light and shadow | albert
Light floats through atmosphere, arriving softly, washing over objects.
Revealing. Reflecting. Refracting.
The objects' surfaces drink, the dark ones drinking deeply. Leftover light bounces and scatters. Different surfaces—different reflections.
POLISHED surfaces? DIRECT reflection. Light crashes hard and bounces. Direct. Clean, cold, sharp-edged.
ROUGH surfaces? SCATTERED reflection. Infinitesimal fragments of light tossed off in a myriad of directions, giving the impression of softness, smoothness, matte finish. But the violence of it never occurred to me until now.
Today I sent a harsh email to someone I have never met.
Arretez. Cease and desist. Quit.
Words had coursed through satellites and cables, from his laptop to mine. Words in trickles, gushes and spurts. Cascading rivers of words. Revealing—what? Reflecting little. Refracting much. Mostly deflecting.
From his fingers to my screen. From mine to his. Compliments, accepted. Questions, ignored. [Why?] Play. Urgency. Hints and invitations, ignored. And then, a phrase, only a phrase, yes? A blunt phrase, a phrase that arrived like shrapnel. Humor? Violence?
[What is he? Who is he?]
Different people—different reactions.
Who was the polished one? Who was rough?
Was *I* the direct one, literal? Was *I* clean and hard, cold and sharp-edged? His words seemed to me so rough when I read them, again and again and again. I couldn't bear them. But perhaps I could not see closely enough—were they soft and playful? Was he tossing off infinitesimal bits of thought, a thousand thousand thousand ways, with only one bit lodging in my third eye?
Just a few words, really.
They slipped onscreen silent, like scalpels doing quiet murder.
But only a few words, really.
Every cell in my body screaming.
Shuddering.
Different surfaces—different reflections.
Light softly flows around objects, falling onto and caressing other surfaces. Objects block the light.
Objects touching objects—the shadow careens, slamming against object, knife-edged, dark and hard. But the shadow is nothing. An absence.
Knives can cut. Shadows?
Why am I afraid of words?
Syllables don't murder. Is he a criminal?
How can I trust when my body sends fear into my blood?
There is no wound. But nonetheless I fear. And I regret.
The light cascades past the object. The shadow is cast.
But the edge of the shadow grows dull. It blurs. As it moves along, farther and farther from its source, it softens. It feathers back into warm light. The shadow is a temporary blackness. An absence of the cascade of energy and revelation. A deep thing, sharp and then soft, and then no more.
Revealing. Reflecting. Refracting.
The objects' surfaces drink, the dark ones drinking deeply. Leftover light bounces and scatters. Different surfaces—different reflections.
POLISHED surfaces? DIRECT reflection. Light crashes hard and bounces. Direct. Clean, cold, sharp-edged.
ROUGH surfaces? SCATTERED reflection. Infinitesimal fragments of light tossed off in a myriad of directions, giving the impression of softness, smoothness, matte finish. But the violence of it never occurred to me until now.
Today I sent a harsh email to someone I have never met.
Arretez. Cease and desist. Quit.
Words had coursed through satellites and cables, from his laptop to mine. Words in trickles, gushes and spurts. Cascading rivers of words. Revealing—what? Reflecting little. Refracting much. Mostly deflecting.
From his fingers to my screen. From mine to his. Compliments, accepted. Questions, ignored. [Why?] Play. Urgency. Hints and invitations, ignored. And then, a phrase, only a phrase, yes? A blunt phrase, a phrase that arrived like shrapnel. Humor? Violence?
[What is he? Who is he?]
Different people—different reactions.
Who was the polished one? Who was rough?
Was *I* the direct one, literal? Was *I* clean and hard, cold and sharp-edged? His words seemed to me so rough when I read them, again and again and again. I couldn't bear them. But perhaps I could not see closely enough—were they soft and playful? Was he tossing off infinitesimal bits of thought, a thousand thousand thousand ways, with only one bit lodging in my third eye?
Just a few words, really.
They slipped onscreen silent, like scalpels doing quiet murder.
But only a few words, really.
Every cell in my body screaming.
Shuddering.
Different surfaces—different reflections.
Light softly flows around objects, falling onto and caressing other surfaces. Objects block the light.
Objects touching objects—the shadow careens, slamming against object, knife-edged, dark and hard. But the shadow is nothing. An absence.
Knives can cut. Shadows?
Why am I afraid of words?
Syllables don't murder. Is he a criminal?
How can I trust when my body sends fear into my blood?
There is no wound. But nonetheless I fear. And I regret.
The light cascades past the object. The shadow is cast.
But the edge of the shadow grows dull. It blurs. As it moves along, farther and farther from its source, it softens. It feathers back into warm light. The shadow is a temporary blackness. An absence of the cascade of energy and revelation. A deep thing, sharp and then soft, and then no more.
posted by laurelpaley at 7:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home