Peripheral Vision

Dad, the sky's turning pink and purple.

Riding on the bus, I watch the buildings as we pass them by, block by block. Usually, I am the driver, not the passenger. In that role, I may glimpse the same buildings, but only in a peripheral sense, never able to consider their essential meaning.

Now, as our giant Muni vehicle lumbers by, block by block, I notice the cracks and peeling paint, the defacements -- in sum, the vulnerabilities of many of these aging structures.

I also see the people on the sidewalks and bus stops with different eyes. As a driver, they are a constant cause for concern. So many elderly, young, distracted, or disabled people populate our sidewalks that I'm constantly worrying about making sure they do not edge out in front of my car.

As a passenger on the bus, these folks become the object of my study. Suddenly I am not their protector, hoping not to inadvertently hurt them, but a writer, curious about their stories.

Everyone has a story to tell.

That old Asian woman, bent over at the waist, proceeding along at a pace resembling that of a melting glacier, knows more about a time long ago and far away than you or I will ever be graced to share.

That odd fat, and (sorry) quite ugly man, dressed up as a woman opera singer, is either going somewhere for an event, or has a serious identity issue, at his age. I hope for the former, because if so, he's just having fun.

That little baby, with her bright eyes, is noticing everything as she is pushed along in her stroller by her nanny. She already has stories to tell, even though she appears to be at a pre-verbal stage of development.

Do you follow me?

The pace at which we absorb the visual presentation of the lives that surround us matters -- a lot.

Whenever we are in a hurry, for reasons good or bad; or whenever we are in an unnatural position of unnatural control (such as being the driver), we miss a lot.

What we see when we are in a position to see tells us who we are as human beings, in essence. Our essential selves have no power whatsoever. We are entirely vulnerable to the whims of nature, of human constructs, and (if you prefer) of the gods.

Time comes. Time goes. People come. People also go, often quite suddenly, without any warning. Words get spoken. Words remain unspoken. We all underestimate the effects we have on one another. That appears to be our collective fate, which is our greatest sadness.

I am a writer, As long as I can breathe, I hope I also will write. Word by word, I am attempting to tell a story. It's not really my story exactly; it's our story.

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