Athenæum
Athenæum
By Colin Silva
On the fifth-floor balcony (or more like 6th or 7th if you count 4 A + B) of the Athenæum, I was confronted by two skylines, one of the old Boston, and, towering above it, new Boston, with its sleek, bright metal spires.
The new Boston skyline looms. The towers demand you notice their irreparable, eternal positions by the shadows they cast and the beams of light they shoot at you when you attempt to ignore them. Their existence is validated only by the opulence of their minimalist owners & gawking spectators, myself included. Like the Medieval towers of Bologna, these financiers build, stirred by their frantic self-importance, embroiled over their own Investiture controversy. The difference, however, is that at least the towers in Bologna had the good conscience to crumble and fall. Three hundred feet of stone. One hundred and eighty towers down. Twenty more on the way.
The old Boston skyline looked up at me from below: stone, brick, plaster, elegant, all hidden in shadow and puddles. The tables and chairs, wrought iron, were scattered about on the balcony, some dented and holding water. When does aging get easier? A sense of nostalgia flips my stomach. The skyline is eternal.
The balcony sits ahead of a corner, the windows of the building reflecting, stretching, distorting light on the opposite wall, making large glowing cathedral mosaics of nothing in particular.
I placed my elbows on the iron railing, and I watched the mosaics change with the sun. On the plaster edging appeared an enormous hawk, sat so close I could touch him. I could look him in the eye as an equal. He cocked his head at me and then continued to look back down. At what? I wasn’t sure to start, but he compelled me to look as well. Down below, the skyline shade hid the Granary burial ground. Thin gravestones and unassuming chest tombs sat undisturbed next to invisible ledger stones. A tree or three sat leafless. The Gravehawk stared below, perhaps for mice, or to watch over the dead wandering within the confines of the yard, or something else. Perhaps the hawk lead a tight curfew for the ghosts of our pasts. I wiped book leather off my hand. The hawk looked at me, then back at the yard. He bobbed his head and pruned for a moment. Looked at me, and then the yard. His eyes so alive, so focused, undisturbed by my presence.
I left him to his business and shut one heavy old door, and then the next. I think the doors in here are coated in some sort of Bakelite. I walked down metal stairs, into the reading rooms, still thinking of the hawk. I came face to face with a painting of Benjamin Franklin, at least I believe it was Benjamin Franklin, maybe it was someone else. He was too close to my face for my liking, or I was too close to his. The light from the sun or the new skyline shined through on him. The paint reflected the light, he was hard to see. Paul Revere? The individual strokes of paint became evident. Samuel Adams? Though, the paint strokes that made up his eyes, eyelids, eye bags, crow’s feet or lack thereof, reflected no light, matte. His eyes remained dead as he stared at me, or I stared at him. His identity eludes me still. The bell tolled from the Park Street church. I left the unknown man and thought more of the Granary Gravehawk.
It was cold out, but blistering in the sidewall staircases around the stacks, portraits, and self portraits. I forgot where I was in it all. What floor I stood on, what I went searching for. A marble Christ evaded my gaze, choosing to look down at my feet. His eternal meekness etched within the countenance of his carved likeness made me feel uneasy, unworthy. A marble Satan met me eye to eye, his cold, commanding gaze, wide eyes, furrowed brow, and head of short, curly hair stood in defiance of me, looking into my eyes, unflinching. I had no idea whose marble likeness I was contending with in the moment, however I felt the need, in the aforementioned moment, to cast my disgust back at it. I pulled on my own curly hair. I had more than he did.
I pulled open a Bakelite door and trampled down the marble staircase with some degree of care for the others in the reading room, my boots jangling with each step. I looked over the low railing and saw an infinite mirror, a bottomless yet well-staired and well-lit pit, to the basement. To Pandemonium. Or to nowhere. The lights all lined up on top of each other. I imagined dropping a stone on the lights. Not that I would. I saw figures of those before me clamoring down the steps. In each worn and orangéd area I saw their feet, phantom others in front and behind me coming towards and running away, but I saw no one after me. My presence had, I hope, inked itself into the staircase. I would never break the lights, lest I lose everyone living in the illuminated pit. Forever running up and down, a skylight at the top, but no other windows for the new skyline to shade. Only old lights to one day extinguish. I went on my way.
