SEEING THE LIGHT
SEEING THE LIGHT
In the entry prior to this I promised to blog about an interesting visual event, one I experienced two weeks ago, on my birthday. A few notes, first.
I had a quiet birthday. Worked most of the day, felt a little tired, didn't realize it was a precurser to a slight bout of Diabetes-related-Anemia coming on. Was surprised as I left for the day to find a GIGANTIC birthday card from my cohorts. A huge card, in the shape of a pickle. Your Birthday, it read, No Big Dill! Signed by a bunch of people, really lifted my somewhat blah spirits.
50 is a strange age. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror that day. Looked the same as the day before. At 49 I didn't feel so old. At 50 I looked exactly as I had at 49. That made me feel better. Not quite seeing the light, but at least seeing a glimmer of light in a mirror, anyway.
This evening, doing some last-minute shopping before a road trip, a checkout girl was jabbering away in Creole to one of her coworkers about her aunt. These two young women appear to be in their early twenties.
"45 years old, can you believe it!? And she acts like that!" was the gist of one of her comments. In English I asked her, "Oh, 45, what do you mean?" The checkout girl said, "Comprende-tu tout?" ("you understand all?"). I explained that I followed what she said, and wondered what exactly did she mean about her aunt being 45. Is it that this makes her old, I inquired.
The two checkout girls giggled, and the one who'd been speaking began to backpedal, but her buddy said, in English, "yeah, mon, that's what you meant, own up to it, sister."
Is 45 old, then, I directly inquired of her. She explained that in her aunt's case, she was acting like an old lady.
How old do I appear, I asked them. Please understand that I am a regular customer at this store, and there is a degree of familiarity with these checkout girls. I've spoken in Fractured French to them, they've spoken to me in Creole/French/Haitian dialect.
Ooh, I put them on the spot! They decided I was maybe 40, maybe early 40's.
I wish I'd had a camera to snap a picture of their widened eyes when I told them I was 50. To these two, 50 seems ancient. They couldn't believe it, and thought I was kidding with them. No, I told them, 1952, my year. That might have stunned them more, actually, that I mentioned a year like that, so very much before their time.
So they giggled and remained astounded, and I walked off rolling my shopping cart, feeling a little younger for just the moment. And a little lighter on my feet. So this wasn't seeing the light, but at least a light feeling.
Thanks to Doc for the birthday wishes in his blog. And thanks to b!X's mom, who discovered this blog looking at TheOneTrueb!X's blog, for the nice birthday wishes. Very nice, really, a son and his mother sharing some blog-life. Quite refreshing. b!X's mom has her own blog, too; check it out!
And now, about that event, those lights.
After work on my birthday I drove to pick up Susan from work and we went to dinner at Hunan Balcony, a Chinese/Japanese restaurant we like on the Upper East Side. They have fresh Sushi, all sorts of exotic and unusual, indigenous sort of items, and we go there often enough that they recognise us and greet us warmly when we're there. Susan decided to treat me to a Sushi Birthday Dinner.
Interesting, huh, a Dill Pickle card, and then Sushi. We are hitting on my favorites, that's for sure.
After dinner we drove to Chinatown. That was when I saw the lights.
The display had begun a few days earlier, on the 11th, six months after the attack. The City commemorated the six-month mark with a somber ceremony, and this fantastic display of light. The laser-like image sits in the site where the Twin Towers were located. They are visible from all over, from afar and across the water, across the city. Driving down the east side I first caught sight of them. We drove nearby, and then on my way back to my suburban digs there they were, the lights, in my rear view mirror.
A stunning, moving installation. Blue lights into the sky. The terrorists, I suspect, had no idea they would inspire, by proxy and invariably, such a strong emotional bond and stirring among us.
As I drive in to the City I go over a few bridges, sometimes I take one of the tunnels. The memory of the events of 9/11 often comes to mind. The tunnels are scary; a sense of helplessness or claustrophobia will shiver through me as I enter, as perhaps this is the scene of another attack.
A few weeks back, driving from the Newark airport into Chinatown, as I was on the highway headed toward the Holland Tunnel I saw lower Manhattan. The absence of the Twin Towers was stark, startling, and discomfiting.
The lights, though, on my birthday, shining brightly into the night sky, serve as not just a reminder. They inspired a sense of survival, ardor, and strength.
I saw the lights. It was reassuring and comforting, after six months of predominantly sensing angst, melancholy, wistfullness after the attack. The lights are more than a memorial installation.
They are an inspiration. Kudos to those who conceived this month-long work of art.
