022. Glass is a slow moving liquid right?
(morning thinking)
In the summer I'll creep quietly into the living room on light feet to be met with the sun's golden temporal graffiti stretched out along the wall shouting about how great the day is going to be.
On those high summer days, when my early start isn't enough to catch the first rays, the sun's bright yellow wall art, taut across the living room is a visual treat nonetheless.
This squid ink blackness is obviously not that.
At this time of year, and for months to come, the room is dark when I get here. The out of sync tide clock above my desk ticks and the sounds outside, hiding in blue black, hint at the day. Reaching my way from the depths.
This vehicle is rehearsing, in the shadows, for later spotlit day maneuvers making bakers deliveries. Dog walkers cough, shout, fail to clear throats, fail to clear throats, fail to clear throats while their pets follow silently along. Energetic runner chatter travels ahead faster than feet. But no shrill sea swimmer shrieks, they come much later in these months. Fewer of their number having confidence that extends to ice cold water swims in the darkness.
I feel a certain apprehension, not knowing what's out there, or what kind of day might lie ahead. As if seeing a sunrise ever augured anything other than "you're up early".
At certain times the first rays hit the last piece of bubbled Victorian glass in the bay window and the light wriggles through to be held still on the plaster and paint. I can't think whether that happens late or early in the year. It could be a freeze frame from a late teen memory in which light, reflected from the millpond, danced on the ceiling above mum and dad's green leather couch.
Glass is a slow moving liquid right? It's about perspectives and time scales I think.
Sometimes I'd rather the window mediated view. Framed.
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