design / host
Liver Spots
Sunday, Sept. 12, 2004 @ 1:11 a.m.
The subway was desolate. For once I was able to hear the music from invisible speakers that some Chicago Official picked out to play while walking through �the hallway of evolution� (as I like to call it) at Roosevelt. It had that creepy, educated feel to it� new age but not extreme, with that famous �One small step for man� line playing choppily in the background of a technological symphony.
Pure crap.
Though I guess not, because it did the trick. I was tempted to walk right out of the station and over to the museum campus, which is exactly what I suppose that entire �evolution� motif is trying to do. (Roosevelt�s located right by the planetarium, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Field Museum.) I have no money to pay a visit to any of these places, though I�d love to get lost among the massive ceilings and exhibits one hour at a time, until they shut off all the lights and I were permanently locked among sarcophagi and ancient treasures. Sometimes I�m really morbid.
Though I suppose Roosevelt failed, because what I really wanted was to go to the Museum of Science and Industry (quite a ways away from my location at the time) where I�d head straight for the Fairy Castle, a glittering, massive model of a castle. I�d sit there listening to a voice from a white, germ-ridden phone describe the details of a place I wish I were tiny enough to live in. I�d play with all the other exhibits, too. I�d sit in the stationary plane suspended to the ceiling with thick, metal chords. The only airplane I�ll step into comfortably, where I�ll sit in one of the seats and play with the monitors that teach museumgoers how to be a pilot. I�ve played that game several times and never can I grasp the concept of the dials. It�s a good thing I have no intention of becoming a pilot.
Or I could walk through the bricked streets of the early 20th century and catch a Charlie Chaplin film in the tiny silent theater hidden in one of the museum�s more obscure areas. They have a delicious ice cream parlor there for anyone who is willing to spend a small fortune.
Then there�s the model train layout� enormous. I was there back in� 2002? It must have been.
And when I were done looking at that, I�d head to the blue stair well where the slices of the human body can be found (I can�t really describe this. Imagine a person being sawed vertically in slices, and then taking those slices and putting them in cases), and poke the air bubble that bobs between the liver and Plexiglas. This poor person has been reduced, in his or her death, to having a 20-year-old girl poke his or her liver to watch a bubble bob up and down in formaldehyde.
If the Titanic exhibit were still there (which it isn�t, but let�s pretend for my sake), I would pay the extra fee just to try and read the ancient letters with faded penmanship detailing hopes, dreams, and the excitement of an extravagant journey. I like to imagine the scratching of the pen as the author scrawls out carefree messages that will never get sent. I�d follow this by placing my hand on the giant slab of ice (meant to be a glacier, I�m sure, for exhibit sake) and seeing how long I could withstand it. Not long, I�m sure.
I�ve convinced myself when I step through the sliding doors into the car of the Orange Line, that I am headed there despite the fact that Orange wouldn�t get me there even if I were actually going. It makes the ride easier. But no. Not today and not tomorrow and certainly not next week I can see this is a fantasy I will have until the quarter is over, and I will have a temporary break from Roosevelt, it�s annoying music, and the long commute.