Blue Light

Blue Light. There can’t be enough of these—or at least I keep on taking them. The office window view at this hour, with the blue light seen though the trees. Heightened by an algorithm, no doubt--but let's not go there. We'll always have technical questions--doubts about numbers and processes--as if digital clarity could redeem us. Better the light itself, no? Our our sense of sight--I hesitate to even say it, so precious. And yet, why idealize? Wax sentimental, when what's true is the way all this looks--the line of paintings, leaned up on the edge of the desk, the hint of chair (a beautiful dull red), the one bottle, lit from the side--it's not silver, the label, but it's become silver now...

The lamp is a reflection--always a surprise, as if it were outside. But maybe best is that run of quiet--the open space on the desk--masonite, from the old days (not used much anymore)--a noble material (that would be my call), still close enough to the hand that we feel as if we know its source...

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My mother wrote a letter once, to the paper in Oceanside--the BladeTribune--defending the work of the architect Irving Gill. (There was a plan to demolish and replace his work with something new.) He'd designed the city library, along with other buildings in that downtown block. All with those firmly sparse arcades--touching on an image from Moorish Spain, the arches, but also very much of the present in Gill's own day. We all loved them, even without knowing it--and this is what she wanted to point out. The word she chose was quiet--how important it was, and how much we needed it. A respite, but also a focus--a focus without a center, unimposed. So that you'd feel its importance just by being there. Never overbearing--Gill's buildings allowed you to join in, to be yourself. They implied a community, a sense of dignity, even. But these last are my words. What she said was that they were quiet.  And that the quiet itself was of value, could never be replaced...


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