I usually don’t mind getting up in the mornings, and often sense the
time to arise. But when my alarm chirped this morning, I was surprised
by how early it felt. I thought for a second that I set the clock wrong
the night before. Or that maybe an imp meddled as I was deeply dreaming
in slumber. Like usual, I ran late, bolted from the house and
hurry-jogged to catch my bus.
On
my commute, I just sat. No reading, no games, no thoughts. I kept my
eyes unfocused. I tried to just be, come into the morning. The gray sky
made this easy. Stopped at a red light, I noticed a young construction
worker raised in a basket lift at a construction site, the metal of his
temporary prison painted orange-red. On the sidewalk,
the engine of the lift was demarcated with orange traffic cones, with
streams of caution tape stretched between each one. The worker donned a
bright orange hoodie, not his uniform, but his fashion choice for the
day. An old, abandoned brick building stood behind the new construction.
On what would have been its windows, black-and-white photographs of
performers were installed, a dozen or so people blown up and suspended
in their art. As the lift moved the worker down to the earth, he moved
between the black-and-white artists, frozen in their performances, as if
greeting them or joining them in a quick duet. With the perspective I
had, the worker and the artists were the same size, interacting. Bright
orange life juxtaposed against flat monochromes.
These are days I wish I
were a photographer, to capture these serendipitous images that do not
translate in paint, cannot be adequately described in words.