Ascending Dreams: A Monument to Possibility
As dusk settled over the Potomac River, I found myself standing before the half-constructed obelisk of the Washington Monument. Its exposed central stair seemed to rise into the twilight like the promise of something unspoken—a connection between the fragmented past and an uncertain, but hopeful, future. I climbed cautiously, not toward a finished pinnacle, but through a spiral of reflection, where each step felt like an intersection of history and possibility. The structure wasn’t complete, nor was it in ruin; it existed in a moment of transformation, a bridge between what had been and what could be.
The scaffolding wrapped around the monument like an embrace, supporting its metamorphosis. Some blocks gleamed with polished brilliance, while others remained rough, yet to be shaped—like a mosaic of contradictions, mirroring the complexities of a nation still defining itself. Light and shadow danced across its surface, creating a patchwork of textures, as though the obelisk itself was alive, breathing the stories of those who shaped it and those who would ascend it. It wasn’t just stone. It was a dialogue, a monument to progress, and a reminder that true peace isn’t found in the perfection of the past but in the courage to envision an inclusive, shared future.
But the genesis of this vision began years earlier, in the warmth of Max Tavern in Chicago. I remember those nights vividly. The tavern, a sanctuary for spirited souls, resonated with an effervescent energy. I would slip into my favorite booth near the photo booth, a glass of orange juice my only indulgence in the midst of lively conversation and laughter. The dim lights cast soft golden hues across the room, and as the world around me turned into a blur of sounds and movements, I would lose myself in my sketchpad. Pencil in hand, I’d let my thoughts wander beyond the tavern's walls, shaping outlines of dreams yet to be realized.
It was in that space, with the hum of life and camaraderie surrounding me, that the idea of the obelisk first emerged—a fragment of memory, part dream, part possibility. I can still see the interplay of the tavern’s shadows and my sketch lines, the way the noise settled into a kind of rhythm that guided my hand. That half-finished monument in my mind’s eye was as much about the spirit of that place and time as it was about the future it envisioned.
