Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Earlier this year, when smoke from the Canadian fires drifted into Manhattan, the sky above Grand Central was cast in a darkening mustard yellow. The scene conjured news footage of 9/11. Buildings seemed to recede behind apocalyptic layers of dust. People wandered down streets in masks or covered their faces with clothing. Without sunlight bouncing off glass skyscrapers, the city lost its sheen. The city, however, did not lose its energy. New Yorkers went about their day, interacting, going in and out of office towers, restaurants, and art museums. They carried on with the business of life.

Ever since, I’ve been considering the importance and quality of light. Although scientists note we cannot see human bioluminescence with the naked eye, I contend we definitely feel each other’s spark. We exist in the wake of each other’s glow, even during moments of crisis – maybe even more so. As in the natural world, our light communicates and acts as a pheromone. I once told a long-time friend that she was inhumanly beautiful and quickly clarified that I wasn’t speaking to physical attributes. My observation was a comment on her high-wattage personality. Full of tenderness, laughter, and care for those around her, she is a person many are drawn to. She reminds those of us privileged to know her, how we can exist in greater relation to each other, with kindness and grace.

If the West African Yoruba proverb that believes character is beauty is true, then, given the hostilities in the world, a bright spirit full of warmth and compassion is likely forged out of suffering. Such a soul exudes empathy and light. And thus, we acknowledge and survive off each other’s radiance.

Today’s poem recognizes the functional presence of light in our reach for emotional wellbeing. In our most stable moments, we refract those Platonic ideals of virtue and perfection that are transcendent, exuberant, and inspiring.

Voyeuristic Intentions
by Adele Elise Williams

Without the right light or proper build, a bird is barely beautiful.
       Think Fibonacci. The golden hour. A bowl of actual ramen.

     The devil is in the details. Pssshhhttt. The devil is in all beauty.
                  And it’s a rigged gig, a pious formula of fabrication.

   Grind a Blue Jay feather into dust, it will only be blackened
             crumb. No blue to be found. Structural Coloration —

and I wonder, what else becomes trash if not assembled divinely,
                         if not created in the image of shimmer?

                  To make visual pheromone. To yell with rude bright.
             When I am in the dark I am soft and sad, but in the SUN

   I am everything impossible. All my bits reflect and radiate out
                           in such a way that I am full on Baroque.

              Think Alex Grey. Think Hiroshima. Think Genesis 1-3.
                              An entire absorbed brilliance at once.

                     Carefully remove blinding gypsum from my torso.
                                  Tease tourmaline from my third eye.

             Me in the right light with all the right parts looks like this:

“Voyeuristic Intentions” by Adele Elise Williams. Used by permission of the poet.