There’s something strange about trying to get familiar with Schenley
Plaza. Sure, it’s a park. A park with less trees than (the other) Schenley or the
Frick, but a park nonetheless. It meets Ryan’s Personal Criteria for
nature: grass, trees, sky, birds. Seems simple enough.
But it isn’t. It might be easier to feel a place is “mine”
if I were truly alone. A stump in the middle of a forest, an island flecking a
lake. Getting to know Schenley Plaza—a place passed through by so many people every day—is like getting to know
a sidewalk or a manhole cover. Granted, the plaza is more interesting and natural
and changing, but it’s just as…public.
Maybe that's irony. There is nothing more public
than a forest. But there’s also nothing as private as being deep within one.
It’s impossible to get deep within Schenley Plaza.
Schenley Plaza is the size of a city block.
It is a city block.
It’s a perfect square of open white, like winter farmland seen from planes.
It’s impossible to get deep within Schenley Plaza.
Schenley Plaza is the size of a city block.
It is a city block.
It’s a perfect square of open white, like winter farmland seen from planes.
A forest is a destination. A stopping point. Something to
stare at and sleep in and wish for. Schenley Plaza is none of those things.
Schenley Plaza is a well-decorated hallway leading to grander rooms. Even I won’t stay there. I’m taking a packed
suitcase with me (to drag through two inches of snow), and I’m headed south by
way of the 28X and Southwest #4745 nonstop to Nashville.
*
This was all on my mind as I headed to Schenley Plaza on
Wednesday afternoon. Here we go again: the snowman the gray skies the library the people etc. etc.
But really, it’s amazing what a sunny day can do. The snow
at the plaza looked disinfected. Restored. Even the snowman seemed in better
spirits (though he remained unfinished). The ice atop the circus tent moaned as
it broke apart in the clear light, making the pavilion look like a translucent tortoise shell.
I heard the ambient street noise of impermanence, the sound
of moods upturned across the region, of shovels against warming sidewalks, of
my pen scratching a black Moleskine I’ve had for six years, only now coming to
its end and pondering future notebooks…
Even the bare trees brought good news as my head drifted off.
Called London plane trees, they were planted here as an experiment in urban
horticulture right about the time I bought this notebook. Their bark is a speckled
gray-green, almost like camouflage, rough and smooth at the same time like a driveway. The oldest of them, the ones that didn’t die after the original planting, were discovered to be resistant to insects and
disease on a genetic level. Their DNA is now used to breed hardier London
planes planted throughout the city. Pittsburgh is tough down to its trees.
*
So Schenley Park isn’t private. It’s not a forest. It’s not “mine.”
It’s ours, and sitting here with my suitcase under the tortoise shell on a
sunny afternoon, thinking about (of all things) plant DNA and feeling as if the fact that our trees are improving is the last remaining piece in the puzzle
of my day, I realize how much I’m looking forward to coming back.
5 comments:
A translucent turtle shell. A really great image here - I love the word translucent. Cool way to document a change in mindstate, how a place you've come to decide is "familiar" can still surprise you.
Ryan,
"Ambient street noise of impermanence" is an amazing line I wish I'd written.
Your structure is as good as your observations. I like the way the three single lines about Schenley Plaza create space and slow the reading.
T
Ryan I'm digging the unpredictability here, the stand-still reflections of the concrete: DNA, trees, a park.
I don't really get much of the "mine" feeling at the zoo either. Ownership certainly is something to consider and I'm glad you've come to the "our" conclusion. I like that.
I like the reflections on the park and so glad to see you learned what kind of trees are planted there. Beautiful lyricism.
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