Atalik's Window by Chipka
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Description
In the city of Pekkur, there is something of Budapest in its architectural temperament, something of Prague, and something—as well—of Bucharest. Pekkur is an Eastern city, rife with the olfactory implications of paprika and cinnamon, dill (from Ükür) and peppers (pickled and in jars) from the inner cockles of Bulgaria. Pekkur—like any city in Agara—is rich in paradox. It sprouts in cosmopolitan elegance from a history that is dark and at times, profane, beguiling in its mystery and seductive in the artists who have claimed Agara (and thus Pekkur) as their earnest and devoted muse. The Number-8 train takes you there.
Pekkur is Atalik’s home. He, like his country, strikes the eye—and thus the mind—like a protean and slippery thing: a creature of myth and paradox. There is something of Budapest in his blood. You can see it in his eyes: a darkness there. It is something—you may think—that reveals a history rich in bloodshed and cultured grace. He crafts his words in a sonorous, baritone timbre. Agara—the only motherland he has known—shapes the contours of his voice. His hair, is dark—half a shade more brown that the shadows of midnight.
Far from rich, he lives in grace. He says of himself that he is a mere clerk, but at night—far from the confines of his office—he writes tempests and fevers on endless electronic pages. He is a writer of some renown, a fictionist and poet likened to the existentialist masters of France and Ükür. For Every Captive has struck Amazon.com with an intensity that belies his mere 32 years.
His is a life of relative solitude. To walk the length of Tatrasi Prospekt, is to trace his footsteps. Where the street bends, in accordance to some forgotten convention, a house stands in otherworld, rococo splendor. Owned, once by a member of the Agaran Aristocracy, it fell into Communist hands and served as a museum. Now, after the fall of the Agaran- Soviet Socialist Republic, it is once-more cradled in private ownership: descendents—say some—of the original landed gentry have reclaimed their birthright.
Atalik lives on the top floor. Beneath the gryphons. “I never wear shoes at home,” he declares, and it is not difficult to imagine the young and fevered sculptor of words, hunched over his desk, transposing his tempers and his hot ruminations into the fists and hammers that strike poetic truth into the brains and marrow of his devoted followers. It is not difficult to imagine the shoeless wonder, hard at work on For Every Captive with naked feet flat on buffed and aged hardwood. It is a fitting image, and in looking up to the window beneath flagrant griphons and a heraldic shield, you may (if lucky) catch a glimpse of the fevered barefoot writer, or the mild, quiet clerk, staring down at some invisible spot on Tatraski Prospekt. This is a romantic and wishful declaration, however, with little truth to it: a glimpse at that window is most likely to reveal little more than glass and faint, reflected sky beneath indifferent, mythic guardians and a blank heraldic shield.
This is Agara. This is Pekkur. Where the most significant windows always seem empty.
***
This is actually a random architectural feature I captured today, while wandering around with Corey in search of Coffee. The window itself and the sky above were tinted blue, in an effort to immortalize something other than the immortal gray of Chicago's wintertime skies. Atalik popped into my mind as I "blued the sky" and so worked his way into the text that accompanies this image. He may return in later posts.
As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting, and I hope you've enjoyed the weekend, as well as this brief glimpse into Agara as inspired by an obscure, dirty little building in Chicago.
Comments (15)
danapommet
Love your narrative Chip. So well worded and descriptive. Also enjoyed this capture. Wonderful workmanship. Dana
myrrhluz
That number-8 train! Another fascinating trip to Agara! How much of a person's heritage do you see in his eyes? I guess it depends on how closely he lives it. Each new baby born is like a clean slate. With physical, mental, and circumstantial advantages and disadvantages. And yet the past can reach into their psyche and make subtle twists. Or so it seems sometimes. I love how you describe Atalik. I can see his hunched body, energy pouring into his words. I love the imagery of the blank windows. How often do cold blank windows hide the feverish activity within, just as a "mild, quiet clerk" can hide a "fevered barefoot writer" within. Your image is perfect! It fits so well with your narrative and I'll have to take your word that it is obscure and dirty and the rest. Excellent narrative and image!
beachzz
I can almost hear Atalik pounding away, the air around him nearly alive with his energy. His words can't get out fast enough, they fly thru his fingers like fireworks. The foto, there's something about the slightly off center POV that makes it even more interesting---as though the world is not quite on its axis.
Meisiekind
Excellent workmenship on this building / window! Gosh - I love these old buildings where masons still had genuine pride in their craft! Well seen and captured Chip! :))
durleybeachbum
I enjoyed your narrative, but for me this time the image is the tops! It is so much like a piece of headgear, an Egyptian queen hat of the highest calibre. Marvellous!
qrud
Fascinating to view. Pure architecture art. Love this types of buildings.
helanker
This is a wonderful building that you captured so nicely. Fantastic architecture ART!.. And it fascinates me, that you, just like that, can spin a narrative on it. I am beginning to understand these remote expressions in your face. You are spinning :-D
MrsRatbag
This is just lovely! What a great compo (and the story compo is intriguing also!)
ladyraven23452
love it great shot.
WDCscg
Gorgeous and well composed as always. Thanks!
watapki66
Very nice shot!
bmac62
Being a relative newcomer to your gallery...I think this is the first time I have read personally of Agara (and thus Pekkur)...but I've heard of these mystic places often from those commenting on your tales for a far longer period of time. I was very glad to reaffirm that it is indeed the Number-8 train that takes a person there. As for you inspirational muse-building/window, this is a fascinating image. No question about it...100 years ago, things were very, very different in Chicago (thinking of architects and structures at this moment). It is nice to have this as a monument of the past...but aren't we far better off today than our ancestors were in the "good-ole days"!
kgb224
Outstanding capture and story line my friend.
auntietk
This kicks butt in a seriously good way, my friend! This one sentence ... “I never wear shoes at home,” he declares, and it is not difficult to imagine the young and fevered sculptor of words, hunched over his desk, transposing his tempers and his hot ruminations into the fists and hammers that strike poetic truth into the brains and marrow of his devoted followers. ... WOW! That's fantastic. Sometimes you write things that make my writer's soul sing, and that is absolutely one of them!
Roxam
"..and it is not difficult to imagine the young and fevered sculptor of words, hunched over his desk, transposing his tempers and his hot ruminations into the fists and hammers that strike poetic truth into the brains and marrow of his devoted followers..." powerful image and imagery soaring above the gryphons... so grateful you linked to this--- can't believe I missed it (almost entirely!) I had already copied the excerpt to paste it when I saw that the same fists and hammers struck "autietk" as well... almost hesitated to avoid redundancy