Hello sun. Hail light! I don't understand light. My mind is all static on days of one-color light: morning may as well be five at night for I all can tell. It's the same same same. Gray from the outside in, all day the same time at the same time. I need light like I need time. But to write with light is another thing. I'm on a bend. Just now seeing. The images are impressions of lightness. And darkness where the eye is unimpressed. The film is a record of bending. The light in the trees? Oh my impressive learning trees, I will have it.
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But indoor light? Mystery. It may well be what I took to be god was only light.
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The lens does not see what you see, so it happens: the weak yellow light is the light of the nursury, which is also poverty, though you didn't know that then. Monarchs in red and orange and black, a mobile of transparent wings. The green house chipping away at itself. All this recalled from an indoor photo you've underexposed of paint brushes with coppery mantles, a bungle of the pupil and shutter, and there it is again. The quality of light you remember in the first green house, the curtain over the window by the crib. Now you can feel the bars of the crib, can smell the wet wood in your mouth for the crossbar is mouth height when you stand on the mattress. The walls are yellowing, the window is small and dark with soot. The light is yellow. You are not yet two.
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