About cmchun

Cody Chun is a senior English-major from Honolulu.

Driving Blindly

On Friday nights, as a way to celebrate the end of the week, my friends and I often go out to eat at one of the many restaurants in the greater Tacoma area (most recently we went to Tacoma Szechuan, a Chinese restaurant in Lakewood). We usually leave campus at around 6:00 pm, which means we’re usually sitting at a table by 7:00 pm. But it also means that, as we turn west onto the highway, as we often do, we catch the setting sun, in all its brightness, staring us down through the car’s front window—a circumstance that makes it not only difficult to drive, but also to do anything but hide. Our driver does her best to keep within the lines, as she dodges the glare reflecting off of similarly suffered cars. We emit groans, as we fear retinal damage. And so it goes; at 60 mph, we hurtle into the blinding sun.

But we’ll make it through, as we always do, and find ourselves enjoying, say, chow fun and beef broccoli. We’ll look out the window at the lavender sky—the sun always leaves a beautiful color in its wake—and talk about how the sun was so bright today, how we almost didn’t make it, but, of course, we did. And we’ll, each of us, think, perhaps silently, as we struggle to pick up the last piece of rice with our chopsticks, how often—especially now, in college—it can seem that we’re in a car, driving blindly at breakneck (responsible) speeds, into a future that we can’t see. But I’ll think to myself, It’s because our futures are bright, or some such thought; my friends will reach similar conclusions. And we’ll know that, no matter what, so long as we make it to dinner each night, to watch the sky fade from purple to black, everything will be all right.

We drive home. Some tired streetlamps go to sleep for the night. The roads are empty and the night is quiet. If we turned off the headlights, we’d be driving blindly.

Driving Blindly

A Little Bit of Light

It’s fall break at the University of Puget Sound, and that means a little bit of time to do a little bit of nothing. This year, my friends and I, having access to a car, took a trip to Auburn for an afternoon full of shopping. Tired and hungry, we exited the shopping center, piled into the car, and drove to a nearby Panda Express.

But the day wasn’t over. Despite having spent more time at the mall than we had anticipated, we didn’t want to head back to campus yet. Though our original plan (to drive to Sunset Park to watch the sunset) had to be scratched (we had already missed the sunset), we decided to go to a nearby park to eat our take-out.

Everything was dark as we pulled in to the parking lot. While there were many streetlamps around, few of them were on. We were alone, a feeling that made me feel that we weren’t. Sitting atop the bleachers, we ate.

There was no trace of light in the sky when we had finished eating, and it seemed—if such a thing is possible—that the park was quieter than before. Yet, in spite of ourselves and what reservations we may have had about staying, we opened the trunk of the car, pulled out a basketball and a Frisbee we had bought at the mall, and wandered back into the darkness.

This Frisbee was lined by tiny multicolored lights, which turned on with the flick of a switch. Naturally, we turned it on, and were amazed by the luminescent reds, greens, and yellows that greeted us. We began to fling the Frisbee around, all over the place. It gave us a little bit of light, which dissolved the darkness as though it were as insubstantial as air.

We watched as the coruscating lights traced their way through the darkness and knew that this was a good way to be spending fall break.

Fireworks

It’s the Friday of the first week of class, which means LogJam!, free food, and fireworks. Five of my friends and I—despite having eaten the free food—have just eaten at our favorite Japanese restaurant on Sixth Avenue (Bento Teriyaki & Sushi). Dusk has begun to mask the sky, and anticipation is in the air; the fireworks are starting soon.

“Come on,” a friend says. “We don’t want to miss the fireworks.”

“It’s not supposed to start until nine,” I say. “We have plenty of time.”

A sizzling crack splits the sky. We can see the burst of light but cannot see its fiery shower.

Everyone stares at each other. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It isn’t nine yet.

Our feet slap the pavement as we run back incautiously in the middle of the road. We split into pairs. I find myself with M. The two fastest have already crossed the street and the others seem to have resigned themselves to be together—they linger behind.

“Come on,” M says.

We run across the street and onto the grassy slope behind Weyerhaeuser. The fireworks have increased in volume. Our view of the explosions is blocked by the tower of the building.

“Hurry up!” she says. “Take pictures for me, my phone’s dead.”

It’s a command, so I whip out my phone as we scramble up the dewy hill. The explosions are louder, nearer, brighter.

We round the corner of Weyerhaeuser building, and there it is—a fountain of red. Yellow takes its place, replaced thereafter by three bursts of orange. That is the picture I capture—the only one M approves of.

We stand at the crest of the hill, the canisters shooting up out of plumes of colored smoke. We watch as the fireworks light the night.

I see the lights explode out of darkness, then trickling, fade away. I think about how fleeting the displays are.

There are moments of great beauty in life. We like to remember them, so we take pictures of them, write stories about them.

As I looked at the picture I’d taken after the stillness of the night returned, I realized that I had captured one such moment. And I realized how important it was to record those fleeting instances. So that come what may, I might always look back and know a moment’s exploding beauty.

The moment I captured.