Chapter 14: POV
Lenses.
We’ve all got ‘em. And they’re all vastly different.
Lenses, like those through which we see the world.
Highlighted for me, endlessly now.
That flickering fire pit becomes a child’s animation, like a stop motion video. Think two-dimensional claymation. Pinkish red flames, the color of raw beef, cut from flimsy, grainy construction paper. A pale yellow paper behind. Stuttering. Quaking, as though blown by a fan from beneath. That’s what the fire becomes, but only because it is me who sees it.
The privacy fence that surrounds our yard, backlit by sun. Stained glass when I close my eyes. As though the image were engraved in my sight forever. Swollen rivers of cool lead, a peek of glassy color in each empty space. Surrounded by frames that are pleasantly asymmetrical. Think art nouveau. Think feminine. That’s what the fence becomes, but only because it is me who sees it.
Rippling waves on the Gulf at sunset. No. They are vector illustrations now. Clean hard shapes overlapping other clean hard shapes. Dark blue water reflecting the light in tight and distinct pockets of yellow and white. Pink and orange. Think coloring book, or traditional tattoo. Think prisms and kaleidoscopes. That ocean blue is not a primary color. Not really. It is made of copper and gold. Brown and gray. That’s what the ocean becomes, but only because it is me who sees it.
A garden of trees and plants. A near jungle, now. Tall palms and squat shrubs. Cacti that smells of rotten meat to collects flies, and flowers that smell of soap. It is all here in our garden. But then my eyes become a camera’s lens, shifting from wide angle to zoom. In this shift, the space between the foliage compresses into a flattened visual plane, no longer three-dimensional, but a literal canvas, patterned and complex. Think wallpaper. If I were to paint this, it would be chaotic and unpleasant. Nowhere for the eye to land, the eye to rest. No empty space or dark colors to ground the work. But in this moment, it is stunning. That’s what the garden becomes, but only because it is me who sees it.
This is not a life lesson.
Except maybe it is.
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