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Page 20 text:
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Sweeping quickly over the plains, wending through widened river gaps and mountains, climbing the graduated con- tours of a million years of evolutionary progress, looming lazily against the magenta Pennsylvania skies, as an in- nocent nation sleeps in eternal silence, so, too, she sleeps. The seeping slows and the glass of a thousand powers en- larges the scape ... it yields . . . Clemenceau called her le chateau, to Plato she was the Republic, ' o Caesar, his prized empire: Vedi, Vici, Veni on her face. Rousseau dubbed her for all time — the noble savage; to Nietzsche she was a superwoman, a Zarathustra; to deLeon a verit- able fountain of youth. FDR once called her the Big Deal. Napoleon, after a visit en brief, mysteriously entitled her la Waterloo. To the master l ' homme de Renaissance Da- Vinci, she was — but the Mona Lisa. To Justice Holmes she meant the excitement of yelling fire in a crowded theater. Gershwin named his most adored piece in honor of her — she is all a Rhapsody in Blue. Louis Quatorze is known to have patterned his Tuilleries palace after her, apres moi, le deluge. And . . . screaming wildly over those thundering plains which spread before her, across the evermoving sliver of her water ribbon, there, neatly nestled like a malignant tumor upon the breast of ol ' South Mountain, she blurts her bubonic being, yearning to be heard, distressed only by the possibility of no one hearing her. . . . Perhaps of all the epithets, phrases, names and designs which have been drawn from the bosom of her soul, two such titles ring resounding dulcet tones through time ' s dampening curtain: Melville nailed her as his Great White Whale; even greater though was Buchminster Fuller who hung one on her which she still bears, despite the intimidating pictures of her founding and framing fathers whose dusty images adorn her dim highways to learning — he called her The Space- ship . . . and so she screams . . . Call Me Dravo! . . . But her story is not merely one of history evermore, no, in- deed, it is written into the very structure of her being. To know her is to know a great wine, o r a famous cabinet maker. Her taste, her age, her craftmanship, all strive for their recognition separately but yet together, with a sym- metry of a triangular three. We must delve into her being, to the men who have built her being, to men like Arthur Katect, who designed her walls, exterior and room interior. Katect has said, possibly loud enough for all to hear, that he has used a distinct philosophical style, one which echoes the sentiment of the era from which it was born. Burning with the light of reason, lighting our ignorant ways but one step ahead, Katect has called her room design the Tabula Rasa: Like Locke ' s ideal of ideas, the walls are wet plaster, ready to accept the diseased sneezes of our forty assembled influenza sufferers; when left to harden we are wanting to find ourselves a more impressionistic enclosure, bumpy, yet a uniquely unified relief. If Dravo ' s being is one of a physical entity, dependent upon every architectural niche for expression of such being, so must she be reliant on those who litter her milky corridors with humanage. It can be only joy to one ' s ears, as even Gershwin has told us, to hear the combined rhapsodies of symphonic volume and tone. As Dravo screams her name across the vast land which rolls on before her, so her many moods of music wail incessantly over the land whose name bears the Latin derivation — quad. A statement of artistic whole, a gestalt of quadrophonic, dominating a similarly vibrating quadrophonic area. What better area to relieve oneself in such a thoroughly stimulating environment than the well-lit back alleys which serve as the veins and arteries of her body electric. Could her halls but speak, they would tell us of the eternal epics of Carthaginian battle, those noble fights against the Spartans and the pouring of molten lead upon thousands of mobbing, naked human forms from her mighty battle- ments. With lead poured only in short supply, the ingenious legionnaires who defend her lofty position search out other modes to keep the swarming enemy from her sanctified womb. But just as Caesar ' s brave soldiers required rest from the ungodly long hours of defense against Cannibal ' threatening forces, so too must her righteous defendeis periodically displace themselves from the all of camp, from the static mania which the sputtering radiators allow no escape from, away from the other restless warriors who dither about beseeching her bowel ' s stolid lining for guidance, and most importantly withdraw themselves from being in and part of her infectious whole. In particular, her turrets . . . having seen the wounded limp before them in a sick parade to a sickening cadence, they alone under- stand the hurlings of outrageous fortune at her defenders . . . but they do not weep alone. Covered with soft goose down, silken to the touch, sensually sinewing through each room, she calls her own, timing all together like a deft seamstress with her golden spun thread, thin and airy in the morning light — her pipes! Oh! The pipes! Those softly screaming pipes — do not wonder for whom they toll, be well assured that they toll for thee. But alone they serve as only a glimpse of her true treasures. Towers pro- jecting in staggering proportion undeniably beautify her, but depth must dominate the particulars if she is not to slip quickly from gaze. Within her depths Pompeiin- tilted lustral basins stand as a crowning nest of robins in her hair. These eternal rooms of internal need echo but too well the remains of the past. The food of her mind devoured and discarded, her core being plucked only to be brutally cast aside, such are the echoes of her true spirit, a whisper of steamy romanticism as loud as the din of bat- tle, so are her rooms of daily need. As if this were not enough, staggering stairwells unify once and for all what is dynamically Dionysian and Apollonian. The force, life against death, Eros va. Civilization, one Dravo brother against another, such seething juxtapositions divide her spirit while in true fashion unifying her place as a state- ment of the whole. This alone swells and climaxes her symphonic representation, her menage a trois; what could be more appropo, more cul de sac, more panhellenic and Scaenitura than the loneliness of her three million eyes, grimly peering over what Fitzgerald called the ash heaps; this, then, as now and forever, is the gestalt . . . food of her veins and arteries. We are gladly enchained in the fire and shadow of her cave, waiting endlessly to emerge and see real light; we can only remember that within her we have seen the lucid reasons for classical musical unity and its fortifying impartation to us . . . she stands, testimony to a million sleeping men and women who rest confident upo her love to watch over the valley, of her water ribbon . . to Kant she was the categorical imperative while to Ein- stein, a unified universe. To David, Goliath, to Samson, Delilah. To Faulkner. . . the Sanctuary. Eliot named his great poem for her, The Wasteland. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — she was created and never will she perish; she is burned mercilessly into the conscience of an innocent nation . . . call me Dravo she screams . . . Moses called her . . . Ijm l i ini l tAllffWWTOrffltrr» l lTa i ?rfflir ' ru2 .Hi luniBi i, lift ii ' ii in, lYi I ' lii ' i tin i ' ni iui ii ' il ii ' i iut iw fi inl n ' .u in, iiu iiiii Mi iui v h i ' i h Mi iifi Mi
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