In Defense of Darkness

The darkness is not as.. well, dark, as it used to be.
There was always something special about being up late on a hot summer’s evening, when everyone else was asleep, and with the windows wide open: sitting there literally bathing in the cool, black night.
There was a special quiet at that end of the day, a quiet almost as appealing as the stillness of the early morning – a respite from the din of a summer’s day that was almost as rejuvenating as the restful sleep that could then follow.
In the summer I often cannot sleep, or at least sleep well, if I have not prefaced my rest with at least an hour’s swim in that deep, black pool.
But lately that darkness, like a shallow pond after a long stretch of unusually hot days, has become rather tepid.
The darkness is punctuated now, pierced by dozens of tiny eyes. Red and green and blue and yellow points of light appear in our home, at night: some blinking, some cascading, others seeming to stare obliviously across the room.
Tiny lights that say “My power is on..”
Orange spots that boast, “I’m ready!”.
Computer lights that seem to brag, “You may think I’m turned off, but don’t be surprised if I am up to something...”
Wireless routers twiddling their tiny green thumbs.
Phones charging.
Printers standing by.
Digital clocks digitally snoring.
Refrigerators making ice.
We take these lights for granted, in the light of day. The machines which they adorn seem sterile and subservient, when the sun is up. But in the evening they suddenly seem to conspire. When they think they are alone, they begin communicating with one another.
And if you happen to be up late, too, they shatter the once solid darkness with their tiny beacons - like gravel from a semi-truck bouncing off your windshield.
These gadgets and gizmos are the ultimate insomniacs, and they seem to like nothing better than to have you up late with them, to share their neurotic, late night thoughts.
So much for a dip in the black water: so much for a respite from the frantic day.
Then again, you know me: I believe problems only exist so that I can propose bizarre solutions for them: and, of course, I have such a solution.
Despite these noisy chinks of light, clattering against my peripheral vision, I still find the night stimulating, and right now as I write this – in the wee hours of morning, I am imagining a few small changes that could make all the difference.
Do you remember the late-night approach of the aliens to the Midwestern home in the film, “Close Encounters”? The home depicted was – courtesy of Steven Spielberg, dramatically dappled with starlight and – as the aliens drew near, it seemed as if the light of those innumerable specks of light had seeped into every toy in the house. Toy police cars and fire engines and space ships suddenly began to whir and whiz and wheel about the house – making all sorts of Christmas morning music, waking the wide-eyed child who lived there, luring him to the window, pulling him toward those same specks of light..
That’s what I would do to all of these gadgets found around our homes today: transform them into toys.
Instead of a few tiny LED’s – as they call them, I’d make it a requirement that every household gadget emit a variety of pleasing beams of light. I’d make it mandatory that every so-called high tech piece of equipment whir and whiz and – whatever else they are supposed to do, have the ability to shower the floor with harmless sparks.
Instead of giving over my home to them, I’d keep them all in a mysterious room in the attic, or put them away in a giant trunk when I was finished playing with them. Toys are meant to awaken the imagination, not replace it.
I guess the problem is not really there lights – most of which are hardly bigger than a cricket’s eye, but rather the prominence we have given the gadgets behind them – in our homes and in our lives.
When it comes down to it, no laptop computer or flat screen television can compare with a shooting star, or the sound of the breeze in the trees, or the way simple darkness can soothe the brain after a long, bright day. And yet we act as if they do. Instead of letting the darkness come to us, we curl up in an office chair and stare at harshly lit screens for hour after hour.
No wonder they stare back at us.
No wonder they conspire.
Maybe they are waiting for the moment when they can make their own escape: turn off their lights and finally grab a little of that precious darkness for themselves?
It is precious, too, this darkness.
The night is not as dark as it used to be.