The Spire, The Spike

On a clear day, the spire of the Empire State Building casts a dull sheen against the crisp blue sky. It calls attention to itself, asks that it be considered over and over again as views are offered and just as quickly withdrawn. The metallic feature reminds me, on a day like this, of something from the cold-war: like a massive vestige of an era that has for the most part been effaced from this city. It could be the handle of a Jedi light saber. Its elements are many and their uses uncertain, as though the signals it transmits are frequencies from the distant past, nothing tangible to the many human consciousnesses that see it every day.

Suddenly, examining the spire from West 20th, I see a white speck of a plane passing behind it, much farther in the distance. Like looking over a massive cliff and seeing thousands of feet below a river, I am momentarily overwhelmed by the space between me, the spire, and the plane. I want to throw myself into this space, and yet I am aware that there is no space there to jump into, no abyss to speak of. Although we can perceive space in three-dimensions, something like the distance between the subject and the top of a skyscraper must inevitably be projected upon the world from the mind. It is impossible to fully comprehend whatever fills the space, and a mind that attempts to grab distances and quantities such as this is overwhelmed and perhaps seeks a quick end to its functions, then, shedding the responsibilities of such a