Baltar’s Dream. *** Without a doubt, music plays an important role in my life; it informs nearly everything that I do. It is a part of everything that I feel. I think in terms of music—not often, but enough to notice. It is no surprise, then, that music would come to identify what happens when I place an image in the context of what I’ve experienced, or what I hope to accomplish. Without a doubt, rivers are strangely musical places. Throughout history, humans have written river songs. I thought of this as I walked along Cermak Street and found myself crossing the Chicago River. Though tourists may recognize the small, exceptionally photographic stretch of this sluggish and muddy waterway, there are other stretches: turgid, murky regions where strange and surly fish might swim, where ducks and geese make their nests. As you travel south, or west, along the river’s numerous curves, you become aware of variations—subtle shifts in theme and temperament. I’ve always noticed this on an instinctive level, as I crossed and re-crossed bridges. And today, as I listened to music, I found an accidental connection—a single composition that strikes at the heart of what it is to know the Chicago River with it’s backwards course and strange meanders through obscure neighborhoods. There is a hollow and haunting quality to Chicago. It is a city of ghosts, after all. It is an inconstant city: like a hollow gourd in the wind, blowing wherever caprice takes it: money is its only anchor, and so it never wanders far from its money-making roots. As you wander along the banks of the river, or find a zipper-line of bridges crossing it, re-crossing, and crossing again, other elements of the city emerge. Remnants of industry crumble and rust along its banks—barge moorings and other ossified tethers mark places where once goods flowed inward and southward from areas as far as Africa or the European continent, or where metals flowed outward. Now, such places are home to ducks and sparrows and bright-eyed, industrious rats. But if you follow the river from south to north, or from northwest to southeast, you sense something. It is a quiet thing: a whispered presence that becomes louder and more demanding as you reach the downtown core of the city—that place where giants stand with skin of glass and skeletons of metal. The mood of the city changes as well: shifting, ever so slightly from dreams to a loud and giddy pursuit of distraction. I took this picture two weeks ago. I wanted to capture the railroad bridges in the distance. One stands raised, as hit has for decades. I don’t remember ever seeing it down and crossing the slow waters beneath. I doubt that it is abandoned. Chicago isn’t a city to let so much metal go to waste, but for as long as I can remember I’ve never seen it lowered. How odd, since its companion continues to span the river. I’ve always called these bridges “the Scissors.” And though I’ve seen them for decades, this is the first image I’ve ever captured of them. The music (linked at the top of this post) has nothing to do with the Chicago River or its bridges, but by the quirk of random fate, it captures what I’ve always felt upon seeing these bridges (always from afar) or what I suspect I’d feel if I took a boat-driven journey along the river itself...from the southern headwaters, to the tower-clogged region where lake and river kiss, but do not intermingle. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, commenting (and in this case even listening) and I hope that this is the start of a great week for anyone in need of a great week.