The Sacredness of the Golden Hour
The Door that Opened my Life to Itself
An Ode to the Golden Hour
Your ability to thrust me quite suddenly
Violently
Into a world of color is complex
Perhaps it is not even A color
But rather
Many shades of one
That form together
To form a golden paradise
Laid before me
Two halves could be gates
Like seeing beyond what is outside of your frame, your realms
Into what can only be destined to be mine
These panes
This pain you have aroused
Knowing that because it lies in my sight
Doesn’t mean it can be mine
Glimpsing heaven doesn’t certify an existence apart from hell
For what is certainty?
Surely not
Obtaining
Something as simply
As it lies in your line of sight,
Your frame of Mind
Essay Three, A Sacred Object
The story I have chosen to tell about an object that I hold dear, is one of great personal importance. In the 90’s, my mother purchased a pair of Armani shades, or sunglasses. They have small, rectangular brown metal frames with almost calico print detail and brown-tinted lenses. They look like something Meg Ryan would wear in any of her most famous roles. To me, these glasses represent the past handed down to me, but they also represent adventure. When I wear these glasses, I can pretend to be anybody else who might wear them. I can walk like anyone else, even use an accent and remain someone else than myself. It is said that the eyes are the window to the soul, but because my eyes are unable to be seen, no one needs know who or what I really am like.
I wear these glasses all the time, even in my room sometimes just because I think I look cooler with them on versus leaving them in their case. Sure, they are a luxury item I feel incredibly special to wear, but beyond a monetary value, their sentimental value and purpose and worth much, much more.
. . .
Essay One, An Unimportant Object Made Sacred
A ritual can be religious or very much the opposite. It can be a series of complex steps or very simple motions that come together to form something exceptional or rather routine.
There are three doors I must enter through before I am securely in my main apartment, four before I am in my own room. They go from street > foyer, foyer > apartment/kitchen, and the additional one to my room at the end of the hallway. There is a ritual that takes place each time I re-enter my building. I turn the key in the outermost lock and must finagle it in order to open the door. Then there is the second door, a door to which I have a key but never have to use. You see, the lock to this door is broken, and I therefore kick it to open it instead of going through the full process.
This door has become a part of my every day. If I am having a good day, I kick the door open with exuberant effort. If I am carrying heavy bags from Trader Joes, I kick the door maybe twice, having expended my energy on the walk back from the store. If it is a rather bad day, the door will feel it; the entryway resounds with the sound of my heel against the iron door, and the slam echoes behind when I am already half a way up the first flight of stairs. Before I came to this apartment, and before I knew the lock was broken, this meant nothing to me. It still means nothing to me, yet, I can see the part it plays in my everyday existence. A strong, metal force that I go up against again and again to gain entry to my apartment, and depending on how I approach it, I am either permitted entry or forced to try again.
This door, this panel of steel that has become part of my everyday existence – but not
exclusively mine, as they are a common thing that we are all exposed to at all times of day and isn’t meant to be something that affects our lives.
. . .
Essay Two, An Unimportant Object When Put Into a New Context
However, things change the moment the groceries you’re carrying suddenly slip, and you move to catch the quickly closing door with your knee. Pain shoots through your leg and you want to cry out but restrain yourself because you don’t want anyone on the street coming up to you in that moment of weakness. Quickly, you set the groceries on the ground, turn the key again, use your back to push against it while you scoop up your bags and quickly limp into the main foyer, where you let that cry of pain finally escape.
It is from that moment on that that particular door is no longer a door you see only when you enter and exit your building, but you see it in each movement and every step. Each time you quickly cross a street in front of a car, you see the door in front of you and feel the pain in your leg. Each time you squat and lift the weight back into the air at the gym, you don’t see your own reflection in the mirror facing you, you again see that door. That damn door. It hasn’t become any more important in your life, but because it now played a part in something that affects your everyday existence, you think about it as more than just a door.