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Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. As I commute into work, I take the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually end up facing backwards, watching as the city slips by. These vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see.
There are white clouds against the brilliant blue sky. In the distance, there are ones that look like dirty shredded cotton balls stretched across the skyline. I see the bright green of a cyclist’s shirt, neon screaming in the grays, blues, and blacks of state workers. There is a slash of red against the concrete wall, a single stroke of color against the monochrome graffiti tags. There is an orange highway cone sitting on a rock island in the middle of the Jones Falls riverway, the shock of brightness among the dark green tree leaves.
The days have been hot most of this summer. I drag myself from building to light rail in the afternoon. I want to be awake to my surroundings. I want to take everything in. But the colorful awnings and yellow Tyvek blur by as I sink into the blue fabric covered seat, grateful instead for the cool air.
Perspective changes when I am taken out of myself by bright colors. In the rush hour foot traffic, I see so many in muted colors, suits and business casual clothing. The buildings of brick and concrete blend. It’s the vibrancy that shocks me awake, reminds me to pay attention.