A clear, cloudless night sky looks radically different than the same sky at noon. Sky is defined as the region of the atmosphere visible from Earth’s surface. But, at night, the atmosphere is not visible from Earth, is it? At night, we see far beyond the atmosphere, into the distant reaches of the universe as we know it. So, do we stare into the sky at night, or do we look beyond the sky, peering instead into space?
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Time can temporarily hide the unfortunate transformation of an idealist into a skeptic. When the lighthearted optimism of an idealist is revealed to have mutated into the suspicious uncertainty of a skeptic, the attitude of a person who witnessed the change spirals downward. But the pessimistic skeptic may be more brutally shattered by his own transformation than is the witness.
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My lifelong habit of waking long before the sun rises is attempting to become a fond memory. Actually, I frequently wake in the wee hours but, unlike my early-morning practice in days of yore, I choose to remain in bed. That choice rewards me with the luxury of additional sleep. Simultaneously, though, the decision punishes me by robbing me of my precious pre-dawn isolation. And a slow-motion form of kinetic activity replaces the morning serenity I so deeply appreciate. Yet, it’s obvious to me that the value I place on sleep—or, perhaps, simple unconsciousness—often eclipses the significance of my old stand-by: quiet observation and experience. Daybreak brings with it varying degrees of illumination. As the sky becomes brighter, the sounds grow louder; I can hear through the windows as nature awakens outdoors. Suddenly, I become starved for silence. I miss the absence of noise. Perhaps my old habits will return, if ever my body is allowed to adjust to a cessation of chemical infusions.
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Symmetry. That is one of the things missing in the output from my attempts to draw or to create paintings. Symmetry is missing from my efforts to produce handwritten notes, as well. When I stumble across something I penned many years ago, I notice that my cursive handwriting was legible but awkward, as if produced by a hand incapable of symmetry; unable to create smooth motion. Over time, the legibility of my cursive writing grew worse and worse. At some point, it seems I switched to printing; my cursive writing had become impossible to read. But my printing, too, devolved into uninterpretable marks on paper. Had I focused my early efforts at drawing and painting and, importantly, writing on symmetry, I might have been capable of producing meaningful memos and messages. Ach!
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The brilliant blue sky is empty now. Except for the detritus of space exploration and espionage—and nuclear ambitions. By the way, today is my birthday. I can tell by looking at the calendar.
