Yesterday I found myself on a bench, waiting for something, and staring into space. “Staring into space” is heard often as a phrase meaning someone is out of it, not with it, or oblivious. I fully agree with those descriptions, and I fully endorse the value of occasionally partaking in staring into space. I think I may do it more than most people, which can be an annoyance, and I make an effort to not do it when I’m in any kind of social setting, as it is often interpreted (correctly, I think) as being fairly rude – maybe not up there with talking loudly on a cell, but still a little arrogant to the living human beings nearby. But when I’m alone, for as far back as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed fixing my eyes somewhere and looking without any particular motive.

Similarly to how I’ve noticed it’s rare for people to simply sit and listen to music without any other stimulation, it’s perhaps even more rare for people to look at something for any length of time that isn’t a glowing rectangular screen. Why is it that people staring at a TV or cellphone screen aren’t described as out of it? I imagine the whole concept of being out of it grew from some kind of social pressure to make sure your fellow citizens aren’t hiding things from you, or mentally unstable, or just different in some way. It makes people uncomfortable to be around someone who seems to be staring at nothing in particular – surely there’s something wrong with them!

One social setting where it is encourage to stare at something that isn’t moving is an art museum. In an art museum, there are well-established boundaries marking what things it is appropriate to stare at. That rectangle on the wall with the little card underneath that says Rothko? Green light, stare away. That pile of “readymade” junk in the corner underneath the spotlight in front of the pristine white wall? It’s officially a sculpture, go ahead and stare, even if there are people around. But what about the corner by the staircase that has a strange waxy coating that reflects the light sprinkling in from the faraway skylight? Red light, take a glance, but if you stare more than a few seconds, someone will invariably ask you if you’re all right, because you seem a little out of it.

When I stare at something, I let my eyes focus on a point just past the scene and a little above and to the left of the center of my vision. After a few moments, I begin to notice the shape of the perspective and the incredible depth that seems to be present. The empty space between things sometimes grows loud and noisy and I can imagine I see specks of dust and air particles. Other times the empty space seems to be an illusion and the scene takes on a flattened ukiyo-e look. After a minute or so time actually seems to slow down, or maybe it would be better to say I don’t notice time. What I do notice is things in the corners of my vision. That is, I notice that there is no corner to my vision – there is not frame, no border, no line marking where my eyes end. It is continuous. I remember being distinctly startled by this realization when I first noticed it. Things at the edge of vision simply become less and less distinct, but they never actually end. Suddenly the scene becomes almost like a vignette. Objects appear artificial, or strangely surreal in a way that can be both amusing and frightening. I become aware of my own presence in whatever environment I’m in, and sometimes things take on a histrorical context. A slab of cement sidewalk might remind me of a particular day from my childhood in that same strange way that the smell of a closet can remind me of my grandfather. Scent is the way most people seem to make these sudden reconnection with their memories, but sight can have the same effect.

The vignette can sometimes become unsettling, which might be another reason why people avoid staring into space. It takes you to a state where you’re almost dreaming with your eyes open. When your eyes are closed and you daydream or imagine a scene or reminisce, it remains comfortably private, your own little inner theater that you can go to and feel protected from the outside world. But when you slowly feel yourself letting go with your eyes open, the distinction between inner and outer worlds becomes blurred. The tree on the hill suddenly takes on a deep significance. It knows who you are. The two people laughing and talking as they walk down the street – what do they signify? Maybe your own good humor, or the idea of friendship, or perhaps they’re laughing at you for ever thinking there was a difference between your thoughts and the rest of reality.

Once I get around this point, which isn’t often, it becomes hard to continue. Loud noises or sudden movements can jolt me back to my senses, as if my mind panics at the experiment and decides it’s time to get things back on track, to get with it, to become more present to what’s going on around. After staring into space, with a cleared mind, I’ve done some of my best songwriting. Other times it makes me feel lazy and I become inclined to clean up my room or run some neglected errands. It’s not any sort of gateway to creativity, and I don’t think it’s anything particular to me, but it’s something that I’m simply unsure of whether or not other people also do.