In the morning I forgot that it was the perfect day. I only remembered that it was, halting in my glum enthusiasm that went with me as I walked, when I saw an outside bulletin board, a portion of which was constructed upon a compass perfect east-west line, with a shadow tucked neatly under it. Later, excitedly looking out my second floor window, trying to ignore all of the babies in the baby class who had just bombarded through my door, I saw a small gate that had a cast a perfect east pointing shadow, made entirely of right angles. Today was June the 22nd, a perfect day, and it lasted for only a second.
I first discovered the real importance of today last weekend when I went with Fiona to Taipei to see her friends. I spent most of the time talking to her friend’s Swedish husband. We were talking about whether or not Taiwan was tropical, and he said that he had heard that the North was “not quite” and that the south was. “That makes sense,” I said, “because where I live, Chiayi, we sit directly on the Tropic of Cancer.” I must have then pondered this for some time because then I asked a stupid question, something I simply wanted confirmed really, basically the suspicion that the Tropic lines, in celestial terms, mark the extent of the earth’s tilt, back and forth. It is nice to know that even now, new cosmic discoveries are still possible. I said, “Is the true significance of the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn that they represent where the sun will be at its widest swing (the earth at its furthest tilt)?” He confirmed it. You always think of the equator as having that honor, seeing the sun straight up in the sky, but in truth that only happens twice in a year even there, which is the same for every other place in between the two Tropics. If you live on the line of a Tropic, however, as I do, it only happens one time a year, on the first day of Spring, the “longest day” of the year. When all shadows lie down like truth, forsaking the ambitions of distortion, and present things, their shadows, in the true manner of their forms.
And so, when my last student left at 11:30 thirty, I borrowed Fiona’s camera and made a haphazard investigation of the entire school grounds (technically, still on the clock). I went into the kitchen and ate Auntie’s cold noodles and tried to explain to some people, but either my message didn’t get across or else no one was really impressed.
I wasn’t sure when it was going to happen, when the sun would stand directly over head, but it built in intensity like it does waiting for the sun to rise, every second becoming unnoticeably yet undeniably brighter. This had a whole different quality however, rather like the eye of a storm, a second of clarity in an otherwise unnoticeable day. What I didn’t expect (another revelation) was that it did occur at exactly 12:00 o’clock, and although I’ve lived my whole life knowing that it was Noon, it has never lived up to its reputation. Noon actually is, bless those people in Greenwich, England, the highest arc of the sun.
I must have ran outside a little too quickly because my boss followed out shortly after. “Joe,” he said, “what’s wrong?” I quickly yet lucidly explained to him what was going on and pointing to some pretty impressive shadows, basically lines and circles of things that any other time of the day or year would have been obscure oblongs and rectangles. And he said, “Oh, we don’t really notice that.” “Actually,” I said. “It happens only once a year—today.” “I thought you saw something fall,” he said, “or that you saw a snake.” “No,” I said. “It’s the shadows. I live in Pennsylvania, so seeing shadows like this is really strange.” He reiterated that in Taiwan nobody really cared. I guess that made sense, because I bet for a week or so it looks pretty much like this around lunchtime. But on the other hand, I didn’t really understand it. It was odd. I tried to be cool about it, but after taking some pictures and explaining it again to one more teacher, who at my insistency told me that she would look it up on the internet. Not bad. But I went outside.
It was strange to see all the things turned into lines and circles, and curious to see how many things were built upon the cardinal directions. The handrails going up to the post office made one black line, like a snake lying below it. The post office boxes, red and green, on the other hand, cast square shadows that fit perfectly their square bolted stands. Even the shadows of trees were interesting to see—to see really what the tree looked like from above, and you could see it, painted on the ground from any angle. In fact, everything, for about ten minutes had an ethereal, lifted sense to it. Maybe I was just high on it, or maybe the sunrays, more intense on this crystal clear day than I probably have ever experienced them, had boiled my mind over. When I saw a shadow that was off or crooked, I knew with religious certainty, it was the building that was wrong, not the shadow.
