but three times. After the last time, when we were actually locked out, we left the radio on so we'd remember to take the keys.
Got home to discover that during the downpour, the roof over my computer had leaked again, and my computer was apparently on the fritz. Took it apart and depowered it in the hopes that drying out would suffice, but in the morning it was still not responding correctly. Much cursing and grouchiness.
Today: The Great Adventure, Part The First.
Mum called me at about 5:30 in the morning to see if I was ready to go. I wasn't, but arrangements were made, and we consulted maps and put directions together and , about sevenish, headed south to jauncourt's house. 'Twas about a six-hour drive into the wilds of Illinois. We hunted radio stations and sang along to songs we knew, chatted about current events, pointed out weird signs to each other and generally had a good time. We pulled in around two, to much gleeful uproar. Sharon's house is huge and old and beautiful, and full of beautiful things. It is also the home of FX, a very precocious three-year-old boy, who finally figured out somewhere in the middle of Dinner that a) I was new, b)I had tattoos just like Daddy, and c) I was, therefore, his New Best Friend and could be Commanded to follow him around and play with him. This happy state of affairs lasted, with occasional breaks for grownup conversation, until Bedtime.
I am now very tired, but I felt obliged to update, since my computer wasn't obliging me yesterday. More tomorrow or the next day. Love to you all!
Well, between one thing and another, bearmum and I didn't actually hit the road out of Madison until nearly noon. The sky was busy, alternating low shadows of cloud and sun across the roads and occasionally spattering our little rented car with rain. At last, dutifully following the arcane directions I'd printed off of google, we drew up to a dark wall of trees, forbidding and gloomy against the scattered sun of the road. To either side of the one-lane entry, huge Lovecraftian urns reared skyward. I'm not making this up; I have pictures. They were covered with disturbing little pustules and dragonish lizard-things, and each one was capped with a single ribbony, crepuscular tentacle that writhed upward about a story and a half. We ignored the obvious warnings and entered the forbidden grove.
As it happens, my initial comparison to Lovecraft was disturbingly apt. The House on the Rock is just about as non-euclidean as architecture can get without suffering major structural failure. It is a cramped, bizarrely organic warren of fieldstone, steel and cement, that appears to have grown, fungus-like, atop a towering chimney of granite that looms ominously over the wooded vale below. Living things do not inhabit this dwelling; instead, it is infested with artifacts, machines and assorted statuary. As the collection of the original owner has grown, other buildings and gardens have erupted, a veritable faerie ring of structures and objects that oscillate wildly between the beautiful and the terribly, terribly tacky.
We opted for one of three tours, and thus saw only a fraction of the eldritch splendor available for perusal. The ceiling, never more than a few inches above my own short height, was carpeted a brilliant red, presumably so normal human beings wouldn't injure themselves more than once every few feet. It was fairly obvious even from the very beginning of the tour that while the builder of the House may have fancied himself a collector of art, he wasn't a connoisseur. And while he may even have fancied himself an artist, he certainly wasn't an architect. Counters were high, ceilings and couches low, shelving too deep. Not a single plane of that space was within ergonomic parameters. Really, it reminded me continually of H. P. Lovecraft's description of the Forgotten City, so much so that I began to consciously look for scurrying reptile-men out of the corners of my eye.
As to the “collections” enshrined within, quantity seems to have been the order of the day. Rows of tin cups and ceramic moonshine jugs vied for attention next to priceless ivory figurines and dancing geisha dolls with very little in the way of a unifying theme. It was as though, far in the future, a colony of sentient insects had built, without really understanding it, a shrine to humanity and its cultures, and filled their hive with shiny bric-a-brac dredged from the ruins.
Overall, a day well spent. I'd go again.
Afterwards, we returned to Madison, puttered about and checked email, and then went out to dinner. I showed Mum the State Street District, our local equivalent to Telegraph Avenue, and we amiably browsed our way up to Buraka, which is an East African restaurant of excellent repute, located in a concrete understory below street level - in short, a basement. Dinner was pleasant and spicy. We returned to street level to find a surprise thunderstorm in full roar, rain pouring in a torrent so heavy that the far side of the street was occluded. We prudently retreated back into the restaurant and ordered coffee to wait it out. The next day we learned that nearly three inches of rain fell in that short hour, causing massive street flooding and tree damage. After a good half-hour, we returned to our parking spot, giggling like fiends, where our rental earned its current sobriquet, “the Blue Ghost”, after the Duesenberg “Silver Ghost” of the twenties. Y'see, our rental runs so quietly, that you can only barely hear the engine running if you are standing in front of the vehicle, and inside the car (or to the side) you cannot hear the engine at all. This caused a few awkward moments and one fairly awkward hour, since Mum left the keys in the car with the engine running not once, but three times. After the last time, when we were actually locked out, we left the radio on so we'd remember to take the keys.
Got home to discover that during the downpour, the roof over my computer had leaked again, and my computer was apparently on the fritz. Took it apart and depowered it in the hopes that drying out would suffice, but in the morning it was still not responding correctly. Much cursing and grouchiness.
Today: The Great Adventure, Part The First.
Mum called me at about 5:30 in the morning to see if I was ready to go. I wasn't, but arrangements were made, and we consulted maps and put directions together and , about sevenish, headed south to jauncourt's house. 'Twas about a six-hour drive into the wilds of Illinois. We hunted radio stations and sang along to songs we knew, chatted about current events, pointed out weird signs to each other and generally had a good time. We pulled in around two, to much gleeful uproar. Sharon's house is huge and old and beautiful, and full of beautiful things. It is also the home of FX, a very precocious three-year-old boy, who finally figured out somewhere in the middle of Dinner that a) I was new, b)I had tattoos just like Daddy, and c) I was, therefore, his New Best Friend and could be Commanded to follow him around and play with him. This happy state of affairs lasted, with occasional breaks for grownup conversation, until Bedtime.
I am now very tired, but I felt obliged to update, since my computer wasn't obliging me yesterday. More tomorrow or the next day. Love to you all!