Light or In Limbo
Light or in Limbo [excerpted]
I pause inside the gallery’s chill walls, a happy reprieve from the city’s sticky outdoors. My eyes dart from left to right, then up and down — each image offers a soft reminder. The hillside reminds me to look out. The palm trees remind me to look up. The park, lit by bright streetlights, reminds me that I continually fear going blind. The sidewalk, lined with stucco facades, reminds me that looking is not the same as watching, and neither is the same as seeing.
I glance over my right shoulder, and then over my left, as if I’ve suddenly been caught in the dark.
On a late morning in November, I drive past a long row of cars flashing their brights. A row of them, hundreds of feet in length, waits patiently for the light to turn green while on the opposite side of the median, I rush to get home. I’ve just stopped
to pick up a large ream of paper, something shiny our local supplier sells in excess. Something they call Stardream.
While awaiting my signal to turn, I glimpse a delicate shimmer on the dashboard of each pulsing car. I inch closer to find the word funeral displayed there in uppercase letters. It reads less like a warning when I see it repeated, upright on some cars and off kilter on others; more like poetry.
When I exit my studio later that night, I look to the stars. My neck careened upward, the chill breeze of the near-winter air gathering in the pit of my nostrils, I have to squint my eyes to decipher sparks of light through the clouds. Sparks of stars.
I think to myself, some of the plainest pictures can hold us captive, and wonder why I spent the larger part of my day arranging complex shapes on a page in search of the perfect pattern.