My last trip was to the rooftop of my own building, eight stories high, and here, fifteen to twenty minutes past twelve, things began to loose their intensity. I looked off one side to see my shadow streak to the very bottom where my head sat on the pavement far below. Things were bending. It was passed.
Click here for photos.
I first discovered the real importance of today last weekend when I went with Fiona to Taipei to see her friends. I spent most of the time talking to her friend’s Swedish husband. We were talking about whether or not Taiwan was tropical, and he said that he had heard that the North was “not quite” and that the south was. “That makes sense,” I said, “because where I live, Chiayi, we sit directly on the Tropic of Cancer.” I must have then pondered this for some time because then I asked a stupid question, something I simply wanted confirmed really, basically the suspicion that the Tropic lines, in celestial terms, mark the extent of the earth’s tilt, back and forth. It is nice to know that even now, new cosmic discoveries are still possible. I said, “Is the true significance of the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn that they represent where the sun will be at its widest swing (the earth at its furthest tilt)?” He confirmed it. You always think of the equator as having that honor, seeing the sun straight up in the sky, but in truth that only happens twice in a year even there, which is the same for every other place in between the two Tropics. If you live on the line of a Tropic, however, as I do, it only happens one time a year, on the first day of Spring, the “longest day” of the year. When all shadows lie down like truth, forsaking the ambitions of distortion, and present things, their shadows, in the true manner of their forms.
And so, when my last student left at 11:30 thirty, I borrowed Fiona’s camera and made a haphazard investigation of the entire school grounds (technically, still on the clock). I went into the kitchen and ate Auntie’s cold noodles and tried to explain to some people, but either my message didn’t get across or else no one was really impressed.
I wasn’t sure when it was going to happen, when the sun would stand directly over head, but it built in intensity like it does waiting for the sun to rise, every second becoming unnoticeably yet undeniably brighter. This had a whole different quality however, rather like the eye of a storm, a second of clarity in an otherwise unnoticeable day. What I didn’t expect (another revelation) was that it did occur at exactly 12:00 o’clock, and although I’ve lived my whole life knowing that it was Noon, it has never lived up to its reputation. Noon actually is, bless those people in Greenwich, England, the highest arc of the sun.
I must have ran outside a little too quickly because my boss followed out shortly after. “Joe,” he said, “what’s wrong?” I quickly yet lucidly explained to him what was going on and pointing to some pretty impressive shadows, basically lines and circles of things that any other time of the day or year would have been obscure oblongs and rectangles. And he said, “Oh, we don’t really notice that.” “Actually,” I said. “It happens only once a year—today.” “I thought you saw something fall,” he said, “or that you saw a snake.” “No,” I said. “It’s the shadows. I live in Pennsylvania, so seeing shadows like this is really strange.” He reiterated that in Taiwan nobody really cared. I guess that made sense, because I bet for a week or so it looks pretty much like this around lunchtime. But on the other hand, I didn’t really understand it. It was odd. I tried to be cool about it, but after taking some pictures and explaining it again to one more teacher, who at my insistency told me that she would look it up on the internet. Not bad. But I went outside.
It was strange to see all the things turned into lines and circles, and curious to see how many things were built upon the cardinal directions. The handrails going up to the post office made one black line, like a snake lying below it. The post office boxes, red and green, on the other hand, cast square shadows that fit perfectly their square bolted stands. Even the shadows of trees were interesting to see—to see really what the tree looked like from above, and you could see it, painted on the ground from any angle. In fact, everything, for about ten minutes had an ethereal, lifted sense to it. Maybe I was just high on it, or maybe the sunrays, more intense on this crystal clear day than I probably have ever experienced them, had boiled my mind over. When I saw a shadow that was off or crooked, I knew with religious certainty, it was the building that was wrong, not the shadow.
My last trip was to the rooftop of my own building, eight stories high, and here, fifteen to twenty minutes past twelve, things began to loose their intensity. I looked off one side to see my shadow streak to the very bottom where my head sat on the pavement far below. Things were bending. It was passed.
Click here for photos.
