Looking In…Or Out
I think people are fascinated with looking in other people’s windows. It’s probably because they (we) want to know what’s inside and whether or not it’s better than our stuff. I can’t imagine living in a big city high-rise on some high floor, looking out my window and seeing all the other windows and all the other people looking at me. I guess people know to draw their drapes or just live with the constant exposure to curiosity seekers. Maybe that’s not a big deal to them. To me, the Bashful Norwegian-American, it is a big deal. The South Dakotan-me wants a private sanctuary.
When I look through a window, I don’t just see “stuff,” I imagine what it must be like on the other side as if the portal is some magical and transformative thing…and perhaps it is. The other side of the window is usually much different from where I’m looking…the obvious…outside/inside, hot/air conditioned, cold/warm, the same/different, comfortable/uncomfortable, scary/safe and on and on and on. It’s interesting that most of the time, the rest of the world is on the other side of the window from us, we are “on the right side” of the window…everyone else is “out there.” I’ve been in situations where people walk by the place I’m working, living, playing or whatever and look in on me and those with me. I imagine them talking about us and what we’re doing much like we talk about bears when we visit a zoo.
I think windows heighten our sense of “aloneness” since we have the option of changing their configuration…we can open them, we can close them, we can cover them so that only light gets through, we can cover them so that light and “almost” gets through. A hint of life and adventure on the otherwise. How exotic and mysterious. I wonder how other cultures treat windows. It may be a function of climate as well as culture. For instance, I believe that western style windows are a new thing for Japan, their openings to the world were much larger although still configurable from closed to open.
Books are windows into people. I am currently reading three…one at a time, of course, but each of them occupies a special place/time so they are all being read. “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: a Memoir,” by Matthew Perry. “My Name is Barbra,” by Barbra Streisand, and, “The Future,” by Naomi Alderman. I am immersed with each of them. The first is a tragic peek through a normally very private window. More to come.