Yes, it’s dark. When I said early, I meant early!
I’ve already talked a little bit about finding inspiration in the backyard. The possibilities grow as I move out into the world—even if I stay within walking distance of my house.
I started considering how inspiring my early morning walks might be when I noticed certain optical illusions. Darkness can reduce our visual range and make us less sure of details. Not so long ago, I saw a black cat on the sidewalk ahead of me disappear. It hadn’t really disappeared, of course. It moved into the shadow cast by a tall hedge and then scooted underneath the hedge itself. But what I saw was a cat vanish. Was it a familiar summoned back by its master? A clue to some mystery I had yet to encounter? A shapeshifting assassin who had adopted a less conspicuous form and was lying in wait up ahead, just out of sight? Imagination can conjure up any number of possibilities.
In recent days I’ve also seen a cat turn into a discarded sweater, a person who seemed to be walking away from me start moving toward me without turning around, and a short tree turned into a person. With just a little imagination, such visual phenomena can easily become a short story, or at least a scene in one.
Take the street scene above. By daylight, you would see a residential neighborhood gradually sloping upward toward the hills behind it. But by night, the combination of street lights, porch lights, and some other garden lighting—perhaps blurred just a little by my shaking hand—and there are hints of magic and mystery. What’s that light in the window just to the left of the white van? It could be a reflection, but of what? It’s not immediately opposite a streetlight or anything like that. Yet it doesn’t look like normal internal lighting, either. It’s too white, too focused, and though it seems bright, it doesn’t really illuminate anything.
Beyond that, most of the streetlight poles are invisible, giving the impression of floating lights. Luminous faeries? Will-o’-the-wisps? Perhaps some supernatural predator, hoping to lure unsuspecting mortals with bright and shiny things.
The two-story house on the right, larger than its neighbors, so bright on the front of the first floor outside, so dark inside, hints of dichotomy. Lights illuminate emptiness, leaving a much more crowded interior cloaked in absolute darkness. I cannot help thinking of liminal spaces, like the boundary between life and death. I also think of sorcerers like Medea whose power is drawn both from the sun god Helios (her grandfather) and from the triple goddess, Hecate, whose powers are many, but who has a particular association with the moon and the darkness of the Underworld. If someone like Medea wanted to dwell in the suburbs, then surely, her home would convey the same light/dark dichotomy as her magic did.
To the left, we can see the side of a house that seems too brightly illuminated, and though the house may be white, the shadows have a greenish tinge. Is this a sign of some silent ritual occurring outside? Or is it an imperfect illusion, concealing something dark and menacing?
Further back is a house with lights on inside. An early riser, or just another illusion in a neighborhood full of them? And if it is an early riser, why is he or she up so early? Perhaps a sense of alarm, a feeling of something not quite right, has prematurely awakened the inhabitants.
Near the far right, at about the tree line, is a light whose origin cannot be determined. But there are no streetlights up there. Nor are there any homes in that particular spot. What could it be? Perhaps a supernatural being surveilling the neighborhood from its highest point—but for what purpose?
What could be so inspiring about a bench? Well, it has a plaque memorializing a donor or a person being commemorated, but it sits outside an elementary school. Typically, monuments of this kind are placed at strategic traffic points, like the school entrance, rather than being off to one side. Parents might see the bench from a distance when dropping off and picking up children, but they’d be too far away to see the plaque. Children have recess and lunch in fenced-in areas, not on a lawn adjacent to a busy street, so they won’t see it, either. Only the occasional passerby on the sidewalk can see it.
It’s an odd sort of memorial at best. But as some kind of trap, it makes perfect sense. An inquisitive person, wondering the same things I just wondered, might walk over in an attempt to read the plaque. Perhaps the grass immediately in front of it conceals a pit, or even a hellmouth. Or perhaps anyone sitting on the bench will never be able to leave it, much like the chair that traps Theseus in the Underworld. Go ahead, test my theory. Approach the bench—if you dare!
This is a view of Dead Man’s Curve in my city. It’s not nearly as famous as the better known one along the Old Ridge Route, and the curve was softened long ago, so the place doesn’t look hazardous now. But I’m told that in the old days, people actually spun out and died here. Ironically, the place into which they crashed is now a cemetery. You can see the outer wall of the cemetery stretching across the background of this shot, with a lot of tall trees behind it.
My attempts to get a decent shot inside the cemetery produced little, as you can see. This is just a view of the road leading into it. Experienced cemetery managers (and literally anyone who ever saw a horror movie involving cemeteries and teenagers) will appreciate the wisdom of keeping the gates securely locked at night.
It is worth noting, however, that though walls and keeps can keep people out,—they can also keep things in. In the event of a zombie apocalypse, you will want to have as many barriers as possible between cemeteries and the general population. Of course, such obstructions may not have much affect on restless spirits. As I walked across the street after taking this shot, I almost twisted my ankle. Had I angered one of the restless victims of Dead Man’s Curve?
Some would say it was coincidence. But I think not!
That’s all for now, but I’ll be back in a week with so with more ideas from my pre-dawn walks. Until then, if you live in my area and happen to be out for a pre-dawn walk yourself, and you happen to see a hooded figure moving slowly through the shadows—keep your distance!
After all, it might not be me. I sometimes put up my hood for warmth, but there may be creatures abroad you use a hood of concealment.
And even if you can see a face, and it looks like mine, that might just be an optical illusion. Or it might be something far, fare worse!
Thanks for lending us your eyes— outer and inner...