26 January, 2009
Framed in the rearview mirror, a glimpse of a possible future. Or is it merely the thoughts of “woulda, coulda, shoulda”?
I drove out of Boulder one day and was shocked by the Flatirons in my rearview mirror – shocked because it was as though I had never seen them before. And I hadn’t, of course, because reflections are filtered realities, new and different, tantalizing, and always out of reach.
In history, scholars babble on about examining something – people, experiences, events – through the lens of something else. Here’s one I like: “Mapping 1968 through the Lens of 2008.” Or how about this one: “The Musical Experience through the Lens of Embodiment.” As I glanced at my rearview mirror, I thought about time, examined through reflected split-second images, always shifting, always skewed.
I drove on, a present glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, a future just brushing by, then the long, long past, never receding fast enough. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, my mind the eraser.