The mere mention of Chicago

hj08.jpg picture by pemerytx

The Sony Center canopy at Potsdamer Platz in Berlin



Lyn went to sleep with Helmut Jahn upon her lips.  She had gotten into bed and lain there in the quieting moments before drifting, falling.  And out of the moonlit darkness she opened her eyes and spoke his name aloud.


Whether it was a brief illumination that caused the speaking of his name or vice versa, is unknown, may never be known.  Its light was snuffed by the blackness of nothingness, of sleep, and all that was left in the physical world was a pinpoint of saliva glistening in the corner of her peaceful mouth.


She awoke six hours later to a sweet taste and a light fog of confusion.  She waited for the slow-rising light of clarity to come, watched familiar wisps of information float and begin to organize themselves into puffs.  Puffs formed clouds of recollections, and out of them came the remembrance of speaking his name.


Lyn said it aloud again.  Helmut Jahn.  A name from years ago.  A name in the importance of large print on the cover of a Vis à Vis magazine.  A name that went with her major back then, that went with his picture back then, that was hard to forget.


His fedora was tipped and his wild eyes were piercing from underneath it, firing out vigor and knowing.  His body was caught, photographed in the position of determination, of certainty of calling and self.  His dashing wildness beckoned and his fierce confidence enticed.


Why she spoke his name out of a still night years later, was still unapparent.  She liked imagining that assimilating the effect of him back then was like assimilating the essence of him, and that it was doing its work to this day, building something of her life as magnificent as his buildings.


But Lyn was one to be patient in these matters of life’s puzzle pieces being slowly slipped into place, and she would be watching to see what place Helmut Jahn upon her lips slipped into.


hj09.gif picture by pemerytx




The Sony Center Berlin photo was snagged from

Helmut Jahn back then is from


8 responses to “The mere mention of Chicago

  1. Love the photos, and your totem dream. There’s something in that gaze definitely worth assimilating.

    That hat, though. Sigh. I used to have a hat like that. It got wet, and it shrunk, and now I miss it.

  2. Interesting, this Chicago daemon. I like the shamanisn of the next to last paragraph, the spell of man and name, the alchemy of inner architecture. There’s a hard hard hard-nosed realist in your DNA, that’s coupled with an aching yearning for magic. That’s some righteous yoga, girl.

    Do you know Hundertwasser? Jahn’s work seems a glassine, pristine distillation of H’s psychedelia. I dig that canopy image.

  3. MIKE

    Mr. Clever! And I once saw a picture of a young Cohen that looked like a middle-aged Dustin Hoffman and a picture of Hoffman that looked like Pacino… Do you think it’s all the same person?
    A big Hollywood welcome to you, Mike! I’m thrilled to have you visit here : )



    A totem dream. Good way to put it.
    And I have a hat story, too. In high school I refused to be so uncool as to wear “normal” hats in winter, so I got a leather cowgirl hat and man, did I love that thing. It went the way of things and I miss it, too.



    Your first two sentences were perfecto. And I just love it when you get your psychotherapy tools out and go diving in after Miss A. But really, I guess it don’t take no tools to see I loves me some magic and wants it to be real for me. I hear it’s in there with the Prego, and sometimes I get that.
    Hundertwasser, haha, yes, I can see the Paschal in his work—like ancient civilizations, like Mexico, earth, tile and fire, colorful, daring art. And in daring I readily see a similarity. I find trouble seeing past Hundertwasser’s more handcrafted, patchwork daring, but once I get past that I can see what you mean. Well, there! Seeing past something you didn’t before is magic, eh?

    It looks like I’m not gonna be able to foon ovout any fun facts or blatant lies ’bout them Mavs this week. As moved nearly to tears as I was on seeing #150, my project’s being a real bitch, gettin’ all complicated on me. Probably won’t let me out the house at all weekend. But I’ll sneak out long enough to see if you got any sporks or splades over at your place ;-)

  5. The images of these words, “the quieting moments before drifting, falling”, “blackness of nothingness”,familiar wisps of information float and begin to organize themselves into puffs” are lovely. You never-no-mind those disheartening cues my dear, and comtinue to listen to the places within that bring out a piece like this. A beauty.

    Thank you so much. That hit where it was supposed to. I will try.
    I hope you will remind me if I seem to have forgotten : )

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