I drove past a balcony the other day that was remarkable for two reasons: first of all, its beauty (it was the kind of balcony that begs for dinner parties, the kind of balcony that turns people into smokers, the kind of balcony that inspires the purchase of comfortable patio furniture, the kind of balcony that makes all kinds of weather seem more moderate), and secondly, its emptiness.
This made me think of human eyes, and the places they don’t go. Earlier that week, I was on a different balcony, high up in a restaurant overlooking the Las Vegas Valley. Why I was there is a story that’s somewhat related but has already been told, so I’ll make you click the link to read it. As one of the most glorious sunsets I’ve ever seen burned through the sky slowly like a cigar, a couple came out onto the balcony, which had been previously unoccupied save for yours truly. Awesome, I thought to myself, someone else looking to bask. Rather than taking seats and gazing at the sky with me, though, they went on to point out all the landmarks they could spot (the only landmarks Las Vegas has to offer are streets and hotels) and left after five minutes.
“An appreciation of beauty, even if it is sexual beauty, is a great gift.” – Raw Water, Wells Tower
Why are balconies so underused? Why, in this age of fleeting and expensive pleasures, are the most basic ones forgotten? Is the appreciation of beauty just a gift that’s coupled with being a writer? If people are not looking at beauty, where are their eyes going? If most people don’t notice beauty, does seeking it out make me more human or less?
Saturday night, lightning approached the city from the south. It raged beyond the mountains like a war. Was I the only one who drove around in circles watching the sky? There are more of us, I am sure of it. Perhaps, all over the city, people stepped out onto their balconies, or watched from a chair pulled up to the sliding glass door, since even battles seen from afar can be scary. They were parking their cars with the hoods pointed south, leaving the windows rolled down in order to provide the view with a soundtrack. Not many of them, no. But some eyes were seeking out the same things mine were.
The downside to all this is the wanting other eyes to see what you see. It’s in feeling others are missing out, looking at the wrong things. And really, it’s none of my fucking business, is it? If you want to admire the beautiful architecture of The Orleans Hotel and Casino, by all means, stare away. The downside is that sometimes I catch myself thinking that I am right and they are wrong, which feels like it’s true but isn’t really. The downside is that I often look at the sky alone.
But the upside? The upside is that I don’t always watch alone. The beauty of it all? That others’ lack of appreciation does not diminish mine. That despite whatever else may be around, the beauty is there, to be seen or not to be seen, to be enjoyed by those who enjoy it and ignored by everyone else.
Balconies and sunsets keep each other company when humans don’t.
