I woke today thinking of light.

And then I began thinking of photographs, and images in general.

And I began thinking how light travels 92,900,000 miles from our sun to fall soundless onto everything.

And how sometimes the light falls on small strips of plastic covered with special silver crystals.

And that those crystals wait there quiet and expectant. A transformation to pure silver the ultimate possibility.

I thought about how the particular crystals that absorb light will cease to exist, and how this is their success—their reason for being there.

And then I got to thinking about time.

About how the light transforming those crystals takes more than 8 minutes to reach this small planet.

And about how that makes every image ever born already outdated—alive only in the past.

And then I thought about the screen in front of me.

About how the images there are light patterns formed from a different kind of crystal.

And that the words “liquid crystal” conjure images of ice and melting and potential.

And how well ice parallels the imperceptible crystal dance behind the images on my screen.

Those crystals existing in a state not liquid, not crystal, but both.

And I thought about how light arranges and orders the crystals and how electricity subtly twists them to change their brightness.

I am awed by the elegance of it.

And by the accidental poetry that is light.

A by-product of our distant hydrogen furnace, no more intended to transform crystals to art than the alphabet is intended to warm us.

And yet, in the right hands, they both do.

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I wish I could say that when I read of Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s death on March 19th my first thoughts were of his tremendous writing, or were ones of compassion for his family and their loss. But my first thoughts were utterly selfish, my response introspective and visceral. Not a profound or even startling response, just a murmur fluttering in the back side of my stomach, like one’s first thought of dinner still two hours off. It was a sense of space, a small fragment missing that had existed a moment before, a something that had been bull worked into the foundation of my youth suddenly dissipated into non-being.

Clarke was a sort of archetypal figure for me for as long as I can remember. Encouraged by my father, whose love of all things written bordered on the obsessive, I began reading science and science fiction when I was 6 or 7 years old. The writings of Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and Ray Bradbury quickly became my favorites.

I remember with great fondness my bicycle rides to the local town library; a prized reward for finishing chores early on sunny summer Saturdays. On those cherished mornings, I would stop by the card catalog, stand on the stool provided, and read through the cards for a while. I wasn’t really looking for anything in the card catalog, but I loved the swish of the worn oak drawers, the feel of the cool brass drawer-pull curving over my crooked index finger, and the flick flick flick of the cards as I flipped through them reading authors and titles. I especially loved finding a drawer where the metal bracket supporting the cards was out of position leaving the cards loose, or even lying down. I always straightened those cards and positioned the bracket just-so, making it possible to flip through the cards while they still remained upright. In my mind, I was the shoe-maker’s elf providing a much needed service to the harried librarians. On my bike rides home I would imagine with relish the librarians’ delight upon discovering—yet again—the mysterious gift of this service.

After spending a few minutes with the card catalog I would head straight to my favorite place, the Sci-Fi section. It was located in a corner of the library with lots of windows and two big easy chairs I could curl up in. From this area of our town’s small library I could see neither the front desk nor the entry door, which made the transportation to faraway stars and planets so much the easier. (more…)

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