Musings on Interruption II.
When I think about interruption, I think about streetlights. You see, every time I drive at night, I’m always interrupted by at least one streetlight flickering out as I drive past it. Irritated and somewhat unnerved by this phenomenon, I tried to do some research, but every bit of information I’ve found points to the same vague conclusion: something about me or my car interferes with the pole, interrupting the stream of light.
Interruption, in its most basic form, requires two separate entities and an opportunity. The interrupter, the interrupted, and an interaction between the two. I always thought that the distinction was clear, like a math equation: x is obviously x, y is obviously y. When does interruption stop being clear-cut? Who interrupts who? Am I to blame for the streetlights going out, or do I get to blame them for interrupting whatever it is that goes on in my brain while driving?
Of course, I’m the one providing the opportunity, so it would make sense that I’m to blame. If I didn’t drive around at night, I wouldn’t have this problem. So, blame established, one question remains: who is the interrupted, and who is the interrupter? If I’m to blame, it would make sense that I’m the interrupter.
Right?
When I’m not thinking about streetlights, I picture interruption as walking hand-in-hand with discomfort. Interruption is a large, boisterous figure, demanding attention to itself as it throws the door open; Discomfort is hunched over, as if trying to hide in itself, but doesn’t hesitate to stand far too close to you for far longer than is appropriate, long after Interruption has left the room. And you can’t really kick Discomfort out; it leaves when it wants to. That space, between Interruption’s entrance and Discomfort’s exit, is where magic can really happen, I think. You don’t change unless something forces you out of your routine. You won’t seek to be better until you’re uncomfortable with where you’re at. Once Discomfort is there, what do you do with it?
When I’m driving at night, I’m constantly searching for that first blackout. Maybe in this way, I really am the interrupter. Once I see the first one, I’m settled. That interruption has become routine. It usually ends that way, but on the nights where two, three, or four streetlights die, that’s when Discomfort crawls into the passenger seat.
On those nights, I drive home and leave Discomfort in the car.
Am I still the interrupter?
Perhaps it’s time Discomfort and I have a chat.
Perhaps that’s the whole point of interruption.
Jaime Miller, Poetry Editor
