Every moment of light and dark

It was quite foggy yesterday.  Visibility extended no further than the length of a football field--so unusual here that it was somewhat disorienting.  Not being able to see very far slowed traffic just a bit, slowed the pace of everything downtown.  The colors were muted, creating an almost monochromatic atmosphere.  All of these elements combined to make me realize that I spend so much time thinking about where I am going, both physically and temporally, that I often fail to live in the moment, to truly occupy my body.

As one who tends to be easily over-stimulated, I find it necessary to take a step back from time to time and focus on the here and now.  I am reminded of a store I visited in San Francisco.  Open onto the sidewalk with no wall to separate the space from the street, the store was packed with so many colorful items that at first I was physically repulsed, almost unable to step inside.  

But I did, and as I focused on and examined individual offerings, the experience changed entirely.  I am intrigued with how an experience or an environment can change so suddenly.

Sometimes this can be due to the juxtaposition of opposites.  Sometimes the result is surprising and even ironic.  For example, consider the fact that streetlights can actually contribute to night blindness of drivers!  Studies have shown that as drivers emerge from a dark area into a lighted area, such as a pool of light from a streetlight, their pupils adjust by constricting.  Then as they leave the lighted area, their pupils dilate to adjust to the dimmer environment.  The result is a momentary decrease in the ability to see.

I was recently reading about light pollution and came across an article on light trespass, which occurs when unwanted light enters one’s property.  Not long after we moved into our current house, the photosensitive switch in the light in our front yard was overcome by fire ants and no longer turned on when it got dark outside.  Admittedly we deferred the maintenance of the fixture because it was a pain to take the whole thing apart and insert a new sensor.  Then our neighbor stopped David in the yard and thanked him for turning off the light that had shone into her bedroom window for years.  After living without the automatic illumination of the light for a while, we realized that it really wasn’t necessary, especially if it was disturbing the neighbors.

We have also been on the receiving end of light trespass.  Living across the street from the high school track, we are painfully illuminated when the powerful track lights are turned on.  I recently told my students that I was tempted to set up mirrors, which would reflect the intense light back on itself in an attempt to destroy the offending fixtures.  Just kidding, of course.  At least the lights are not used very often.

It’s funny how something usually seen as primarily positive, such as light, can be vilified.  Of course, it is all just a matter of perspective.  Consider the words of Og Mandino:  "I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars."

I will close today with a suggested project.  As a photography teacher, I always enjoy the results when my students try to write with light.  By setting the shutter on the bulb setting, the photographer points the camera toward a relatively intense light source (a full moon works well) and moves the camera to form letters.  Working with more than one light, perhaps for example with a display of Christmas lights, can create interesting repetition.

The Way We See

It is the last day of school, the last half day to be precise, before Christmas break.  And since I have a first period conference, I start the day with silence or with the music of my choice.  Today I choose silence.  Knowing that I tend to be easily overstimulated, I have not even plugged in the tree this morning.  One of my students will do that. 

As I sit in my windowless room, I recall a photo sent to me by my friend Mark Carlson this morning.  It is an office in Madrid with one side made entirely of glass. 

Working in such a place must surely change one’s perspective on his or her surroundings.  Working in an office with a side of glass also exposes said worker to the world outside--much like writing a blog exposes said writer…

Sometimes, once I enter the cave that is this school, I completely forget the world around me.  My friend Maggie Mizell stopped me in the hall after lunch yesterday to tell me that I should step outside the front side door of the school and look at the leaves on the sidewalk.  I did.  And they were almost overwhelming in their unexpected beauty. 

I am thankful for friends like Maggie and Mark who bring me outside myself.

Sometimes I turn to photography to transport myself.  A few years ago, I attended a pop culture conference in San Francisco, and while the conference was indeed interesting, what I remember most was the surrounding city and the wealth of photographic opportunities it offered me.  I was intrigued by the way the time of day

or night could color a location 

or how a change of viewpoint could add tension and excitement to a shot.

Sometimes it is repetition that creates interest.

And sometimes everyday objects, such as hoses and hydrants,

can become works or art, whether intentionally or inadvertently. 

Sometimes it is the window itself that is the most important. 

 

Photographer Elliott Erwitt said, "To me, photography is an art of observation.  It's about finding something interesting in an ordinary place.  I've found it has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them."

I look forward to the next couple of weeks and a change of perspective.

So, yesterday I decided I would write something. Anything. I needed exercise! And sometimes you just have to start where you are. So if you are in the kitchen, write about the kitchen. And the best thing is you never simply stay in the kitchen. And sometimes things come together in unexpected ways.

I. THE SOUND OF LIGHT

Beyond the kitchen window
past the white horizontal slats
neatly tilted to measure the light,
the public school across the street
turns her back, windowless and bricked,
as though ashamed or in need of privacy.

When the sun

drops below her flat horizon,
the lights flip on and on and on
until she blushes prettily,
institutional, yet fully aware
that beauty is an arbitrary gift.

Seemingly out of sorts with garlic and turmeric
the kitchen’s chrome and glass and tile
remain cool in light of the purpling sky,
and the low white ceiling glows fluorescent
with an almost silent hum.

This time at the end of day,
the world folds inwardly with the precision
of an origami rooster. I try not to think
about crossing the street tomorrow,
about how I must anticipate the cars
rounding the corner, too fast,
forcing me to listen for their approach,
hoping they will see me,
wanting to walk slow enough
to force them to see me,
to force them to brake,
never fully trusting
that the flare of brake lights
will appear in time.


II. LIVING IN THE TWENTY

Just last week
I was wondering whatever happened
to Steven Jackson…

called himself Spiderman…

“Best friend a Spider could have…”
he wrote in my yearbook.

Then Thursday
(why is it always Thursday?)
in the obituaries,
“Steven Jackson,
loved by his family…”

And I started to wonder about living
in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone.

Maybe living here
near the school
has slowed my life
to the point that I am able
to drift from the past
into the future and back,
where I am able to see
the comings and goings
of those lesser aware?

And if I really believe, will I slip back,
back to the time before
remembering…

I have been told I was enthralled
at an early age with the Taj Mahal.
And perhaps in my not-so-special
pale-girl-way I somehow captured
the essence of an Eastern mystic cult…

And I can’t help but wonder,
if I am still enough,
will you come and touch me?
If I can stay in this moment only,
will you try to convince me
I was never alone?

I am waiting for a message. Until then,
I have a jewel glued on my forehead
and I am learning to wrap a sari.

III. THE DISTANCE BETWEEN

No smoke no fire no siren, still
I assumed lightning had struck the tree
three houses down the street.
As I walked back to work,
as I saw the fire truck
skimming the street
as though anticipating a blaze
angling sly and sluggish
its bold, straight form around the corner
like a dated vacuum cleaner
with no ability to turn,
as though its wheels didn’t fit exactly
as though it couldn’t travel naturally
as though unwittingly fire resistant
and unwilling to discover an emergency.

I recalled how the storm had hit in earnest
as I ate my lunch, soup,
slamming itself repeatedly at the windows
as though determined to earn attention,
and how I witnessed, bowl in one hand,
empty spoon in the other,
as the balloons from yesterday’s party
still tied to the table’s umbrella
all exploded in the same second
silent through the pane.

Every time I see you, I wonder
about the distance between your smile
and your intention, and I wonder
if I asked, if you would look at me
with first one eye and then the other
to make me dance.

Look at me quickly then off to the side,
and if you’ve been crying,
or if you squint just right
perhaps some lightning bolts will fly.

Divide by five the number of seconds
between the flash and the thunder
to calculate the distance in miles.