Taft Bridge

It's been raining all day. Water drains into Rock Creek, turning it brown with dirt from dry streets and sidewalks. Eventually the clouds thin and mist rises up over the ravine, shining where droplets catch the sunset. I leave my apartment, hoping to photograph the haze, but I'm too slow and hillsides block the sun's light as it sets. For consolation, I wind my way down into the valley and watch lightning bugs as rushing water covers up the sound of traffic. It's dark when I emerge from the forest by Taft Bridge and the air is heavy. Beams thrown by street lamps, normally invisible, are magnified, and the rain-slicked road is a pathway of head and tail lights.

Space opens up here under the massive bridge and views are expansive. The lights illuminate cars as they pass by up to lighted streets or down into wooded darkness. I'm not alone: above me a pair of blue eyes watches, like Mr. Eckleburg in The Great Gatsby. These roads are a hub and everyone here, enclosed in metal vehicles, takes privacy for granted. However, on approach the openness of this place invades like a police officer's flash light and each individual is exposed. Let me see your face. Where are you going? Everyone must pass scrutiny. At first I make the mistake of thinking I'm an observer and out of reach, but I'm under the gaze of those blue eyes, too. What would they ask me? What information would I give up at their request? This place forces one to look inward, all because of the way the lights shine into cars when they drive by.