Fictions of Man

“… I-10 eastbound at the I-45 interchange, there’s an eighteen wheeler overturned. HPD has all but one lane closed while they clear the wreckage. Traffic is backed up all the way to the west loop and building.”

As the radio blares, my mind automatically goes into overdrive calculating alternate routes, rush hour traffic patterns and drive times… that’s it! …Memorial Drive to the north side of downtown, then swing south on Smith to Jefferson then east to the hospital. For the moment this “hot-shot” package on the seat becomes the focus of my world. Cars ahead are already heading for the Memorial exit as news of the tie-up spreads. Oh well, even with this extra traffic along my “alternate route,” I’ll get there quicker. Barring another unforeseen traffic snafu I should just make the delivery by the 5:30 deadline. With another minor traffic crisis solved, my attention returns to the radio talk show, the host echoing my own opinion in a heated debate with a caller. Typical in the life of a big-city courier, this little traffic drama is played out by thousands of drivers daily in a city of millions.

Who created the crisis that caused my concern? Was it the law firm who hired me to deliver that package before 5:30? Was it the eighteen wheeler driver who caused the traffic snarl? Or, could it have been the secretary who refused to wait one minute past 5:30 to receive the papers sealed in that envelope? Yet without that little crisis, this courier would be out of work. In the city, “time is money” becomes a continuous subconscious drumbeat as faster service becomes a commodity for sale to the highest bidder… and the beat goes on as I drive toward downtown.

With all its warts and problems, Houston can still be beautiful at times. The downtown skyline is fascinating to me, with dozens of multi-story buildings composing an ever changing panorama as I hurtle down Memorial. In one spot along the route, I note that three particular buildings ought to catch the sunset light perfectly around 6-6:30 on this clear February evening. I make my delivery then return to search for just the right angle and wait for the moment.

Time takes on a new and providential character as the rush of the day fades into memory and I anticipate the inevitable magical sunset light of a beautiful late winter day. Tripod and camera in hand, I walk a couple of blocks for the perfect photographic perspective as the setting sun begins to color multi-storied glass with bright sunset orange. The clear southeastern sky beyond the towers darkens into a saturated indigo blue. I have a new deadline. But this deadline could never be changed by the fictions of man’s manufactured schedules. This particular sunset-light timing was set by the creator of the universe and I have no choice but to meet it or miss the image he has revealed in my photographic imaginations.

The tripod is set as I compose the photograph, measure the light and anticipate adjustments in exposure as the sun fades. Multiple exposures are taken as I marvel at the changing sunset reflections punctuated with fluorescent office lights revealed through elevated windows. In spite of the grandeur perceived and constructed by man in the person of these magnificent buildings, the eye is drawn directly to the glory of the heavens as the setting sun paints itself upon their surface. Distorted visions of an infinite universe reflected in the glass of the towers become the focus of the moment. Polished stone, metal and glass serve only to define place and shape as the sunset reveals the soul of the moment. And then it is gone leaving only the promise of an encore on another clear February day.

With the disappearing sun we are left with another providential promise. No matter what the man-made circumstance, God is in control.

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Author Profile:  Ron is a professional photographer turned author, graphic designer and webmaster. His first novel, Dear Walt, was published in 2008. He is also responsible for the design, implementation and content for several web sites.

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