City of Blinding Lights

[a rambling reflection on light and darkness in our cities and lives]

Does it get dark where you live? It never gets dark where I live, not really dark. As soon as the sun disappears past the roofs, trees, and apartment buildings, hundreds of street lights flicker and flash to life. These aluminum, steel and wood posts, topped by buzzing balls of magic fire, stand guard until the sun peaks over the freeway overpass to the east.

Last week I went for a walk after the bars closed, and for two hours strolled well lit sidewalks and streets. Perhaps we keep our cities lit because we are scared of the dark. I have been scared by it. Every person you run across is suspicious in the dark. You're suspicious too. Watching a black silhouette walk towards you from a block a way is slightly nerve wracking.

But last week there wasn't much frightening about the dark. I never had to walk somewhere uncomfortably dark. I could always see my surroundings. The darkness wasn't frightening, the isolation was. I might have been murdered on the Franklin Ave. bridge, with no one to help me, but at least the crime would be well lit.

You can only see a handful of stars through the leaky roof of artificial light. Yahweh's promise to Abram would have seemed wimpy if they were standing downtown Minneapolis. I am usually glad for streetlights, and lit parking lots, and bright walking paths, but that night it all seemed a little excessive. I missed the peacefulness of darkness, real inky darkness.

At least they turn the "city" off at night. Around midnight most of the external lights shining on our Minneapolis skyscrapers gets switched off. Seems smart to me. Only a few blinking red a white lights remain, showing terrorists where to strike. That, and the occasional floor of lights that a lazy janitor or overworked executive forgot to turn off.

Some business take their ecological responsibility seriously, and switch off every last light, inside and out. A few leave all their lights on, presumably because it requires less thought. Most, though, take the reasonable middle path, leaving on only a few security lights. It was quite amusing to walk past the oh-so-green Seward Coop and see all the outside lights on and their sign lit, as if urban hipsters generally search for a new grocer around three in the morning.

Why all these lights? Is it because the night is dark, or because there is darkness inside of us?